(I am on my weekly break for the month! I will be back on the 7th! Pray for my smooth travels. I hate flying.)

They appeared in a procession, men and women wearing white robes, hoisting packs, shouting praises, even singing, and at first, it seemed to the Kheltians as though it were a festival. That was what surprised the Prophet each time.

The third city was no more prepared than the first. People actually left the open, unwalled city with its fountains that each ran with a different colored liquid, and they pointed or laughed, shouting.

“What festival is this? No one told us! Are you foreigners here at His Majesty’s invitation?”

It was so…strange. The People of God flowed forwards, and they sang, but there was a bitter edge to their hymnals. And, the Kheltians realized, ash and dust coating their robes, even dried blood.

So they said:

“Are you hurt? Was there an accident on the roads?”

That made the man standing in the center of the column of faithful turn and look at a man, an older one in his sixties with fair pale hair. Human. His face was one of concern. He could have been from Earth, even if his dress was more fantasy-themed than Earth’s, a sash of glittering enchanted red silk hanging from a pale white tunic and with blue inlay near the leggings.

This man, among all the Kheltians, seemed to realize the People of God were not usual visitors. He frowned, stepping back, and someone shouted from the Prophet’s ranks.

“We are the People of God, followers of the Prophet and the true way! You, Kheltians, who worship your depraved, murderous king—repent! Repent and beg forgiveness, and even you shall be saved!”

The Kheltians stopped approaching, confused. A stocky young Stitch-man who’d run up recoiled.

“Who are you, and how dare you say such things about His Majesty? You’re filthy—wash before you enter our city! This is Raliet, the Spring City! You look like beggars. Is this some kind of game?”

He—made it easier. But in truth, even if they had welcomed the People of God with open arms, it would not have mattered. The young Stitch-man, his carefully-sewn cotton features ablaze with indignation, met Jilthread’s face.

And her eyes were red with tears. The ash of the destruction of her fellow pilgrims still clung to the side of her face. She did not raise the spear she carried, though the young man’s eyes locked on it in astonishment.

“We are the People of God. This city is ours. We claim it in the name of God. We will cast your king down and make him pay for his crimes.”

“What is she talking about? Estoli, come away. They don’t seem to be in the mood for chatter.”

One of the young Stitch-man’s friends called out, and there it was again. She didn’t say ‘unsafe’ or ‘dangerous’. Because the word just didn’t occur to her. And Estoli stared at Jilthread.

“What crimes? People of God? I’ve never heard of you. If you speak about His Majesty like that one more time, I will have an official arrest you.”

He was not afraid of the many People of God. Nor did he know…Harvey spoke, a rasping voice.

“We are at war with Khelt. Have you not heard of the other two cities emptied by our people?”

Estoli recoiled, and the Kheltians of Raliet gasped in astonishment. Estoli’s eyes widened.

“Other cities? War? Impossible. If we were at war, the skeletons would kill—how are you here?”

No one had told them? The other citizens who had fled their cities hadn’t said…? Harvey looked to Marrieh, and she whispered.

“It could be a trick.”

He didn’t think it was. Jilthread strode for the city’s gates, and someone ran past her.

“This is Raliet! The city of springs! Prophet, see—each one runs with a different liquid! Purified Water, wine, even a curative tonic—I thought it so grand until I learned that God could do the same with but the tap of a staff!”

Adoive. He was gleeful as he gazed at the other Kheltians. The only smiling person among the People of God. His face was twisted up with maliciousness, and Harvey didn’t look at him.

“Silence, Adoive. This is a holy war. You—all of you. Take what you can carry and flee. Tell your King of Khelt that if he scorches us, we will sweep into the next city by blood and fire.”

Jilthread addressed the growing crowd, and they just stared at her. Like sheep.

The Prophet waited, because he knew someone would object, and it was Estoli who put out an arm as Jilthread began to advance with a blank-faced core of People of God. Not the warriors. They knew they were in no danger.

“I don’t like how you’re talking, stranger. Begone. No one is taking anything from us. If you don’t leave, I’ll call for skeletons to deal with you. I saw it happen to a foreigner once. The skeleton broke both his arms.”

The threat made Adoive cackle, and Jilthread just gazed at the arm. Then she reached up. Estoli was carrying a solid gold necklace with golden fangs. It was probably to mimic the Gnolls or some such, and it was clearly heavy.

Just the kind of thing a young man might think was worth wearing. Real gold too, Harvey bet. She yanked it from his neck, and the Kheltians gasped.

“This wealth is a sin. You live in debauchery. If you would know how to live truly and righteously, stay.”

She told them, and Estoli recoiled, then grew truly angry. He reached for the necklace.

“That is mine. I commissioned it so I could visit the Gnolls! Give it back!”

He reached for it, and she pushed him back. His eyes widened, and he went to shove her. When he did, she knocked down his arm.

Back home, Harvey knew plenty of hotheads whose next move would be to throw a punch. Well, Jilthread was a woman—but Estoli didn’t. He backed up, rubbing at his arm.

“You hit me. You hit—skeletons! Skeletons, defend me!”

He began shouting, and other people took up the call. Jilthread waited, and then it happened. The ground shifted.

A hand dug itself out of the soil, and a skeleton arose. Fast. It practically popped out of the ground. It swivelled its head left and right as green flames entered its eyes as if confused, and Estoli howled.

“She hit me! She’s a foreigner and insulting His Majesty! Arrest her!”

The skeleton turned its head, and Jilthread’s spear punched through its eye sockets. She ripped through the skull as if it were paper mache, and the tip of her spear was glowing white.

Holy weapons against the undead. The Kheltians stared as the skeleton collapsed.

“Y-you killed a skeleton. Help. Arise—”

More skeletons began to dig out of the ground. Jilthread’s boot stomped through one, and then she was turning.

“I say again, this city is ours. Blame your king for the massacre he committed against us.”

She strode forwards, and when Estoli stood in her way, mouth open, she shoved him to the ground. He landed hard, on his elbows, and cried out from pain.

Then—his friends and the other citizens of the city saw Jilthread advancing, swinging her spear like a club, not using the pointed end, and they began to scream.

“Help! Help, she’s attacking—”

“Run!”

The panic set in. But even then, it was curious. The People of God advanced as Kheltians fled, screaming in pure terror, doing more damage to themselves in flight than the People of God did. They tripped and fell and scraped themselves, but the ones further in the city…glanced up and asked what was going on.

“It’s like they can’t hear. Or they’re deaf.”

Marrieh remarked, seeing the alarm spreading in stages. The ignorance of the other cities…the Prophet spoke harshly.

“They’ll all know soon enough. Clear this city. Let the wounded and thirsty drink. I need to rest. I’ll rest…”

He was mortally tired from the acts of faith that had saved them, even days later. Sick at heart—he listened to the People of God advancing into the city and wondered if they could sweep all of Khelt this way.

It was so easy. A child could best grown men and women. Of course—there were always exceptions.

“Halt! In His Majesty’s name!”

A single official barred the path of the People of God. Harvey glanced up as he searched for an inviting house to sleep in, and he saw the same old man. He’d found an official, and the Kheltian man wielded a curious, padded baton.

Is that their notion of a police officer? He was calling for the undead, but when the skeletons arose, the People of God dispatched them in moments.

A stone from a sling, a hurled axe—a prayer from Jilthread and the final skeleton burst into flames. The official paled, but he lifted the padded club two-handed.

“You will leave this city now!”

One of the [Warrior Priests] came at him, to grab the silly weapon and toss it away, but to everyone’s surprise, the official struck out, tapping the priest in the chest with the weapon with actual speed. And the [Warrior Priest] keeled over instantly.

“What was that—?”

“Paralysis. Enchanted.”

Marrieh commented, and Harvey’s alarm faded. The official was backing up, shouting at the Kheltians to flee and summon more skeletons, inform His Majesty. He swung in wide arcs as Jilthread lifted her spear.

“Don’t make me hurt you, man of Khelt.”

“I don’t know how you came past the border, but you will not advance one step further. If I must, I will hurt you.”

The official touched something on the handle of the padded club, and it glowed an ominous red. Fire? Harvey turned back again, but Jilthread was calm. She set the spear low, and the official hesitated.

“Don’t make me—”

The twang made his face twist up, and the old man next to him recoiled. The official fell to one knee, staring at the crossbow bolt that had splintered through a kneecap and the blood spattering the ground. Then he screamed.

“My—aaah. Aaaaaaaah—-”

He choked, dropping his padded weapon, which smoldered on the tiles as he clutched at his leg. His eyes rolled up, and he tried to express the agony which he might have never felt in his life, but he couldn’t. He convulsed until he realized that made the pain worse, and someone laughed.

Jilthread spun, and Adoive lifted the crossbow he had fired.

“Take that!”

“Adoive! The Prophet has said not to harm any who do not resist!”

“And? He was resisting. I hate the officials. Look at him—he’s pathetic. He can’t take a single injury.”

Adoive dashed forwards and snatched up the club. He waved it, and the rest of the Kheltians fled in panic. Jilthread tossed down her spear and strode over.

“[Heal Wounds]!”

The wound closed as she snapped the crossbow bolt and bent to yank the bloody quarrel out the other side of the knee. The official convulsed, but the skin closed—and yet Jilthread grimaced.

“It’s not healing properly. Marrieh! I need your help. You might have crippled him, Adoive.”

She turned on him, and Adoive slunk back, whining.

“He was threatening you! These clubs can burn, Jilthread. Haven’t they done enough to us? The King of Khelt burned your entire camp—”

“Adoive, enough.”

Marrieh shoved him aside and bent to kneel over the official. He stared up at her, panting, pale-faced, and she spoke.

“I’ll try to heal you, and if you cannot be moved, you will not be harmed.”

“Wh—why have you come to our kingdom? What have we done to you?”

Her face was grim as she replied.

“Your King of Paradise burned our people into ash.”

The official stared at her.

“Unprovoked?”

To that, she had no answer. Harvey turned away. He went walking for a house; he knew he should stay with her and his bodyguards, but there was no danger here from the Kheltians. And he was restless.

Fleeing Kheltians, packing things, staring at the People of God. Some of them—asking questions. Flinching back when the People of God snapped at them. The city would take hours to empty. If they were actual raiders, Harvey doubted many would have escaped. But there was little violence.

Oh, some of the faithful shoved Kheltians aside when they went to bar their homes or took possessions off them. The Kheltians were too afraid to fight back, and even the most hotheaded ran after being struck once.

But some…yes, some had nerve. The old man was back—barring the way into a house.

“You cannot enter. There is a newborn child inside. Leave.”

His eyes flashed, and some of the faithful hesitated. One went to shove him aside.

“We will harm no one, but you will leave. We are the People of God.”

“So are you [Bandits] or despoilers?”

“We are a virtuous people!”

The [Cleric] snapped back, angry, and the man held his arms out as voices and a crying baby echoed from within.

“Then if you are, we have nothing to fear. Give them half an hour’s time, at least.”

The faithful milled about, but none were quite willing to shove him aside. Harvey watched as they backed up, and when he was certain they would not try to enter, the man kept moving. It seemed he did not believe the People of God were entirely peaceful, and perhaps doubting it himself, Harvey followed.

An odd game of cat and mouse ensued as the two men strode through the city of Raliet, searching through the chaos as the city rapidly emptied of people. The old man realized Harvey was following him and glanced back his way, but neither said a word.

One’s eyes were filled with anger, confusion, fear, and distrust. The other’s with cold emptiness.

So many dead. I will have vengeance, I swear it in God’s name. And perhaps Harvey wondered if God had…why did he allow such misery? Why was there misery in any world?

The work of the anti-Christ, of demons and the Devil, was surely strong. And Fetohep of Khelt was an embodiment of that. But why…

Were his cities so clean? Why were his people like newborn babes? Fat, complacent, arrogant, and rich, but so nonviolent. Were they tricked?

—No. There was one stain of filth in Khelt. Both the old man and Prophet found the man in a far street.

“Hand over all your possessions, now. You do not deserve them! No one in hypocritical, fat Khelt does.”

Adoive was holding the club he’d taken aloft, and he’d encountered a group of six Kheltians. Two were lying on the ground, paralyzed. Whether or not they’d fought, Harvey didn’t know, but as he came to a halt, he saw the four terrified young people stripping their bracelets and jewelry off.

Adoive snatched at them.

“What is this? Real jade? Do you know how much that’s worth?”

“Let us go. We’re leaving. We only wanted to grab our things—”

One of the Kheltians spoke, and Adoive swung the club, and she flinched.

“Not so fast. You’re…you’re all sinful. Hand over the rest.”

“What rest?”

She felt at her earrings, and he pointed.

“Your clothing too.”

“Are you mad?”

The former-Kheltian was licking his lips, and Harvey was advancing down the street, faster now. It occurred to him to wonder—Adoive had been expelled from Khelt for some transgression. What was it?

“Take it off or I’ll hit you!”

They were hesitating, shaking, when the old man shouted.

“Enough!”

Adoive swung around, jumped, and then raised the club. When he saw Harvey behind the old man, he froze.

“Prophet! I—I was just dealing with this group that attacked—”

“Adoive. You are committing a sin before the Lord. Drop your weapon.”

Harvey’s voice was cold. He was tired, and his anger at Khelt burned hottest for Adoive, who had led him here. The man hesitated.

“Prophet, I—”

He might have run as the old man stared at the Prophet, but a voice echoed from behind Harvey.

“There’s the Prophet!”

More of the faithful had come to find him. Harvey turned as some of the new People of God, lower-level, rushed forwards. A pair of attractive young women were pointing and calling out.

“And there’s Adoive! I told you he was stealing women’s underthings and the like!”

The man froze up. Harvey hissed at him as he advanced.

“You lech! You pervert! How dare you!”

“This is my home! I deserve—”

Adoive swung the club at Harvey, not hard, but the Prophet stopped, and the Faithful cried out. They rushed forwards, surrounding Harvey, as Marrieh appeared around the street corner. The old Kheltian man was standing in front of the young people, and Harvey addressed him.

“Take your people and go, sir.”

“Is this what your people do when no one watches them?”

The old man asked, and the Prophet turned his wrathful eyes on Adoive, who backed away as numerous hands reached for the club, voices telling him to drop it.

“God watches us all. And he judges everyone. Just as he judges your king, who has wronged us.”

“This is my home. I have lived here for sixty years without harming a person. Now, your people sweep into this city, and it is you who commit every harm. Say I believe that His Majesty has wronged you. We remain innocent. And if that man acts so without anyone to see him, others surely do.”

“Not among my people.”

Harvey found himself arguing with the old man as the younger Kheltians fled. He saw the faithful gazing at him, and the old Kheltian stared at Harvey.

“Why are you taking our homes if not to hurt us?”

“You have plenty of homes inside Khelt! We come for the King of Khelt! We will take the buildings and finery and build a structure to our God! This is the least of what we could do, so be grateful and go!”

Harvey shouted at the old man, and he flinched. The Prophet caught himself and whispered.

“Ours is a merciful, all-knowing God. You do not know what that means or who he is. But he sees all, knows all. We will answer to him. This man, Adoive, will answer to me on Earth. In Heaven, God.”

He spun to Adoive as Marrieh strode forwards, and a voice spoke.

“This is Chandrar, Prophet. And this is Khelt, a paradise you attacked. If your God told you to do this, then he is a monstrous one. The Quarass of Germina judges you both.”

Harvey was swinging back to the old Kheltian man instinctively, but he hadn’t said a word. It was one of the younger faithful, a dark-skinned young woman from Germina wearing slightly-grimy white robes, who looked up at him. He stared at her.

“The…what?”

She drew a knife. He was still staring at her, wondering why she was bringing up the Quarass, when she drove it through his ribs. And then slashed across his throat.

“Harvey!”

Marrieh screamed as he stumbled, and the faithful shrieked and sprang away as the [Assassin] leapt back. She turned to run, and a flash of light struck her. One of the [Battle Clerics] threw a javelin of light, and she cried out, tumbling.

“Assassins! They’ve killed the Prophet!”

Wails. The Kheltians were running, and Harvey was choking. His throat was burning. Bleeding. Something was eating at his insides.

Poison. Marrieh slammed into him.

“[Greater Heal Wounds]! Get Yirene! Get healers—”

His wounds closed, but the poison was in him, burning, and his skin was mottling as he gasped, and his windpipe closed and—and—

She was laying hands on him as the People of God prayed. Trying to purge the poison from the greatest expert in Chandrar. The Prophet was convulsing on the ground, but that was, in truth, a bad sign for the Quarass’ plans.

He should have already been dead. It seemed the People of God could cure every poison short of Dragonblight venoms. Very vexing, and now their guards would be up.

A woman in white robes watched the commotion around the Prophet, hands over her mouth, as she prepared a report. She stepped back into the alleyway, pretending to be sick, and then sighted a man running.

Adoive. He was making his escape, clutching the club that would make him a dangerous man in Khelt. The second [Assassin] of Ger sighed. This was not part of her mission, but the Quarass liked Khelt. And the man was a lech who had harassed the new faithful as well. So she flicked a hand in a swift motion as she bent to vomit.

The fleeing former-Kheltian stumbled in the distance. He clutched at his back, then began to writhe on the ground. Screaming and voiding his bowels as his insides began to run. He called out for help, then prayed. But everyone was running towards the Prophet. Eventually, he lay there, deflating slowly until he was but skin and bones and a stinking puddle that had been a man too wretched for paradise.

Hmm. Perhaps poison would work after all. The [Assassin] finished vomiting, then went back to pray. Her instructions were also to gain this faith class and to survive her mission. Which would be tricky. She just wondered if killing this Prophet would save Khelt.

If three cities could fall so fast…the Quarass in her wisdom was right. The skeletons were all but useless. She went to kneel beside the Prophet as he was carried to safety. And then she watched the People of God continue their advance, righteous anger burning in their every step.

——

After a week of fighting, it was clear the People of God would not stop. They advanced into Kheltian settlements and cities, proselytizing, shouting the wrath of their god, ransacking shops, taking valuables from the citizenry—but not killing.

‘Thou shalt not kill’ was one of their big tenets, actually. Though that did not seem to necessarily apply to those who took up arms against them first or the undead.

But they were angry, had faith-based Skills, and there were too many of them. Even after the Arrows of Razzimir, there were just too many for the mortal servants of Khelt to uproot.

The undead had virtually no impact on the People of God. Even aside from the [Light of Faith], each one could but strike a skeleton and turn it into dust.

Power from their Prophet. They stormed cities, shouting at the people that their [King] was a false one, that the end of Khelt had come, and it seemed it.

If anything, the miracle was that the Prophet’s advance was not the talk of Khelt. Somehow, by way of repressing the news from travelling or something—else—other cities were not fully aware of the issue. They knew there were foreigners, but not the scope of the issue.

Not yet. Just as Roshal’s raid on the border city of Millincrete was also kept quiet. But did it matter?

They were protesting again today. Just like yesterday, and it felt like half the city was in the streets. The insects, you see.

“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!”

“Hear us, Your Majesty! Why are you ignoring your people?”

“Expel the outsiders! Our dead belong to us!”

“Your Majesty—”

Pewerthe shut the curtains, but not before the wind blew a reminder of one of Khelt’s woes into the throne room.

A desert moth had found itself in the rich red fabric of Khelt’s curtains. It rubbed its legs together, preparing to lay a brood who would feast on this bounty. The moth took an experimental nibble of the fabric and promptly dented its mandibles; the fabric was enchanted. Bug-proofed.

Pewerthe squashed it anyways. She wiped her fingers on the fabric and reflected that a servant would have to clean the carcass of the bug off. It was no longer ‘fun’ to be a day-servant. They had to actually clean up and take care of tasks, unlike just waiting on Fetohep’s rare orders.

Three people hadn’t even shown up for duty today. Another sign. Signs and signs…as if it weren’t written upon the skies. Even the other nations were figuring it out.

Khelt was weak. Khelt was failing. Khelt could not stop one little [Prophet]. If it could not stop him…Thatalocian was just the first. The richest nation in Chandrar had just shown its belly, and the only thing between them and their many enemies was the illusion they hadn’t lost all their teeth.

All this was so, and yet when she closed the curtains fully and turned, he sat upon his throne, unmoving. She faced him.

“Your M—Fetohep. I have to go make pots in an hour or so. What is happening with the Prophet?”

Her words made the figure’s head rise, and he almost snapped at her. Pots? But she was just as angry at him, and she had thrown a pot at him yesterday, so he replied, strain evident in his voice.

“Death Commander Lanodest has taken all available forces to assist Kheltians fleeing the north. Water, provisions. Their flight has taken a toll but none have died yet. Xe-salas has been evacuated. Emrest’s Sanctuary is in the process…residents are refusing to leave in good order. The advance of this Prophet has—slowed. He appears to be occupying three cities so far. The Sweeper’s Guild of Nerrhavia’s Fallen has declined the bid to send their highest-levelled members to Khelt after deliberation. They refuse to—”

“Forget about the bugs, Fetohep! The Prophet must be stopped!”

He continued speaking doggedly.

“—Fellbow has not been able to get close. All other [Mercenary] companies have declined, including Captain Galbram. I do not know why—perhaps it was the Captain I had hired. Dispensation for her wounded and dead have been paid.”

“And she’s run.”

Pewerthe couldn’t really blame the woman; the People of God had outnumbered and outmatched her forces, and Fetohep had vastly undersold the problem, but Pewerthe was still angry. This was her nation, and their hired help had…

“Our army? Dovive?”

“The remaining soldiers still engage the Prophet’s, but injuries have forced many of Khelt’s soldiers to retreat. A growing number refuse to engage the enemy due to the—torment of battle.”

He meant being injured. They were cared for, and every effort was taken to preserve their lives, but the sheer trauma of pain was winnowing the recruited soldiers. Pewerthe took a huge breath.

“What about Germina?”

“—She has informed me that six attempts have been made on the Prophet’s life. Four were successful in reaching him. Two cases of poison, one arrow, one via dagger. He was healed within moments of each injury. No—the poison did not even take effect. Evacuation of Olepit is almost completed. Ah—a child has lost their doll.”

His golden flames flickered, and she knew, somewhere, a skeleton was going back to locate—

“Fetohep!”

She slammed her hands on the armrests of his throne, and he sat up, looking at her in utter confusion. He was spread out across his kingdom, coordinating skeletons. But that was not what worried her.

His chest was rising and falling. Not with great rapidity, but she stared at him.

“Fetohep, you’re breathing.”

She could hear a faint sucking sound, that of air entering and exiting—but the lungs in the Revenant’s corpse were long-rotted. Yet he was…

He stopped after a second, and she saw his eye-flames dancing, the blazes flickering back and forth. His voice was authoritative after a moment.

“A habit, Pewerthe. I intend to press Dovive for reinforcements presently. I shall double my offer to Galbram. Perhaps if I offered Jaganismet—hostilities against New Jecrass have reached a zenith. I fear for the Gnollish and Centaur peoples. Violence against them is unacceptable. I must address my subjects.”

It won’t do you any good. They were angry. So angry they had begun to shout back at him. Not throw things, not yet, but—

“It’s just damn bugs, Fetohep. Look at me. When have you taken a break?”

“I do not need rest, Pewerthe. I have established control of the situation. Skeletons report that those held by the Prophet are not being harmed, though they are under duress. Adventurer Frieke, liberate that group if you are able—”

He was speaking to Frieke, who was countless miles away. He had not slept while Pewerthe had, and he was doing a hundred things at once while she stood there.

But he was also—she saw his chest rise and begin to fall before he caught himself, again, and she felt a flutter in her chest.

He was panicking.

She had not believed it, but it was the conclusion she had come to. Fetohep was not making rational decisions. He was stretched thin, and she had realized that the undead truly had been vital. Having to manually control them was beyond any one ruler. Without them to do every task and with enemy forces in his lands and his people waking up to Khelt’s issues.

As he realized that Khelt’s situation could not be reversed nor ignored, and that the other nations would find out—any soul in this world was allowed to experience fear, weren’t they?

Panic for a ruler watching his paradise falling to pieces in his lifetime was understandable. Even if she had once believed he was infallible…it was alright.

That was not Pewerthe’s worry. Her worry was this, and it bore from the conversation she had had with Fetohep a while ago.

He had told her that the undead did not change their state of being. They had no glands, no chemicals, no brains, even. They experienced the world on an intellectual level in many ways, even if they could feel emotions.

Which then meant that because there was no physical part of emotions, they could persist in having feelings longer than mortals.

No matter how overwhelming the rage, adrenaline would leave your body in time. Tears could only flow as long as the body had water. Sleep reset emotions, but she had seen Fetohep raging for hours against the Prophet. His anger did not relent.

If this was so, then…let’s assume if you had an undead capable of having a panic attack—

What happened if it just didn’t end? Pewerthe really didn’t like that idea. Nor did she personally know what a panic attack felt like, but Frieke was apparently an expert, and she had claimed Fetohep was showing a lot of the symptoms.

“Your Majesty—”

He was staring at the curtains, and his gaze focused on the scroll that flashed in her hands.

“Pewerthe? I have a task for you of utmost importance. Yes—someone must—servants! Send another [Message] to Vizir Hecrelunn and…Serept’s half-Giants. I forget which—”

Breathing again. She lowered the Scroll of Complete Calm and tucked the spent parchment into her bag of holding.

It doesn’t work on him. She tilted her head.

“Whatever I can do, Fetohep—where am I needed?”

“New Jecrass.”

She blinked. Of all the places—Fetohep fiddled with something. A piece of parchment marked with Khelt’s royal emblem, a hand reaching out of the earth. Gold and black stationary.

He was writing a letter. To whom? He finished writing and handed it to a day-servant.

“Address it to one of the trusted Couriers in Invrisil at all speed. Have it teleported, and ensure the Mage’s Guild does not pry.”

He saw Pewerthe staring at the letter. She loved secrets, and she wanted to know who he was sending that to. Izril? Fetohep coughed theatrically into one hand, demanding her attention.

“A small thought to call for experts to this problem, Pewerthe. It may result in little. Let us focus on the task at hand. Yes, New Jecrass. I have pulled back the army to combat the People of God, leaving New Jecrass all but undefended. Given the hostility of Khelt, and the dangers of the Prophet, you must be my eyes and ears there. I have sent for Sand at Sea. Captain Cikroleth will escort you.”

“To New Jecrass? Now? Fetohep, we need to deal with the Prophet, not—”

“I am your king, Pewerthe. Address me as ‘Your Majesty’. I do not have time to argue!”

He thundered at her in a display of anger so rare she took a step back. She hesitated when she realized she should have held her ground—he was already focusing on something else. His head turned, guilty, as he touched a scrying orb.

“Please, Pewerthe. I must know they are well. If [Bandits] are striking them…report back as swiftly as you can. Ah, Archmage Eldavin. I wish to inquire about cleaning spells or these familiars…”

Whether he intended to do it or not, she couldn’t butt into a conversation between him and someone like Archmage Eldavin. Pewerthe stood there, then stormed out of the throne room when a servant touched her sleeve to tell her that Sand at Sea was already across the borders.

This was Khelt as it crumbled. She did not leave because she thought Fetohep was right. Rather…Pewerthe had to talk to the only people who might save it.

——

Revenants. Citizens of Khelt from prior eons, older than Djinni. In hindsight, Pewerthe hadn’t even spoken much to Captain Cikroleth let alone his crew. She regretted that now, but part of the lack of communication was just…wariness.

No one quite knew how these ancient guardians might stand. Hecrelunn was certainly unpredictable and dangerous. What might the [Captain] of ancient years, who had served under King Dolenm, say if he saw all that was going on?

Might he think Khelt was better served by a new ruler? Perhaps Cikroleth might decide he could be that better ruler?

When the gangplank lowered and the flying ship skimming across the sands parked in the middle of the street outside her potter’s workshop, even regular citizens stopped to stare. But Pewerthe just strode up the gangplank.

“Captain Cikroleth, thank you for taking me aboard. His Majesty—”

“Aye. We sail back to New Jecrass, that ye might inspect it, at full speed. Take her about and get us moving, you undead sea rats!”

The crew leapt to action, and Pewerthe realized they were not all Humans. Some had reptilian skulls, one was definitely a Gnoll, and—she eyed the rotting face and bones more like a mummy on one—

“That’s Shishkel. Stitch-folk. Different rot. Hard to preserve. They’d speak, but they were silent in life and havin’ a voice creeps everyone out in death.”

As if he’d read her mind, Cikroleth pointed, and Pewerthe jumped as Sand at Sea executed a three point turn in the middle of the street. Their ship nearly scraped a building, but the Drake at the wheel was grinning as the landscape rotated around them.

The floorboards were ancient, seeming dusty even if they were clean, and the sand that blew under the ship made Kheltians scatter as it floated over the ground. Ancient weapon batteries, ballistae and enchanted cannons, were notched from battle, and the crew leapt into the rigging or did complicated things with ropes.

A fairytale, even for Khelt. Pewerthe stood on the main deck as Shishkel turned, glowing eyes in a rotted face, and gave her a laconic salute.

“I see. Honored Shishkel, thank you for your undying service. Is he—she—well? Does it tax your crew, Captain Cikroleth?”

He grinned; his face was all bones, and his teeth had silver and gold replacing ivory. He looked like a [Captain], with the iconic hat, an open coat, and crossbow and cutlass at his side.

“Shishkel? Oi, Shishkel, are you feeling male, female, or naught at all today?”

He got a lewd gesture as the undead Stitch-woman held her fingers up to what remained of her mouth, a sagging hole in her face.

“Her, then. As for how it feels—no drink nor pleasures of flesh, just service unto the day we fall in battle or our bones rot. I smell no air, take no joy from the wind in my face…”

Pewerthe saw the Captain pause, then sweep his eyes over the city as they passed the gates. Now the sails caught, and there was a roaring of wind in her face. She shielded her eyes until a barrier spell activated, and then the wind blew, but less harshly, and they flew. And the undead man grinned at her.

“—But my eyes still see this world, and it’s changed enough to set my heart aflutter. I won’t forget that easily. In ten years, twenty, or a hundred if we live that long, aye, we might grow tired. I doubt we’ll live that long. Dolenm told us, his crew that offered to serve, that we’d be taken out scarcely. Not to preserve our frail hearts and minds, mind, but because he knew we’d throw ourselves into death first! Don’t you fear we’re breaking up, Heir of Khelt.”

With a few words, he reassured her more than she could have hoped. The Captain eyed Pewerthe, then made a weird hissing sound.

“Hfweh. Phwee. Kraken’s tits damn it all! Get her a chair!”

She realized he’d been trying to whistle, but lacking lips, he’d tried to make the sound with his ‘voice’. She hid a smile, but it was no use; the crew started roaring with laughter.

Skeletons slapped their ribs, and someone lost a jaw as bones clattered, a chorus of the damned, but Cikroleth just strode across the ship, yanking a chair out from under a snoozing Gnoll. Or one pretending to sleep.

“Captain, I was daydreaming.”

“Nap when you’re alive again, Irg. Say something to the nervous Heir. She might be the last you meet.”

That made Pewerthe’s smile go out, but the Gnoll just stood and lifted a skeletal paw.

“Hallo, Heir of Khelt. I’m Irg, who once cutlassed a [Pirate Lady] in bed, then on the decks of this very ship where I sit. Love of my life—misunderstandings. But for that, I’d have lived a man’s life with family and children and whatnot. I reckon that’s a good introduction if any should be remembered. What d’you do?”

“I’m Potter Pewerthe, Honored Irg. I make…pots. And I lie.”

He tilted his head.

“Standard’s slipping for Heirs of Khelt.”

Captain Cikroleth cuffed the back of his head, but Pewerthe nodded.

“I’m possibly the best…of current Khelt, Honored Irg. Who was the heir in your time? Oh, it’d be—”

He shrugged.

“Some squirt of a girl named Emrist. Dolenm wasn’t the brightest of sorts. Good [Pirate Lord], but he didn’t fancy being the [King of Pirates], and he realized Khelt was getting lawless and untended. So we raided every academy and school across the continents. Damn well stole at least ten thousand boys, girls, even old codgers. Searching for the best minds, you see.”

“As…slaves? Involuntary citizens?”

She grew worried, but another sailor ambled over.

“Nah, volunteers. I’m a Crocodile Beastkin, though you can’t tell because of the lack of skin. Radame—they call me Rad Rema, the [Cook]. You want anything to eat? We’ve got—no, wait, nevermind. It’s all damn dust.”

She grinned at Pewerthe who could absolutely tell from the bone structure. She jerked her thumb at Irg.

“Irg sleeps through everything. All the people we brought volunteered to join Khelt. Who wouldn’t? Dolenm had them fill huge halls and argue policy this, policy that. Emrist was a little shit of a girl who wouldn’t shut up. So smart she wrote laws when she was but eight. Brilliant mind, or so they say. Nothing like Dolenm, and bossy. I tied a rope to her legs and dangled her off the ship’s bow for an hour when she wouldn’t stop mouthing off to me.”

“Probably why she never awoke us and we had to sleep that long.”

Irg put in, and the crew laughed. Pewerthe stood in awe, but only for a moment. Then she smiled wanly.

“I’m not nearly so accomplished. I—only ask because of the situation in Khelt. Captain Cikroleth, you are the only person who remembers the Khelts of old. As we tour New Jecrass, I hoped I could consult with you?”

The Revenant turned from inspecting the wheel one of his people was holding. He glanced over, and the crew fell silent. The [Captain] spoke.

“Ah, judgment upon King Fetohep, is it? Dolenm told us that if ever we woke to a poor ruler, we should do for them what’s best for Khelt. Even if that means doing them in.”

“No, I didn’t mean—I was only asking—”

Cikroleth’s pale gaze didn’t waver as he shook his head.

“If I thought he was craven or a failure, I’d have cut his head from shoulders long ago. He led us to the Meeting of Tribes well. We heard Dolenm himself calling Fetohep’s praises at the last.”

“Aye.”

The crew chorused solemnly, and Pewerthe breathed again. Cikroleth beckoned her over to the chair and put his own feet up on a little table as a second chair was brought. He poured a drink of that undead liquid for her, and him, then lifted a cup.

“Khelt’s just dying is all. No ghosts. These undead don’t think. When first we rose, they were smart enough. Not people, but I could hear a thousand voices through them. Memories. The knowledge of how to swing a hammer from a long-dead [Smith], letting a skeleton repair wood. A [Soldier]’s bravery in their charge. Now they’re dumb, silent. Makes sense it’s all crumbling. Dolenm wouldn’t have been a [Pirate Lord] in his day if he couldn’t raise undead fleets with skeletons crewing them.”

She stared at the ghostly liquid in her cup and swished it around. Cikroleth nudged her with a boot.

“Have a drink.”

“What? It’s for undead—”

“It won’t kill you.”

Hesitantly, she lifted the cup to her lips, and the liquid spilled down like slow-moving, translucent mist the color of dark blue silver into her throat. She tried to swallow it and reflexively coughed and gagged—it had no real substance. But it made her feel…

Cold…

Cikroleth added after a second as Pewerthe turned pale as a sheet.

“Aye, well, that much won’t kill you. Drinking death-magic does that. Not a bad way to go. Reckon it would make things easier, maybe, if you downed the bottle.”

It tasted like long-dried almonds. Pewerthe gasped for air, then stared at him.

“You want me to become a Revenant?”

“Just a thought. Though two rulers of Khelt might not do more than one. But that Fetohep—he’s flailing, isn’t he? Haven’t come back, but even the scrying orb tells me he’s stressed to fraying.”

She eyed the cup and pushed it back. Cikroleth poured himself another drink without a word, and there was his—edge. She breathed, hearing her heart pick up after a few seconds.

“He—he doesn’t know how to handle defeat. He can’t buy the Prophet off, and we’re out of long-ranged spells, and the undead—I was hoping you could help! You’re Khelt’s Revenants!”

Cikroleth nodded. He cast a glance over the ship’s side.

“They’re not the strongest lot. Strange Skills, but I’ve hacked up plenty. Still, it’s one man’s crew versus thousands. Their weapons kill undead well, but if it was just them, we’d try it. Look; we’re passing by one lot now.”

She leapt up and was just in time to see a procession of robed men and women circling one of Khelt’s cities. They were so fast that Sand at Sea was nearly at Khelt’s borders already.

The People of God were besieging a city. Or rather, in the way of their faith, marching around the walls, shouting and chanting, banging drums and playing instruments. Much like the King of Reim had once done…

Only, where Flos Reimarch had once taken a city by sheer charisma and the loyalty of his people, the Prophet’s people only had faith.

And Skills or their Miracles. The walls of the city had holes in them. Even as Pewerthe stared, a huge section of beautiful, decorated wall cracked before the faith of the People of God. She saw no one in the street beyond; the Kheltians were hiding.

But the People of God froze when they saw the giant undead warship coming at them. Irg called out from the railings.

“One broadside, Captain, Heir?”

“Belay that. They’ve got our people as hostages. Mudball.”

Rad Rema handed Cikroleth a literal mudball made of the sand blowing around her and some water she had poured into a cookpot. He flicked it up, then tossed it as Sand at Sea hurtled past the People of God.

The mudball hit one of the leaders, a [Cleric], in the face, and the cry and sight of one of them going over made the crew laugh. Then they were gone, and Cikroleth turned back to Pewerthe. Only she realized he was actually displeased despite his light tone.

“Can’t risk it. That glowing lightball they carry might vaporize the entire damn ship.”

The People of God were not the foes Sand at Sea should be used against. Pewerthe knew that. Fetohep himself had considered going out to battle the Prophet—he was a peerless warrior, but undead-slaying specialists…

“What can you do, Captain? Where do you see yourself if things continue to grow worse?”

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and stared over the railing.

“Evacuating citizens, Heir, if it comes to a full invasion. Short of that, raiding and running interference on all the fleas soon to come calling. We’d have given that Lord of Roshal good battle if we were here when he attacked. ‘Till the end, that’s what Sand at Sea is for. Dolenm didn’t leave a navy; he didn’t think one was needed. Just a fast ship. That Vizir and Serept’s half-Giants were enough for wars.”

“But both have left Khelt. How could they?”

Pewerthe murmured as she sat on the decks. Cikroleth glanced at her, surprised.

“That Vizir hasn’t said a word to His Majesty? Not like him to ignore Khelt, for all he’s a right bastard.”

“No. And Fetohep has been trying.”

“Hmpf. Prideful. Like as not he just doesn’t want to be ordered around. As for Serept’s giants, Dolenm woke them for us to meet, out of curiosity. They care about Khelt as much as we, but also for half-Giants. He said something to them about safeguarding his people. They might return, but they’re not exactly…fast.”

So it was just Cikroleth’s ship in the end. No solution for the Prophet here. Pewerthe sagged. Then, she felt at her bag of holding.

“I have work to do, and I would like to keep speaking, but do you have a place out of the wind, Captain? I have pots to make.”

He stared at her as the entire crew turned. If she found them surreal and otherworldly…what a strange Heir of Khelt she was.

——

For all their own dissatisfaction about their ability to stem Khelt’s woes, Sand at Sea was still blazingly fast. The crew might still be swearing over not being able to fight Roshal—something they had clear guilt about—but Fetohep ordering them north when the Prophet had been an issue had one upside.

The undead warship had single-handedly been guarding New Jecrass this entire time. All the soldiers and undead that had been stationed in New Jecrass had been supplanted by a single warship crewed by battle-hungry Revenants.

They’d killed monsters, routed [Bandits], and even dealt with local crime with the efficiency of people who knew underworlds. Thus, by the time Pewerthe got to actually touring the former lands of Jecrass, now New Jecrass, she was surprised.

Eighteen pots were done by the time she got off the boat with sea-legs and wobbled down the gangplank to meet some surprised people. They were all shit pots, barely watertight, but they’d do…

“What brings you here, ah, official? Lady?”

The representatives of this city in Jecrass, Holhoofen, were horse-people. Not literally Centaurs, but people who were just as good with horses and who had wide, sprawling settlements thanks to Jecrass’ open plains and rivers.

It was lush to Pewerthe, who was used to plenty of drinking water, but not greenery all about. Captain Cikroleth spoke crisply.

“Yonder is none other than the Heir of Khelt, Pewerthe! Answer her questions and ours. Have you any more crime? Bandits? Monsters?”

The New Jecrassians turned to Pewerthe and almost genuflected there and then; they had no idea how to treat her, but when she told them she was inspecting the area for Fetohep, they seemed relieved.

“We feared we’d been doing something wrong, Lady, um, Your Highness. We asked about tribute or taxes, but we were assured none were to be paid. So we’ve…stockpiled gold. Since none is to be spent. Have we erred?”

“No, not at all. I was more sent here to survey the cities and hear their complaints.”

The woman who had been [Mayor] of the city until the changing from Jecrass to Khelt’s territory gazed at Pewerthe.

“Complaints? We have none, Heir.”

“Oh, surely you must.”

That was them being worried. Every city in Khelt had complaints, and that was before the bug problem. But the [Mayor] just scratched her hair.

“We receive food—wondrous food—to each city regularly. There’s no need to spend coins, and no crime. Not since Sand at Sea strung up the last gang. We received the scrying orbs, and the [Mages] have been enchanting houses nonstop. Half the city’s been building better homes together since construction materials are free.”

“You have? With what skeletons?”

“With…our [Carpenters], Lady Pewerthe. Together. It’s something most of the city’s done, or they’ve taken up other hobbies. Some of us visited main Khelt to see how it was done. No, we’ve no complaints. I know His Majesty has worried about the lack of entertainments here, but he’s sent a fortune in everything.”

Pewerthe stared at the woman. The city behind her didn’t appear wonderful at all, and then Pewerthe remembered how non-Kheltian cities looked. By the standards she remembered as a girl…

“Didn’t you lose a lot of citizens to Jecrass when the land was ceded to Khelt?”

That was the agreement Jecaina had struck; no citizen of New Jecrass would be forced to stay, and they would be compensated for the loss of their homes. The [Mayor] smiled.

“Some, but between Reim and Medain raiding us—most stayed. Why wouldn’t we? We owe His Majesty of Jecrass a great debt, but the war was long and…it was Khelt. Any other nation and we would have thought of leaving. But Khelt?”

Paradise. Pewerthe was so bemused, she cast around.

“You don’t have any problems? What about the bugs?”

And then the [Mayor] chuckled.

“What about them? All the officers and visitors here worried so much, but it’s been the lightest of springs imaginable. All the snow the Winter Sprites brought killed off most.”

The Heir to Khelt stood there as Captain Cikroleth snorted with amusement. She quickly realized that of all the places in Khelt right now…New Jecrass was probably the happiest.

——

New Jecrassians were just, uh, a bit hardier than Kheltians. They had flies. Horses drew flies to them as a matter of course, and what did you do? You swatted the buggers, then shoveled the manure to keep them from laying nests.

Duh.

Four cities, two towns, and any number of villages later and Pewerthe was relieved—and even more annoyed at her own people. The people here were only too happy. In fact, when she relayed the troubles of Khelt, they’d been positively alarmed.

“No one knows how to deal with insects in Khelt? At…all? If it’s so dire, we do have [Cleaners].”

Pewerthe had an idea after speaking to Mayor Vithalda, the first woman she’d talked to. Thus, Sand at Sea ended up picking up hundreds of New Jecrassians with the express purpose of coming back to Khelt for aid.

A visit to Khelt proper in exchange for smushing a few bugs interested lots of New Jecrassians. The other half were [Farmers] who were bored as could be and were interested in Farmer Colovt’s project.

Sand at Sea dropped off the first wave of New Jecrassians across the cities, and Pewerthe herself found Farmer Colovt, who was astonished—and gratified—by all the help.

“Pewerthe! I am delighted, but I have nowhere to host so many fine people!”

“We can sleep in the stables if there’s not enough beds.”

“And more can be sent for, Colovt. They’re hardier than, ah, regular citizens. They won’t wilt from a night’s rest.”

Colovt seemed horrified.

“Sleep in the stables? I only meant—I probably have enough couches and bedding, just not anything quality. Come in, please!”

His family rushed about to help settle the [Farmers], who had to stare at the skeletons and Golems tending these massive farms. They were so excited by the scale that they barely paid attention to bedding. Colovt would have been right there with them, but he drew Pewerthe aside.

“Pewerthe…may I ask you a question? I know you are on His Majesty’s business, but I have heard—rumors—from the north. I receive requests for special orders of crops, and my family travels. My youngest daughter told me she was turned away from going any further north than Ilishek.”

His youngest daughter was twelve, but she could sit on a wagon and drive it anywhere with little fear in Khelt. Colovt’s face was concerned, the crow’s feet at the edges of his eyes crinkled up.

“Pewerthe. I know His Majesty has asked for this great farming project for Khelt’s personal improvement, of course. But I have looked at the skeletons, and…and insects on my farm are one thing; I did live in Reim. Yet I’ve heard rumblings in many cities. Is all well in Khelt?”

She stood there as he held his hat in his hands and glanced at the New Jecrassians, who could see nothing wrong. Colovt’s face was careful, but she just took a breath, then shook her head.

“It is not well, Colovt. The skeletons have lost their ability to perform many tasks. Hence the insects. His Majesty is attempting to keep the matter secret, but that is why he asked you to create this farm. Khelt’s defenses and ability to handle matters in…everything…are jeopardized. It is a secret, especially to foreign nations, but the knowledge is becoming widespread, no matter what Fetohep and I do about it. That’s what’s going on.”

The blood drained from Colovt’s face. He swayed in place, as if she’d struck him, and she reached for him in case he fell. But then the man cast around.

“I have to tell my wife. So that’s why the Jaws…I knew he would not just attack. May I tell them, Pewerthe? I—”

She nodded, and he strode off before running back to assure her he would tell no one else and that he had questions. She glanced at Cikroleth. The undead [Captain] gave her a two-fingered salute.

“I have more people to drop off. Shall you come aboard, Heir?”

“No, it’s late. Pick me up tomorrow, Captain. I’ll make sure Farmer Colovt is well.”

——

Pewerthe spent that night in the overflowing farm house, but Colovt’s home was huge enough to be a mansion, and the New Jecrassians were in great spirits. They didn’t notice that Colovt himself and his wife and eldest daughter appeared withdrawn.

The [Potter] was worrying she’d made a mistake, but she felt the knowledge had to be told. Colovt spreading the news would be a drop in a bucket of problems. Anyways, she had her own countermeasures…

She was awake at an hour past midnight, digging a hole away from the fields, then filling it up as a Harvester Golem stared at her. Pewerthe finished tossing the pots into the hole and was almost done tamping the soil down when she saw another figure in the fields.

Farmer Colovt was pacing down the fields of crops, muttering to himself.

“…Has to be Yellats. Corn might do, but how much water do we have? We import so much of it, if we lose access to that—it needs to be sustainable. This won’t feed even a tenth of Khelt at this rate. They have to farm in New Jecrass too. More water there. Best place for it, really. [Druids] think we’ve killed all the bugs who could grow most crops. If we all start farming now—”

He jumped when Pewerthe called his name, and he spun. She saw him glance around guiltily.

“Potter, I was just…I told no one besides my family, I swear. I just had to get out and see how much we were growing. If we need to feed all of Khelt—”

Stress was eating at his hunched shoulders. He clearly was unable to sleep, but if he’d had a panic attack—Pewerthe stood there, smiling in the moonlight.

“You’re attempting to help, Colovt.”

“Well, yes, of course. This is my home. If I’d known why we needed the crops…”

Colovt appeared mystified by her smile. She came over and rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Fetohep should have trusted you long ago with the entire problem. We need more people like you, Colovt.”

“Nonsense. His Majesty knows what he’s doing. I just don’t know—are you truly a [Potter], Pewerthe? That’s the only thing I can’t figure out. You’re capable, of course. But His Majesty made you the Heir. Is there nothing more to it than your wisdom and insight?”

She laughed softly.

“Truly, Colovt? Not much more, no. His Majesty needs someone who can think like a non-Kheltian, and it’s a compliment I’m the top of the list. Oh, and he told me levels matter to survive the…conversion process. I’m higher level than almost anyone in Khelt. Level 42. Keep that secret.”

Colovt nearly did a backflip before trying to bow himself into the fields. She just hugged him, then bade him come inside with her so they could talk and before someone thought they were having an illicit rendezvous or something. She even decided, then and there, that they should be honest with the New Jecrassian [Farmers].

Not about the skeletons, maybe, but if Khelt was going to need to produce its own…produce, the truth had to come out. She wrote Fetohep that herself in the middle of the night before she went to sleep at 4 AM, tired but hopeful.

—She woke no less than twenty-four minutes later to her personal speaking stone going off.

“Pewerthe, report! You told Farmer Colovt everything? The New Jecrassians? This is unacceptable! We must contain—the hostilities against New Jecrassians may lead to harm of my citizens. The Prophet is doing something in the north. The [Mercenaries] are refusing to answer my messages and—”

“Your Majesty? I had to tell them. I’ll be there in the morning with Captain Cikroleth. I have ideas on how to use his services.”

Fetohep’s voice was overly-loud, a crescendo of alarm and tension.

“I am sending him to you now. I will see you within half an hour, and you shall explain yourself. Bring Colovt, and he will be sworn to—the Emperor of Sands has sent an army around the Great Desert. They are heading this way. There is a riot in…a riot has broken out in the main city. Return to—”

Pewerthe’s stomach twisted. The Empire of Sands? An army? And a riot? She spoke quickly.

“Isn’t the Empire of Sands just fighting Reim? An army was coming for ages before now. Your Majesty? I’ll be there right away. Fetohep?”

She thought for a moment that he was just ignoring her or taking a call. But after several minutes of pacing, a terrible suspicion came over her. She queried him again, repeatedly, until Farmer Colovt woke up, and then a panicked day-servant found the speaking stone and heard her voice.

She was running towards Sand at Sea the next minute, shouting at them to take her to the palace now. 

——

King Fetohep of Khelt was already restoring order in the palace by the time a panting Pewerthe arrived with Captain Cikroleth in tow. He had woken up; it had been barely an hour of ‘sleep’.

Nevertheless, the fact it had occurred again was a sign he was, what, overloading? Pewerthe saw the King of Khelt sweeping around as the day-servants stared at him with the wide-eyed horror of people who had seen reality shake.

“Ah, Pewerthe. I am quite recovered. More—taxation of my resources, that is all. You will report to me about Farmer Colovt now. I require your monitoring of him and the New Jecrassians lest word of what I wish to keep private spread. Captain Cikroleth, I have heard tell New Jecrass is well. Should you keep it secure, I shall be satisfied in all ways.”

He sat himself on his throne with a regal nod, and the Captain sketched a bow.

“By your will, Yer Majesty, it’ll be done. Say the word and we’ll be at Khelt’s borders within four hours, no matter where we are in New Jecrass. What of this army?”

“I am in negotiations. Drop Pewerthe back at the farms. Pewerthe, you are to—”

“No. I’m staying here. Cikroleth, I have orders for you. I want to see these riots.”

The King of Khelt visibly wavered as Pewerthe interrupted him. However—he was the [King] of Khelt, and he kept talking, his voice rising ever-so-slightly as to make it clear his will would be done and that he would not be gainsaid.

A kingly gesture that did not work because Pewerthe kept speaking. So there were two voices in the throne room.

“—ensure each [Farmer] is of good character and keep them from returning to New Jecrass. If needed, I shall have excuses made, and upon completion of this task, I shall then—”

“I want Frieke, Death Commander Lanodest, and anyone competent in Khelt reporting to me. They don’t have to be the best. But the second-best [Mage]. Speaking stones to the Quarass, um, the King of Khelt, and access to the armories. Didn’t the Blades of Serept get delivered? And then—”

“Pewerthe. I am speaking. You are not the ruler of Khelt.”

The King of Khelt’s voice thundered over her, and the servants fell to their knees. Pewerthe did not, and she saw Cikroleth giving her the side-flame with one eye. Fetohep’s were pinpoints of rage or alarm, but she faced him head-on.

“I am the Heir of Khelt.”

Gasps from behind her. Fetohep’s head jerked around.

“Day-servants, you are not to repeat this to anyone. Pewerthe, your status—”

“I am needed. I do not fear [Assassins] or corruption, Your Majesty, not now. You need my help—no. Khelt needs me to take authority, and I shall. If you disagree, remove me as your Heir! Otherwise, you will give me all I desire, and I shall help.”

She faced him, a [Potter] in her messy clothing, tired and mortal, and the King of Khelt stared down at Pewerthe. For a moment, outraged. Then…she thought he hid a smile with a hand. But his voice was stern.

“Some of what you desire shall be granted. Capable helpers. Lanodest. Not Adventurer Frieke or Cikroleth. I have need of them. Nor are the Blades of Serept to be used lightly. I shall allow you—”

“Captain Cikroleth, make Sand at Sea ready for a voyage, possibly dangerous. Frieke is my adventurer. You have Alked Fellbow.”

Another silence, and Cikroleth was grinning now. This time, Fetohep grew tangibly angry, she could tell.

“I am being indulgent of your role and status, my Heir Apparent. But I am still ruler of Khelt, am I not?”

Pewerthe’s lips pursed, and he seemed miffed none of his grandeur was working on her. As if she hadn’t stood in his presence for ages. As if he hadn’t trained her for this.

“You are being indulgent, Fetohep. Which is a mistake. I am your Heir.”

“Heir does not mean ruler of Khelt! You are no [Princess]—”

“Yes, but if I shall lead it, why are you coddling me? I am not a child, Fetohep, despite my lack of years! Did Xierca never ask anything of you? If she did not, and you never once spoke back to her or did what you think best, what a waste. Khelt is not stable enough for you to take it all on yourself. You are not in control!”

She shouted at him. Shouted, and they all flinched, the living and even the dead. Like the earth had shaken, and perhaps…Fetohep held out a hand, and Pewerthe realized the ground had trembled.

Was that…her? He sat there, unmoving, and then lifted his hand.

“Go.”

Did he mean to leave his presence or…? But Fetohep was already reaching for a scrying orb, and Pewerthe glanced at Captain Cikroleth. He was chuckling as she spun on her heel.

“Aye, that reminds me of Emrist and Dolenm, sure enough. Where to, Heir Pewerthe?”

She turned and began hurrying for the doors, but snapped at a motionless servant.

“Send word for Frieke to join me as soon as her duties are completed against the Prophet. Captain, you are to head east and find Vizir Hecrelunn and this New Khelt he’s started. Have him return here, or at least deliver the message such that he cannot ignore it. Impress on him what is happening to Khelt.”

“Aye, that’s dangerous enough. And if he makes a fight of it?”

“Then don’t damage your ship or crew beyond necessary. But before that…I want you to reach the Gnoll leaders of each tribe and Herdmistress Geraeri. Bring them here. Geraeri can probably run, but the Gnolls need transport. Um, um—”

They were striding through the palace now, and she felt like she was part of it. The greater undead, mindless though they might be, stood in alcoves and watched her as she passed, and she had no fear of them. Servants followed in her wake, and her heart was beating, but she felt alive. And afraid.

I am not ready for this. Khelt truly needs a better heir. And I shall find one, perhaps. But for now—

She ruled. Her first orders came fast, with uncertainty, but she remembered the teachings of Fetohep. One of which was this.

Never say ‘um’ or ‘ah’, just fall silent. Better to lower your cadence of speech than to impress upon anyone your true thoughts. 

She bit her tongue, and the result was a question after that pause, and the [Potter]’s head turned to meet Cikroleth’s gaze directly.

“Ere you leave Khelt, how likely is it you could kill the Prophet without risking Sand at Sea, Captain Cikroleth?”

His footsteps never wavered, but his head bowed in thought as she threw open some doors and strode inside.

“Hmm. Not great. I heard he was poisoned twice? If the Quarass can’t gut him rightly, he likely gets back up after ordinary killing. I knew Troll Pirates like that. Wouldn’t be an issue, though. We’d drag him behind the ship a hundred miles, but that floating light orb wastes undead like us. It’ll do for the ship. We could broadside him, but he’s in the city with Kheltians about him.”

Unacceptable casualties, in short. And it might not kill the Prophet. Pewerthe exhaled.

“Don’t escalate, then. Gnolls, Centaurs, Hecrelunn. Then get back to New Jecrass unless we have a real war. Can it hold for as long as you’re gone?”

The Revenant snorted as she threw open a chest, and sand billowed around them. She coughed, waved her hand, and spoke.

“Deactivate curse. Cikroleth?”

“We won’t be more than a few days at most to hit the coast and back; like as not less. Whether or not the ornery bastard listens? No [Bandits] are gonna ride in that fast, nor monsters, and if they do, we’ll get them. Armies are different. Organized raids are different.”

“Very good. Last question…”

Pewerthe bent down and lifted a longsword made of blue diamond up, and a bastard sword of brilliant white moonlight. She saw Cikroleth’s eye-flames dart to the chest, and Pewerthe smiled.

“Which color suits me?”

——

There wasn’t really a good reason for Pewerthe to have a Diamond Sword of Serept. She just wanted one. If it came to a battle, she was not a warrior, and many of Khelt’s woes could not be solved by the tip of the blade, anyways.

But it was very cool. Though the blue sword’s ambient magic was to humidify the air, even draw water out of barren ground—she stopped spraying the ground with water after half an hour of figuring out the effects.

Fetohep was mildly appalled—he kept in communication with her and had already assigned her a number of artifacts, and his voice, when he spoke to her, sounded distinctly pained.

“The Pact of Temius was the blade you took?”

“The blue sword of Serept, yes.”

“The blue—you are not intending to use it on the rioters, surely? Frieke is not here yet. You should avoid them until you have a bodyguard. My officials are trying to quell the violence, but they are outnumbered, Pewerthe.”

“I have it in hand, Fetohep.”

“But if you are harmed—”

Pewerthe stood, surveying the nighttime riot, and she touched the hilt of the Blue Sword of Water as she sighed.

“I will not be. Tell me, Your Majesty. How many riots have you seen?”

“…I assume this is a trick question. Khelt has never suffered a riot. In my mortal days? Unrest, but I do not believe I recall one.”

“Mm. I’ve seen food riots.”

“Ah. Upon the Kheltian scale of 1 to 10, this would b—”

“0.2, I think.”

The Kheltian ‘riot’ was the strangest and saddest thing Pewerthe had ever witnessed. It was true that citizens had taken to the streets over the bugs, the lack of Fetohep’s attention, and other factors. They did not have all the pieces, but they knew something was wrong.

But they rioted like, well, children. Real riots were terrifying. When a crowd formed that would not stop or slow, everyone ran. The Watch, [Mages], even soldiers. They could burn buildings, kill, even by accident or the press of bodies, and the desperation that pushed people to a riot often meant it had no end until the energy had fully been let out.

The Kheltian riot had no violence. It didn’t even have shoving. The people did not storm the palace. They shouted at officials and vented their anger not on each other or the statues of the rulers of Khelt. Instead, they, well…smashed things.

Which was very riot-like, you had to give it to them. Vases were hurled onto the streets, clothing ripped, even burned! Kheltians hit walls, overturned chairs, raised pottery overhead to smash down—

Then realized they were on Cythway, and the street was made of polished half-Elven resin and wood from over ten thousand years ago. Far too important to break anything onto, even if it was enchanted.

So they went to another street. For all their pique, no Kheltian was breaking anything really important.

All the beautiful works of art, the most prestigious buildings, were carefully ignored. Yes, they shouted and screamed and hurled things, but Pewerthe saw several Kheltians behind the ones throwing objects sweeping up some of the broken pieces, admonishing them not to leave too many shards around in case someone got hurt.

Someone had already begun taking broken pieces from the riot and was making a new composite art piece they were labelling ‘The Unhearing King’, which was Fetohep with his hands over his ears.

Pewerthe rubbed at her forehead as several officials turned to her, expecting her to deal with this unprecedented breach of the peace.

“Okay. Riots dealt with.”

She let them vent their anger. They had bigger problems to deal with.

——

It was funny. Each day felt like the final disaster, the straw that would break the proverbial camel’s back. It was always something unprecedented.

A riot in Khelt. The Prophet in the north. An army from the Empire of Sands on its way. Roshal’s raid.

Each time, Pewerthe’s stomach hurt and she was terrified, but each day, they endured, and the next day felt worse, but by then a new problem had arisen, and the last one felt…not better, but smaller because the pile of issues was growing.

It taxed Fetohep most of all, she was sure. He was restless, and his tone became harried, at least with her. Outwardly, he was presenting that all in Khelt was well, but she knew it was not as she became a true second ruler of Khelt, moving around and putting out fires. It would have weighed on Pewerthe enough that she snapped except for, amazingly, Frieke.

Fetohep of Khelt hadn’t exactly, uh, done his research when it came to hiring Frieke. He’d only run a few background checks to ensure she was of good character and not hiding some terrible trait, but her career as an adventurer or personality he hadn’t truly cared about investigating. So here was what made Frieke the Falcon special:

The worse it got for Khelt, the more cheerful Frieke seemed to be. The more it sucked, the more active and the more effort the Named-rank put in. She even smiled more.

——

It was rather annoying, actually. Frieke went from lazily meeting Pewerthe at breakfast to rising before dawn, boots on, ready for battle, and on Pewerthe’s doorstep before the [Potter] had swung out of bed. Was she happy?

…Sort of? Frieke had known it was too good to be true. She didn’t like this, but she liked being needed, if that made sense.

“It’s like being in the poop hole. You always wonder if you’re there, and when you don’t know, that’s the concerning part, like exploring a too-easy dungeon. But when the poop starts coming down, well, that’s bad, but at least you know, right?”

Konska and Pewerthe eyed her as she relayed that over a midnight dinner one time. Pewerthe put down her sandwich.

“Is this from personal experience?”

“Oh, sure. Someone’s gotta clean them out, and most big cities have one. When do you want me in the morning, boss?”

Her new duties also dovetailed nicely with her hobby. Though instead of chronicling Khelt in the modern age, more and more, Frieke became convinced she was writing an account of its fall. She had begun writing letters to Satar, though she was obviously not sending them yet. It helped get her thoughts out. She wrote the first one briefly after the first riots had begun in Khelt. Six cities where demonstrations had turned into public anger, then simmered down by morning. She was a bit shaken from her brush with the Prophet’s people, too.

Dear Satar Silverfang,

The situation in Khelt has continued deteriorating a week after the Roshal raid, though few people seem to even know it occurred. I cannot quite believe that; an entire city was thrown into terror, and they do talk and move around! It isn’t like His Majesty can order them to pure silence or he’s quarantined them.

The same with the Prophet in the north. Some people are aware, but it isn’t a mass-consciousness of what’s going on. I wonder if it’s some kind of Skill or his spies? Higher-level people seem far more stressed than normal…

The citizens who were nearly taken [Slaves] are shaken, though. Lots of [Thought Healers] called for, and His Majesty sent for the kid who met the Slave Lord. And all of his soldiers. He seems to be gathering anyone capable to him in the palace; the Gnolls and Centaurs have both agreed to help. I think it shook Herdmistress Geraeri out of her funk, and the Gnolls aren’t happy, but we all get it.

Kheltians think the world is ending, but it’s not. Not yet. Even the Prophet is relatively tame. I’ve seen [Bandits] take over a city. No one’s safe, but the Prophet’s people don’t harm anyone not coming at them. They might take your possessions, but they don’t assault people, they just preach, and they haven’t advanced far.

Not enough numbers to hold more than a few cities. But they’re up to something. I’ve tangled with their people, and they’re not that great. Better than your average [Soldier] with their weird Skills, and the high-level ones are unpredictable. Their worst quality is their healing: they get right back up. It makes it easy to go in, break some bones, and get out, but they’re healed within the hour, and I feel like I’m counterlevelling them.

Lots of citizens are fleeing the Prophet’s people, who’re mostly…looting? Again, they’re doing something weird. I captured a few who said their [Prophet] hit a capstone, and they’re performing a ‘sacrament’. Don’t know what that is, and I don’t like it. For now, no one’s trying to kill the other. Khelt has a lot to lose, and the Prophet probably knows open war will get more of his people killed, but between you and me?

They’re coming for Khelt. Lots of their own died from the Arrows of Razzimir spell, and they want blood. They’re holding back because there’s a plan, but without an army of our own, we can’t engage. Weird stalemate. So long as we’re going non-lethal, Alked and I can hold the line. Pro-tip: if they can heal anything, even stabs, poisoning, etc., go for a [Falcon Kick] to the groin. It drops them, even with healing, for at least half a day, especially if you rupture something. Male or female.

Pewerthe has us going to New Jecrass and liasoning with Gnolls, Centaurs, etc. Captain Cikroleth came back from his ship voyage, and we’re trying to take on the crisis of bugs. I’ll write more about that later. 

—Frieke of Medain Khelt.

PS. Pretty sure other nations are starting to catch on about the Prophet. I swear I saw the Arbiter Queen calling His Majesty, and that weird [Sand Mage], Trey, was visiting the palace the other day. Also, there’s some random white Gnoll girl who keeps walking through walls and a shortie with awesome clothing. Is that from the inn? Or ghosts?

——

The solution to Khelt’s insect and skeleton-power woes was simple: find a group of people who could step on a roach and not spend the rest of the month in bed. Even if they couldn’t kill all the bugs, do something to shut up the citizens and keep the other nations from noticing.

One might reasonably ask why Pewerthe even cared about the damn bugs. Fetohep did, but Pewerthe?

She had a few reasons to make the bug problem her priority. Firstly, Fetohep cared. If she didn’t deal with it, he would fixate on the problem as if it were the same as the Prophet, and she needed him focused.

The second reason was that it was a sign of Kheltian weakness. Everyone talked in this modern age, and it was one more crack in Khelt’s façade if other nations realized they were having domestic issues like this. But the third reason was the simplest, and only Pewerthe understood why it was so important.

Bugs made the Kheltians upset. They hated the little things, and if Pewerthe could deal with the bugs, even for a little bit, they’d stop complaining. Gossiping. Griping. She needed them to be quieter. Khelt’s safety hinged on its citizens not being little babies and blathering to each other. If they kept it up, things would—break.

What a problem. Hence, her cleanup initiatives and tackling the bugs as a true threat.

To that end, Pewerthe enlisted the three Gnoll tribes, the Centaurs, and even thousands of New Jecrassians which Sand at Sea ferried to Khelt, and it worked for a time.

Bemused Gnolls, Humans, and Centaurs didn’t mind finding a nest of ants and digging it out, and even some Kheltians got involved creatively, like pouring metal into the nests and coming away with funky sculptures of the tunnels and habitats the insects had dug. It got Kheltians distracted, and the riots ceased…for a week.

Then it went south. Former-Chieftain Qirrel was the first to point it out to Pewerthe, who was busy making her stupid pots. She was spinning one impatiently off her wheel as he eyed her, but they were all used to her odd behavior.

“Heiress, about our help in the cities.”

“Yes? The insects aren’t going away, are they?”

Pewerthe wore a rueful expression. She might be worldly compared to Fetohep and her people, but she was still naïve from so long in Khelt. She had hoped that if the others offered their time, the insect ‘plague’ would diminish, but no such luck.

This was just the relative number of insects any city got. Without the skeletons working nonstop, ants spread, bugs flew and reproduced…maybe their nonstop proliferation due to the Kheltian’s lax standards had halted, but this appeared to be a permanent thing.

Qirrel knew that, and he sat cautiously, scratching at some dried soap on one arm. He placed something on the ground next to her kiln.

“No, I think the insects are here to stay, and all those who volunteered are not minding hunting them down. It is not exactly the hardest of work since we have numbers, and no one is pushing us, yes? However—no one is paid in Khelt.”

“No, they’re not. We should give you all something to reward you for your efforts.”

Pewerthe was thinking of what could be appropriate. Fetohep would probably flip if she handed out a Diamond Sword of Serept…then she noticed Qirrel’s expression.

“What is it?”

She peered at what he’d put down, and he sighed.

“This is what I was given by a very friendly [Mayor] of the city I was assisting in. Not just me; each member of my tribe was given this.”

It was a stack of coupons, vouchers, the faux-currency Kheltians loved. Tickets for private massages, theaters, restaurants, even some handmade coins and a few gold pieces. The moment Pewerthe saw it, she sighed and glanced up.

“Ah, they’re trying to make it up to you.”

Qirrel smiled gently.

“Yes, and we understand it is an attempt to repay us for our efforts, and we shall accept, of course. With that said, tomorrow is the last day we shall be assisting. We hope to teach Kheltians the basics of how to deal with pests and other issues. If they wish to learn, they may visit us. We can have classes taught by, er, children.”

She frowned, putting the clay pot on a tray for the kiln.

“Only tomorrow? You won’t consider another day?”

“No.”

“What if—”

“We do not wish to be paid for cleaning and working, Potter Pewerthe. The other members of my tribe agree: it is a bad precedent. And I think…if I were you, I would consider asking the New Jecrassians to cease their work as well. I have noticed the Centaurs moving away from their efforts too. We are not unwilling. It is a matter of foresight, you understand?”

She didn’t, for a little bit, until she thought about it and was reminded of Fetohep’s warning.

Second-class citizens. The Gnolls did not want to become the group that replaced skeletons and swept and cleaned in paradise.

“Nor is that their job. Argh. His Majesty was right!”

Within half a day of the three groups ceasing their work, Pewerthe and the officials were inundated with requests for them to return along with ever-rising offers from Kheltians to persuade someone else to do the tasks for them. When they became demands, she put her foot down.

Which led right back to protests with a call for New Jecrassians to come back as [Cleaners]. Pewerthe developed a headache. She hoped she’d bought time for Fetohep to resolve issues on his side.

——

While Pewerthe handled public issues, at least temporarily, Fetohep was trying to attend to both issues of state and what he perceived to be Khelt’s greatest problem: a lack of viable manpower. Or womenpower.

Or any kind of competency. The day-servants were not able to keep up with his needs. His officials were barely more than peacekeepers who enforced rules. He needed soldiers to fight the Prophet, people he could trust.

He juggled this while keeping a wary eye on other nations. The Empire of Sands…the [Emperor] was a cunning, regal individual with far more weight behind them than their short tenure as ruler suggested.

She was only too willing to speak with Fetohep and deliver a lengthy conversation, equal-to-equal, regarding her army’s presence near Khelt’s border.

“In the end, it is, purely, a manifestation of the hazards of Zeikhal that forced my army towards your bountiful lands, Your Majesty. This army is but the first of many. Already, we have skirmished with the Garuda led by the Lord of the Skies.”

“So I have heard, Empress. It is not my desire to arbitrate any wars between other nations. I merely caution you to keep your forces out of my realm.”

Fetohep stressed that last, and she smiled, giving nothing away. He had heard the Emperor of Sands was a powerful, commanding warlord, but she seemed to be purely focused on diplomacy-Skills.

Strange. Body double? Or something else? Perhaps she was just that adaptable, but the Empress inclined her head.

“Reim shall soon know the breadth and scope of my war with them, and I merely request your forbearance; no force of mine shall sully Khelt’s inviolate borders.”

In another time, with the full weight of Khelt behind him, Fetohep might have told her to keep her armies a hundred miles clear of his borders or suffer his wrath. He was half of a mind to, but if she called his bluff…

He would have sent ten thousand skeletons marching at her if she so much as offered him a single slight. But she had not, and so he made a show of mulling her request over before nodding once.

“Let it be so, as a mark of esteem for a new ruler come to Chandrar. Stitch-folk speak well of your reign, Empress. This, I consider, as well as the discourtesies offered to me by the King of Destruction. I allow this.”

She bowed her head.

“It is an honor, King of Khelt. I should be wary, then, to not make the mistake of slighting Khelt. Perhaps my [General of Sands] may, with your permission, leave a gift at the borders to show my appreciation?”

It was all so well-done and said that he would have smiled if not for the unsettling worry at the back of his mind. Fetohep waved his hand, and later, he watched a news report showing the army from the Empire of Sands firing arrows at circling Garuda.

War had come to Reim, and the King of Destruction’s push into Nerrhavia blunted only slightly; he sent Takhatres to smash the army, and they fell back in retreat. The next week, a second army crossed the desert. Then a third. None drew closer than forty miles to Khelt’s borders, but he felt that unease. What was the Empire of Sands planning?

The Empress couldn’t think to win a land war against the King of Destruction, not with each army so far out of position. Her nation was large enough to sustain several on the offensive, even if they took the heavy casualties Flos Reimarch loved to dish out, but it was just a waste of troops.

Neither she nor Flos had engaged because the sheer distance between their nations meant that it would require a long, sustained offensive push into the other’s domains. Better to expand first. Perhaps she was just intending to raid him or coordinate with Nerrhavia’s Fallen and halt him from taking too much territory there.

Fetohep didn’t know, but the topic of [Soldiers] had him summoning Lanodest to the palace that first week. As well as the boy he had met.

——

Anleth was in awe of the royal palace, and his family was petrified of their vast, royal chambers, but it was the will of His Majesty after the trauma they had endured.

Everyone was going to the [Thought Healers], and the rest of his family were too nervous to even speak to the King of Khelt over breakfast, but the boy thought the [King] paid attention to him and even expected Anleth to answer, so he did.

“So you have no nightmares, young Anleth?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

Anleth lied after a second, and he only had them every other day. Fetohep nodded once.

“This is well. Such moments can be overcome with mastery of one’s self, not with distractions. It is my will that you visit Koirezune and stay in the palace a time.”

“W-will the [Slavers] of Roshal return, Your Majesty?”

Anleth’s father, Baazem, asked, and Fetohep slashed the air instantly.

“Never again, Baazem. This I have ensured.”

They all relaxed, relieved. Perhaps he’d sent armies against Roshal or threatened them with more destruction or a Jaw. That was what everyone said, but Anleth didn’t know. The conversation with Thatalocian and Fetohep kept replaying in his head, and it didn’t sound like—

The golden, kindly gaze of his [King] distracted the boy, and he fumbled with the half-Elven breakfast of delicate fruits and leaves. He munched on one, and Fetohep spoke.

“Content yourself, my subjects. And let us, perhaps, see if anything may stoke your own passions and talents. I have proclaimed that Khelt should reclaim its many talents. Do any of you practice the sword? Magic? Archery, perhaps?”

Most of Anleth’s family had tried—he’d not been allowed to use edged weapons—and they fell over themselves telling him about their practice. Fetohep listened keenly, but he paused for a moment when only Baazem revealed he’d gained the [Sword Trainee] class. He was Level 3.

“I see. Perhaps more sword-training would steady your nerves, Baazem. For the rest of you, let us branch out your interests. What is it you practice normally?”

Baazem and Mirala, Anleth’s parents, eyed each other. Mirala spoke, smiling.

“Baazem and I are [Cuisinists], Your Majesty.”

“…Beg pardon? Ah, [Chefs]. Of course.”

“Oh, no. Neither of us cook.”

“[Gourmets], then? I am not familiar with the class.”

Fetohep tilted his head, and Mirala laughed.

“No, Your Majesty! You jest so finely. We design menus!”

“Ah, for restaurants.”

A pause, and Anleth grinned at the fine joke. Mirala hesitated, and Baazem smiled broadly.

“No, for those who enjoy restaurants, Your Majesty! Ours is quite popular in our city, though I fear no one is in the mood to cook—but we also do fine menus for personal cooking. None our own recipes, of course. We don’t write recipes, you see. We simply select the best ones.”

“The best banana bread—there are so many inferior recipes that finding the right one took over fifty taste-tests. We develop fine eating for Kheltians who, ah, gain too much weight. There are of course spells and tonics, but the cleansing process is so horrid—follow our plans and even the pickiest eater can lose weight without a Skill! Of course, it’s not just food. We have a theatre viewing order for plays, all the best ones closest to the Players of Celum. In fact, we hope to visit the city and come up with our Koirezune travel picks!”

Did the flames in Fetohep’s gaze shrink ever-so-slightly with each passing sentence? Possibly, possibly. Anleth watched with fascination as the [King] nodded after a moment and smiled.

“Such fine perception in my subjects. And you, Cora, as Anleth’s sister, what do you do?”

The girl was sixteen, and she nearly leapt to her feet.

“I, um, I don’t have a true hobby yet, Your Majesty. But I do make beaded necklaces.”

She had thousands of beads from other nations, which she traded with other bead-loving Kheltians. Glass, wood, ceramic, even her prized possession: an Orebu-Beetle’s polished chitin made into a bead.

“A fortune in beadery. I see; your bracelets certainly delight the eye. Naturally, I trust you shall enjoy yourselves in the city. And perhaps find some time to pursue some training…?”

They all promised of course they would, though Anleth personally knew that Cora hadn’t fired more than three arrows when she’d tried to be an archer before slapping her arm with the bowstring and going to get a healing potion and never picking up the bow again. He thought Fetohep understood this, and when the King of Khelt turned his gaze to Anleth, the boy shivered.

For it felt like Fetohep placed his hopes on him.

——

Death Commander Lanodest was surprised when Anleth appeared behind Fetohep, but he and the entire forty-some [Soldiers] were kneeling the moment the King of Khelt entered the practice courts.

For once, Fetohep was not wearing robes; instead, he had put on armor of all things. It was so surreal everyone stared at him, and he adjusted bracers on one arm.

“Tsk. Rise, Commander, and all present. Armor fits the body poorly in death, but I assure you, I once wore this as a second-skin. I have come to inspect your training and, perhaps, give guidance.”

Lanodest’s heart began to beat faster at this, and he bowed deeply.

“Your Majesty, we would be honored by your instruction. Especially after our failures against the Claiven Earth and the…Prophet.”

They all went silent at this. Fighting nations to the north had been one thing. The undead had done almost all the work and Lanodest, and the other officers had stayed back, using their Skills, fighting rarely. Some of them had died, but it had been exciting, triumphal. Lanodest had survived several clashes by way of his artifacts and enchanted equipment and felt like he was gaining in levels and battle experience each time.

The Prophet had been different. The mortal soldiers had been beaten down, literally in some cases, and stripped of possessions. Defeated by a rabble of strangers and seen the undead break. It felt…fragile, somehow, in Lanodest’s head.

They were Khelt. They should not lose, but they had. And it was his fault as one of the most senior members of Khelt’s military.

He was ashamed, but when Fetohep placed a hand on his shoulder, the man’s head rose. The golden smile warmed his spirits.

“Rise, Lanodest. Centuries divide us, but we are warriors, and there is only one solution to weakness: training. Will. Long have I neglected my own martial heritage. I considered it unseemly for a [King] to spar, but I was a [Warrior] once, who fought as a mercenary before my death. Allow me to appraise your abilities and train you in some small way.”

Everyone knew that Fetohep had been a warrior; it was in his history books, his story they told. But it was one thing to know it, another to see him pull a practice halberd off the racks and swing it effortlessly. The gust of wind made the boy, Anleth, gasp, as Fetohep raised the halberd with a pleased expression.

“My weapon of choice. Though a warrior uses many. I have been reduced to fighting with my bare fists at times. Lanodest, you first, then whomever dares it. Step forwards, and give the boy, Anleth, a practice weapon if he is so inclined. Say I were a great foe of Khelt. Stop me.”

He stood there, and Lanodest hesitated. Someone gave Anleth a little practice sword, which he began swinging with all his might as if to level there and then, and the others watched with palpable excitement.

But Lanodest was suddenly clammy, sweating, unable to advance on the sheer presence of the king who stood at his ease in the courts, halberd pointing at Lanodest, unmoving.

Lanodest was thin and tall, but he had a beanpole’s configuration. He didn’t have the sheer muscle or weight behind the simple shield and sword he raised that other men or women might have. When he mustered his courage to attack, in a practiced series of chops and cuts, Fetohep grunted.

“I see. You have practiced well.”

“Thank you—Your Majesty!”

The blows met the halberd’s haft as Fetohep parried the entire thirty-three blows that Lanodest attacked with. The man tried to change up the combinations, a left-right swing, a stabbing uppercut, all swift blows, but he had the feeling Fetohep could block them in his sleep.

“Movements are adequate. Force…could stand to test one’s guard more. Muscle, perhaps. It might well cut a foe in battle, but not a high-level one. There is no threat in your attacks, Lanodest. You fight like a Golem. Improvisation is the key. Sword and shield.”

He stopped and had a sword and shield given to him. Then he told Lanodest to guard—or even attack if he was confident—and went on the offensive.

To Lanodest’s relief, Fetohep’s blows were light as a feather. He didn’t even move that fast; Lanodest found himself stumbling backwards to laughter and cheers, then blocking, realizing that Fetohep was attacking exactly like the Training Golem in the palace. Perfectly mimicking Lanodest’s own form—no, improved on it!

But since the speed and strength were the same as Lanodest’s, or even a step below, the man found himself parrying and blocking on instinct. Their pace increased until he was slapping down Fetohep’s blade with growing confidence, and the ruler was pleased.

“Excellent. We make for a pretty pair, do we not?”

“Yes…Your Majesty!”

The Revenant’s tone was playful.

“But impressive swordplay does not a good warrior make. No one should aim to duel a foe thusly even half a minute! A warrior kills or aims to wound. I shall go on the offensive. Lanodest, adapt—now.”

This time, he came at Lanodest with the same pattern, a left slash that you could block, but would make the right shield punch forwards; if you dealt with both, the attacker stepped back and slashed up, a retreating blow meant to punish an aggressive counterattack.

Muscle memory had Lanodest letting his shield block the sword blow and keeping his sword clear of the shield strike on his other side. He even managed for a daring counter, a slice at the inside of Fetohep’s guard. He stepped forwards, moving right to punish the sword flick u—

Instead of stepping backwards, Fetohep continued the spin as his shield shot out, and whirled around Lanodest’s side, past his sword. He didn’t do it fast—but at the same even speed he’d been attacking with, he threw out an arm, and Lanodest ducked the tip of the sword with an alarmed shout.

He ran into the shield, which slammed into his face. Not as hard as could be, but he staggered and heard a voice.

“And dodge.”

He saw a sword aimed down at him, to thrust into his face, and threw himself sideways instinctively, forgetting they were dulled. Lanodest rolled to his feet, shaken, and the crowd murmured. Fetohep advanced.

“Improvisation. It is not about speed, nor even skill, but unpredictability. As so—”

He came at Lanodest, chopping down. Lanodest parried the right chop, slashing—the shield came up, knocking his hand upwards.

“Opening.”

Fetohep slashed low under the guard before Lanodest could get his sword down. He stepped back, and this time, Lanodest attacked first. He leapt, a wild slash across Fetohep’s throat.

A block with the shield. The mortal man caught himself, pivoted, throwing his weight into a [Power Slash]!

Fetohep took another step back. The blow missed him, and struck the ground so hard the sword shivered out of Lanodest’s grip. He raised his shield, and Fetohep’s sword glanced off it. Lanodest defended two-handed, and another sword blow glanced off the shield. He could do this! Fetohep was not coming at him fast or strong. Block again—the undead king hooked his shield into Lanodest’s. Lanodest tore his shield free as they tried to jostle—and Fetohep poked him in the armpit with his sword.

“Thusly, a true expert can unnerve even a faster foe. Once, I met an old man who must have been eighty years of age. No Stitch-man; he moved with such frailty half his foes mocked him before they died. The other half tried to spare him. Never before have I been pressed by such a slow foe. This is but one way to advance oneself. You attempt to do so, Lanodest. And the rest of you.”

The Death Commander wasn’t even red with shame; the others were cheering, and the day-servants and even some Kheltians had come to watch with Anleth. All were stunned by this display of mastery.

Of course, Lanodest had been there when Fetohep assailed Medain. From his dancing upon the Jaws’ backs to his peerless strategy in battle, even while puppeting a false body, he had burned himself into the man’s mind as a peerless king. Now, the man tried to copy what he’d been shown.

Fetohep stepped back and watched, then took on another eager soldier. After two hours, he told his exhausted subjects, from Anleth to Lanodest, to rest.

“We shall continue the next morning. Rest, reflect.”

He left the practice courts smiling. The next day, they were all there and practicing even before he turned up, and they went three hours. The fourth day, just as long, and he was pleased, despite bad news on every other front.

Captain Cikroleth returned on the fourth day and informed Fetohep that the message to the Vizir had been delivered, in person.

“The old [Vizir]’s making some kind of new kingdom on the coast. Terrified people, but safe. He’s burned every [Bandit] and [Thief] he can find. He wasn’t pleased to hear your message. He claims he just mana-burned every [Message] you sent. He’ll be here sooner or later, though he promised nothing.”

Better and better. Fetohep went back to training. For the first week, as Pewerthe’s cleaning initiatives worked, his spirits were high.

In the second week, they sank.

——

Something was wrong. Commander Lanodest attacked with a great fervor, throwing in new cuts and attacks at Fetohep, and the Revenant killed him. The other soldiers advanced, throwing in improvisation, new muscle memory and exertion, the Grimalkin Gymnasium putting muscle onto their frames, and their diets were refined—he had even given them Drathian elixirs to speed their growth.

He killed them.

Not physically. Just light taps, admonishments to move this way, to avoid this habit. He was not a great [Trainer], but Fetohep had been a warrior, as he said. He knew battle. It was arguably his one talent, which was why Xierca’s choice of him had always been…desperate. She had believed Khelt needed a loyal, brave son who knew the outside world, but his ability to fight had been the least valuable thing about him. Far better to have one such who had administrative Skills or magic.

Even now, fighting himself was foolish when he had armies, even if they were mindless skeletons. Alked could do anything Fetohep needed, but the Revenant knew battle.

And he could slaughter the forty-some soldiers and Lanodest with his eyes closed. Even without his Skills. Something was horribly wrong.

During the start of the second week, he called them to stop and face him. When they smiled and raised their blades, Fetohep spoke.

“Treat this like a true battle. I shall move faster. Slightly faster. As fast as Lanodest, perhaps. Aim to kill me. I shall not fall for a blow to my armor, and I shall treat you as if you are also armored. Down me; I shall inform you if you are dead. Step aside if you take a deathblow you know to be true.”

A full sparring session. Forty versus one?

“Shall we come at you in waves, Your Majesty?”

Lanodest asked, grinning fit to burst. Fetohep glanced at Anleth, who had been practicing with a sword, at the servants and Kheltians, and shook his head. The practice court had places to sit, an audience—and the central square was just faded cobblestone in a mosaic of colors. The palace beyond, dark stone corridors. Fetohep stood there in his armor, mismatched pieces, like some tattered [Ghoul Knight] with the eyes of a king. He had only sword and shield.

“No. Come at me all together. Kill me. Please.”

They hesitated—then the first woman rushed him, shouting for her friend to come attack from the other side. He swung his sword through her neck as he pivoted.

“Death.”

Her head did not roll. She just froze, then laughed and bowed. Her friend died just as fast as her spear glanced off his shield and he moved. Sword snaked up and kissed her throat, one of the few weak spots in their armor.

“Death. Fight hard.”

They tried to surround him, then, coming forwards, knowing not to jostle each other. But Fetohep was running. He speared a man through the helmet and heard the gasp before he pulled the blade an inch from the eye.

“Death—”

Knocking them down. A clash of armor. They backed up, apologizing, then tried to swing on him. Blows on his chestplate. He emerged as the tentative strikes grew harder, hitting someone in the throat with his shield.

Not death, just a coughing wheeze. A headbutt and a cry as it drew blood. Fetohep spun, slashed across his face.

“Death.”

They were running to surround him now, and he stepped back. Off the practice courts, into the stands. They blinked and froze, then realized he had not said where he would fight. Kheltians leapt away, laughing.

“Your Majesty, victory!”

Fetohep said nothing. The other soldiers tried to advance into the stands and found the seats an impediment. Fetohep used one of the poles to block blows, watching a spear—he let it glance off a shoulder. Only thrusts here. He lanced three blows into a visor. The soldier sat down.

“I yield! My head is ringing—”

Fetohep stopped a second. Stared down.

“One does not yield in battle.”

A surprised sound. The [Soldier] made to rise, and he kicked her in the face. Stepped forwards and used the scrum of bodies to stab. And now his shield was bashing, slamming into them. Not hard, but hard as a grown man like Lanodest might. Their tentative blows became stronger as pain made them angry, even though he was their [King].

And yet—Fetohep backed up, step by step, then leapt off the bleachers. A few had known to circle around, but he dropped with sword in both hands and killed a halberdier.

“Too close to me. Death.”

He charged four men and women, and they thought to kill him, not thinking he should charge them, but what was armor if not this?

“I am wearing plate! Fight me as if you were trying to kill a [Knight]! Where are your Skills?”

“[Snake C—]”

He hurled an axe into a face and broke a tooth. Another Skill trying to be used; Fetohep rolled, and the [Hook Blow] blow took another soldier down. Friendly fire. He was running again, now into the palace.

“Fight me, soldiers of Khelt.”

Now they were running only to find he had vanished into the place he knew well. They slowed and tried to form squads. Lanodest was staring around when a shadow moved from behind a suit of armor. Fetohep’s sword cleaved through three. And then his voice rose, and the cheering outside stopped.

“I said fight me. What are you doing, sons and daughters of Khelt?”

A sword struck his shield, and they backed up. The men and women he’d hit were lying on the ground, clutching at their wounds, crying out. They were soldiers. Fetohep struck his shield again, and how he roared. Now he saw it.

“Kill me or die!”

——

Twenty-seven dead. Twenty-nine. They were using Skills. He was not. He grabbed one struggling soldier and held her in place to eat a [Power Strike] from Lanodest. Shoved her forwards. Charged them, backed up.

It was not how he fought; he alternated from drawing them out to the ferocity of charging them and using his armor to take blows, and they had struck him. They had force and weight, and he wagered that they could have killed any number of lower-level [Warriors], even ones at their level.

But not him. And not…he knocked a blade down from Lanodest and locked swords with the man. They were both struggling, slipping, and Lanodest wasn’t smiling like Anleth anymore. He was panting and tried for a ginger headb—

Fetohep’s broke his nose. The man stumbled and cried out, and Fetohep was past him, running through another man, and they were wide-eyed. Stumbling backwards.

Little more than five left. He cut them down even as they bunched together. So fast and effortlessly that Lanodest was dead before he managed to clutch at his nose, and then Fetohep spoke.

“Get up. Try once more. All of you, right now.”

Some were injured, bleeding. They turned to him, and he heard protests.

“I said stand. Kill me.”

They stared at him, and this time, Lanodest raised his blade and attacked Fetohep from the side with a desperate slash. Fetohep beheaded him without even turning.

Forty some stood up, forty some died. Fetohep knew he would have taken several cuts, some bad, taken bruising, his armor been damaged, but he stood there, afterwards, and spoke.

“Find a [Healer] for Lanodest’s nose. For the others.”

He did not glance at them, for now he saw the flaw in it all. Lanodest was panting.

“Your Majesty, is that all that skill and training can do?”

He was trying to smile, as if this were some grand lesson, a demonstration of Fetohep’s peerless mastery. He did not expect the wrath in Fetohep’s gaze as the golden flames blazed.

“No. It is not.”

They all looked at him like children waiting for the right answer, and Fetohep pursed his lips to spit…and then caught himself. He glanced around, then placed his sword in the ground, dropped his shield.

“It is the difference between someone who is trying to kill and those who are not. It is the difference between an unblooded soldier and an adventurer. You have no edge to your blades.”

They didn’t understand. Instantly, half the soldiers chorused that they would refine themselves or asked how to sharpen their swords, as if this wasn’t a metaphor. Fetohep regarded them and thought of…

The Horns of Hammerad.

——

Yes, they were a good example. Each member of the Horns was a seasoned adventurer, a warrior. He had not witnessed most of their exploits firsthand, but Fetohep had tried to invite them to Khelt. They had been too busy. He wasn’t sure where they were. Hraace? Nerrhavia’s Fallen?

Schemes and plans, but as the King of Khelt mused on the problem, he imagined fighting any of them.

He believed he would win, even now. None were past Level 50, thus he had the level-advantage, and capstones were always powerful. He had more experience, but whilst he might bet on besting them, he would never…want to try it in truth.

Each one was able to kill. If he dueled them in earnest, there would never be a moment he let his guard down. That was the difference between Lanodest and Yvlon.

Not muscle. Not speed, not levels. Just the feeling that if he had her on the ropes, if he broke her nose, she would bite off his ear in return. Well, he had no ears anymore, but the point remained.

“They don’t work hard enough. They have no…drive.”

That was the other part. Yes, his soldiers trained. They went three hours in the open sun until they flopped onto their backs, exhausted. Most excellent, all he truly wanted. He believed they’d given it their all, but do you know what he’d taken for granted and realized hadn’t been done?

“Not one. Not a single one went back to the practice courts after that. None of them trained at night.”

He knew Pisces Jealnet practiced with his rapier, a thousand lunges before bed. Erin Solstice had once complained about it. Adventurers might be indolent, but when they prepared, they put in tremendous effort. His soldiers pushed, then went to take a bath and read a book and visit the plays.

They did not act like each move they learned might save their lives, because they did not think they’d risk their lives. Now he saw it.

The King of Khelt rested his chin on his hand. Trying…

——

He tried to inspire them two days after that. They were shaken after his ‘death battle’. Five had quit. It told him they had realized what he had. Lanodest had his nose under a bandage; it hadn’t been healed. It hurt, but the fact he had stayed and not asked for a potion gave Fetohep hope.

Like Anleth, the king placed his hopes on the [Death Commander].

“I may have been harsh as I spoke to you, Death Commander, but war steals lives, and I would not have a single one of you enter into it unready, both in training or what it means.”

“Is war coming, Your Majesty? The Prophet is surely going to be removed when more [Mercenaries] come, is he not?”

They will not respond. Why? Fetohep spoke tersely.

“War is always a threat for [Soldiers]. But it occurs to me I am more concerned with…form than true battle. Show me how you would fight, Lanodest. Not with mere sword and shield. Take what men you need. Conduct this as a real battle with all your might. Face me.”

He stood with halberd in hand this time, robes upon his body. He waited as Lanodest swallowed and expected the man to call for a squad if he was wise. First, Lanodest geared up. Enchanted armor, sword and shield. Fetohep nodded at the array that would put the man into Gold-rank by magic alone. But Lanodest did not ask for other soldiers. Instead he hesitated, but remembering the battle made him serious, so he pointed at Fetohep.

“By your leave, Your Majesty, I will treat you like the greatest of foes, life-or-death. Simply tell me to stop—”

“Yes. Please, show me your will, Lanodest.”

The [Death Commander] took a breath, and Fetohep saw his eyes focus. Then Lanodest pointed a finger.

“[Skeleton Company, Arise]! [Rattling Charge]! [Summon Skeleton Archer Squad]! [Good Aim]! Loose!”

—And the King of Khelt felt a jolt of shock as skeletons began rising from the ground! They weren’t the palace’s royal skeletons, just—they rose fast. [Swift Animation]? They were already charging with a great rattling roar, wielding rusted arms and weapons, but archers were rising behind Lanodest. Fetohep stared as an arrow was nocked, loosed.

“Your Majesty! Watch out!”

Anleth screamed as Fetohep did nothing. The Revenant saw an arrow shooting towards one eye socket as four skeletons loosed, and the first charging wave drew within feet of him—

He stepped to the side of the arrows, then reached out and caught one he realized might hit a member of the audience behind him. The [King] rotated once, robes awhirl, and swung his halberd.

The wind rose, and Commander Lanodest threw up his arms to shield his face from the dust. Something hit him in the head and clanged off his helmet.

A skeleton’s head. The boney skull, mouth open in shock, hit the ground and shattered. Lanodest peered up, and the lower torsos of the skeletons collapsed. Fetohep spun his halberd, and arrows clattered down as he blocked them.

“I see.”

“[Axe Skeleton Squad]—”

Lanodest’s mouth was dry, and he used another Skill. Fetohep turned as more skeletons rose. Then he jumped straight towards the Death Commander. And he used the one and only Skill Lanodest had ever seen him use in all their practicing.

[Like a Lion, He Leapt].

All the skeleton archers around Lanodest died, and the warrior saw Fetohep swinging his blade. Panicked, Lanodest shouted.

“[Power Strike]! [Deflection Shield]! [Power—]”

The world spun. Something caught Lanodest before his head hit the ground, but he still passed out. When he woke with a jerk, seeing people standing over him and the King of Khelt complimenting him with words, but leaning heavy on that halberd, Lanodest knew it.

The same as Fetohep.

They were two warriors of vastly different eras. Two different kinds.

Then, the King of Khelt despaired again.

——

Death Commander Lanodest had seen battle no less than sixteen times when Khelt was fighting Medain and the Claiven Earth. He had personally killed eight foes with rings, wand, or in personal combat—the details were unlisted—and contributed materially to Khelt’s forces with his Skills.

He was an asset. A [Death Commander] that any army who tolerated the undead might readily accept. His Skills could empower and raise dead, and it made him a threat, a strategic asset.

But no army would do anything to have Lanodest. He would not be a Mars or Named-rank adventurer who could move a battlefield. He was one of Khelt’s finest.

He could not save Khelt. Nor did Fetohep think he could teach Lanodest. Both of them knew it.

Like the riots, like Khelt’s innocence when it came to insects, they were just too different. The martial edge that Fetohep had hoped to unearth in his people was not there. It was like trying to make pottery from sand, not clay.

Most of the soldiers seemed to regard this as some game, however intense, or personal training. Lanodest, when he woke up, seemed to realize with a few what this meant, but Fetohep tried to be kind.

“Mastery of the kind I seek is not the one and only answer towards the path of a warrior or soldier. You fight well, Lanodest.”

“Just not at the front, Your Majesty. Were you…I’m…I’ll try to be—”

The man couldn’t finish the sentence and look Fetohep in the eye. The King of Khelt inclined his head.

“I was lucky and fortunate to reach the level where I died. Luck, circumstance, all has as much to do with the greatest warriors surviving as their talents.”

“Yet you were a great warrior, weren’t you, sire?”

Now Lanodest was curious, so Fetohep inspected the halberd.

“Was I? In truth, I regard the Herald of the Forest and her ilk as the finer warriors of the day. I never considered myself on par with the King of Destruction’s Seven for my time. It is not that levels were that much higher…perhaps some. I was merely Fetohep of Khelt.”

Highest-level [Warrior] of the Kingdom of Paradise. Mocked for being a fool who wanted to leave his beautiful homeland. Thirsty, thirsty for sights beyond his gentle Queen’s domain. Confident he would live forever and return, someday…

“I met my end in battle, as I believe you know. That tells you enough: I would not call myself superior in any way.”

“B-but Your Majesty, aren’t you high-level?”

Fetohep’s class and level were not open knowledge, but he was tired and nodded.

“I am over Level 50, yes, Lanodest.”

Now, every eye was fixed on him again. Lanodest stuttered.

“L-Level 50? But we have never seen you use your capstone Skill, Your Majesty! Unless it’s always active?”

Fetohep lifted his weary shoulders.

“No. But why would I use it, Lanodest? It is a warrior’s Skill. Useless to a king ruling over peaceful lands. Best kept as a secret in case of assassins.”

None had tried him in six hundred plus years, which had been mildly disappointing. Lanodest hesitated.

“May I see it?”

Fetohep glanced at him, then shook his head.

“It is not something I believe needs to be shown, Lanodest. It is not…I have erred in my training. I believe your class is the model to aspire to.”

Better to have those who could let skeletons fight for them than warriors with no dangerous teeth. He saw Lanodest’s eyes stray downwards and sighed.

“Perhaps it would be enough if I demonstrated a lesser Skill. I do not speak of my class—I am now a [Revenant King], Lanodest. Khelta’s work changed me, and I am that rarity: an undead who has levels. Not one who can level; but still, an undead with an undead’s class. But I have a subclass, another little-spoken rarity, which contains my original. Not that I am capable of levelling, but would you then guess the nature of my class?”

The others glanced around and then guessed.

“[Halberdier], Your Majesty?”

“[Rider], perhaps? That you are known to be good with…”

“[Mercenary]? No, surely not—”

Lanodest was thinking, and Fetohep saw the man glancing at the halberd and Fetohep’s own style of fighting, which could be rough and direct. The man hesitated.

“I wish to guess that it is some twist, Your Majesty. Perhaps…no, you would not be a [Death Commander] or undead-themed class by any chance?”

Fetohep smiled indulgently and twirled the halberd once, knocking the dust from it. He cast around for Anleth; the boy had been here every day for the first week. Where was…?

“No and yes. My class was themed, but it was themed towards Khelt, not the undead. Where else would it lie? That I knew the use of a weapon well enough, that I could ride, did not make me a specialist.”

He grew embarrassed, then, and hesitated, but there was no hope for it. Lanodest was waiting, and even if the man was not…in his eyes, Fetohep saw loyalty. Trust. So he coughed into one fist and turned.

“A ruler was carved from flawed stone, and in this, I suppose it is a lesson to hope for all present. For I was the least fit, and yet I am proudly King of Khelt. Know, then, that I was simply…”

He hesitated, then began to drift forwards. Walking, and the audience eyed each other. A day-servant whispered to a [Soldier].

“Did you hear what he said?”

She got a shake of the head, and Fetohep walked onwards. The audience held their ground, and he thought he’d gotten away with it until he heard pounding footsteps.

“Your Majesty! Please, may I ask your class?”

Dead gods damnit. He turned his face as Lanodest stood there. Fetohep lifted a single hand for the man’s courage and sighed as he walked on to find Anleth.

“As you know me, Lanodest, I am your king of unchanging paradise. But now, it seems, is a time of change. So remember who I was, my loyal subject, my blade in these troubled times. I was Level 53 when I died. The [Relentless, Unyielding, Stubborn Son of Khelt]. A man whose temper led to his death and that of his boon friends when he should have fled the field. No hero. In life, they called me the Badger of Khelt.”

No scorpion, no snake. Fetohep glanced back at the man, waiting for scorn or for a let-down face, and Lanodest just stood there.

“Badger, Your Majesty?”

Fetohep would have grimaced with all his face if he were alive, and he remembered that. He coughed again.

“Yes. Titles being what they are—I think it was some kind that enjoyed honey. I resented it greatly. And just so you know, Lanodest…my Level 50 Skill is much the same. It is far, far from extraordinary to behold, hence why I have never used it. It is, in fact, four rather mundane-sounding Skills. My friends laughed for two days and nights straight when I hit Level 50.”

He walked on, too afraid to look behind himself again. That was the man who Khelt needed. No Emrist, no His-Xe. Just a man. Badger of Khelt.

But surely, in this kingdom of his, there was one who would rise. Surely…the King of Khelt went to find Anleth as someone came to call upon him:

The Arbiter Queen of Jecrass.

——

Anleth avoided Fetohep of Khelt for an entire week such that they were in their third week of visiting Khelt and he was hoping to return home, but his parents wouldn’t hear of it.

“Anleth, why would you want to return home, so close to the border now? His Majesty is so generous!”

Not that they hung out with him long. They felt it took his time, but Fetohep kept popping by their dinners. He wanted Anleth, though he could not say it.

So the boy stuck to his parents and snuck to the city because he could not meet his king. For a week, he evaded Fetohep because…

Because…

Because he had put down the sword when his hands hurt. He hadn’t liked seeing all the blood and cries of pain when Fetohep sparred, and Anleth’s hands grew clammy when he thought of fighting anyone with the sword. He didn’t want to, and he believed His Majesty would be angry for him failing.

When Fetohep finally caught Anleth on the third week, the boy realized that was not true. He was climbing a garden gate—not really to keep intruders in or out because it was the royal palace—and slipping when someone caught him.

“Oh, thank y—”

“Not at all, Anleth. Pray tell me, where do you go on your days off?”

Fetohep of Khelt was rather fast when he wanted to be, and as a former warrior—Anleth stuttered.

“I, um, Your Majesty! I’m sorry I couldn’t train with the blade, but I—just out! I wouldn’t wish to disturb you.”

“Not at all. I have some time for guests such as you, Anleth. It would please me if I could but see your life.”

The boy hesitated, prevaricating.

“I’d love to, Your Majesty! But you might rip your robes if you were to climb, and it’s such a long walk around the g—”

Fetohep jumped and landed lightly on the top of the garden walls. Anleth swallowed his tongue, and the King of Khelt smiled.

“Shall we?”

——

A boy with no idea what to show his [King] and a king with great expectations walked through Khelt. One tried to escape the other, and it was not hard…

Fetohep’s subjects adored him. Or, they had. Even if today they had lots of issues they wanted to bring up to him, that just meant the usual crowds were three times as large, and Anleth could wiggle away in the press of bodies. No one crushed him, but he’d hurry down one street, and then Fetohep would find him. Sometimes by literally jumping onto a roof from the street, walking across it, and landing in an adjourning street.

He did not run, for it was unseemly and alarming for a [King] to run, but he moved with such erratic power with his ability to leap and somehow sense Anleth that it would have been a merry chase if he were not so terrifying.

Truly, then, he was well-fitting of his class, [Stubborn Son], but Anleth did not know that. What he did know was that all the other children in the city suddenly found him the most captivating, interesting person ever.

“Anleth! Why does His Majesty want you?”

“I don’t know!”

The boy wailed as he ran with other children he had befriended. Khelt could be harsh—socially—for a newcomer. You could be horribly bullied or insulted if you were lacking in class in the capital, or so he’d heard.

But the other children had heard he’d been made a [Slave] of Roshal temporarily, and they were so horrified by his story and awestruck by him being in the palace they only half-bullied him, which was well.

Anleth had dark skin and black hair and naturally black fingernails, some magical quirk of heritage like many had. It meant there were only traces of lighter color in his nails, and his sister had grown up using him like a little doll for painting nails. These days, he only did little triangles or small symbols on his fingertips to hide the white patches.

The other street kids were far more impressive. There was Duskie the Garuda, who was a Street Runner with dispensation to go to other cities because he could fly and who knew many famous people; with his grey-white plumage he was shockingly uncolored, which he claimed—accurately—made him stand out in Khelt’s colorful crowd.

Mrar was a Stitch-girl [Secret Broker] with an actual class, who claimed to have traded with even Wistram and ran in gossip circles, hair all twisted and wild and her secrets bound in little packets in the green braids.

Cregg was a Gnoll from Izril whose parents had moved here. He knew how to hunt and had seen monsters and was thus the most popular, and his fur was as white as you got without being a Doombearer, but marked by black patches as if he were the mountains themselves, hence the name.

And there were others, like Hiblup, the part-Goldfish Drowned Boy, or Mascarre and her gang. They all had different, exciting lives in the city, usually, and it was rare for more than his friends to seek him out. Right now, they were all here running with him.

“Should we turn him in, d’you think?”

Hiblup commented, and Mascarre, a devout loyalist, scowled.

“Can’t. His Majesty just watches Anleth. We already sold him out twice! What does he want, Anleth?”

“I don’t know! I only know I let him down when I didn’t practice sword training!”

Mrar shouted as the others gaped at him with frank disbelief.

“You did what? You were in the palace, and he’s teaching [Soldiers], everyone knows! And you didn’t train? What’s wrong with you?”

Half of the other kids agreed as they pounded down Singsong way—it had a real name, but the paving stones emitted sounds when you stepped on them. Adults hated living here, but the kids always took it as a hangout. The Garuda skimmed next to the others, frowning.

“He’s doing that instead of making sure we don’t have bugs. And there’s a rumor there’s some rabble-rousing foreigner in the north, and no one’s happy.”

“His Majesty knows what he’s doing!”

Another child defended him, and Mrar sniffed.

“My fathers say he’s neglecting his duties.”

“Your fathers rioted! Disgraceful!”

Mascarre went to shove Mrar, showing how violent she was, and Anleth cried out.

“I don’t know what he wants! I just want to go home.”

That was his secret weapon. Tears. For as everyone knew in Koirezune and any city, you could play, even be rough as you wanted, but tears? No, an official would call you out and speak to you, or a skeleton would rise to see if you were well. He’d burst into them on the first day when they teased him too much for being a coward, not knowing about the truth of Roshal’s attack.

Now, the other children eyed each other and came to a swift decision. Cregg threw a paw over Anleth’s shoulders.

“If His Majesty wants to follow, just act like you normally do, Anleth. Where to?”

There was only one place to go, if it were Anleth. He pointed, and they ran, calling out as this became a great game.

“Oh no! His Majesty jumped the houses! How did he do that?”

Slow song notes sounded as he walked towards them, and Anleth ran, chest burning, as he came to the only place he knew, regardless of cities.

——

Queen Jecaina of Jecrass expected more of a commotion around her when she entered Khelt, but she was almost relieved not to be swarmed by admirers. She’d had them from here to Khelt’s borders, but the kingdom was—off.

“Something is wrong.”

She murmured to her people as she rode into the city, and she knew it in her marrow. First the Jaws, then this Prophet? Fetohep kept insisting all was well and redirecting to her country and father, and while those were problems…

He had not been able to gainsay her entry into Khelt, for he had offered it once, and he had no good excuse for why he was busy. So, she had come, but everywhere Jecaina looked, there were discrepancies.

One of her servants coughed as she rode into the city.

“Has it always been this…dusty, Your Majesty?”

Now that Jecaina noticed…yes, there was a bit of dust marring the pristine streets. She swatted at some flies that had followed her all the way into the city and then stared at the bugs.

Bugs in paradise? The citizens did not look as happy and carefree as usual. In fact, they seemed sullen, upset, and when she dismounted, one of her [Bodyguards] let out such a shout that everyone turned to regard him.

The man had stood on a piece of broken pottery that had gone straight through his leather boots by chance. Shamefaced, he plucked the piece of pottery out, but an official who’d come to meet them was horrified.

“Such a danger on our streets? Your Majesty, excuse us a thousand times! It was due to the unruly citizens from a night ago.”

He glared about at other citizens, who glared back, and Jecaina’s brows lifted higher.

“I have never heard of Khelt’s people being less than utterly content, Official Jordel.”

The man refused to meet her eyes.

“Yes, well, with New Jecrass and so much occurring, Khelt is somewhat—stretched. In time, it will be well.”

“In time? It is dire now, and I have heard at least two other cities are in outrage, just as we are! I thought it was only the capital, but I have written letters to friends and found they are all angry, Jordel! When will His Majesty fix this?”

“The Arbiter Queen is expected at the palace. Excuse me, citizens—”

The man pressed his lips shut and refused to answer, and Jecaina’s instincts prickled worse. Something was very, very wrong. And she figured it out before anyone else did. Perhaps…before even Kheltians did.

“Excuse me, Jordel. Where…are all the skeletons?”

He turned to look at her, and so did the citizen he’d been arguing with, who’d fetched a broom to check for more pottery shards. To Jecaina, it was obvious.

She had visited Khelt before, and there were skeletons everywhere. Hand-carting goods from place to place, escorting someone who needed a hand, sweeping, cleaning, repairing—

She didn’t see more than two on the street, slowly, slowly carrying some goods to an impatient [Shopkeeper] tapping his foot. And she saw a damaged storefront, glass broken in. The glass was cleared, but where was the skeleton team replacing it? Where was the instant paint for a chipped front of a cart?

It was as if her words were magic, because Jordel’s head turned, and she saw his eyes grow round. The citizen sweeping dropped the broom with a clatter.

“I haven’t—I didn’t notice—I haven’t seen one for—skeletons, arise! I need help!”

He called out, and everyone turned to the man, but at the Kheltian’s words…nothing happened. After two minutes of waiting, a single skeleton eventually stepped out from a side-street, glancing around.

It looked towards the citizen and pointed at him as if to say, ‘are you the guy?’ Then it walked over and stood there, and the citizen stared at it. Had it gotten lost on the way here?

The alarm on every person’s face was turning rapidly into something greater. Jecaina bit her lip and was about to say something placating when the most curious thing happened. The citizen began crying out.

“Jordel! This is—this is—you see this? This is madness. What is this?”

He was white-faced, and the official spoke through trembling lips.

“I don’t know. That’s wrong. That’s clearly—”

“You don’t deny it?”

Jordel shook his head.

“Why would I? This is beyond insanity. Now I see it—does His Majesty know? Th-this is calamitous! We must report to him!”

“Surely he knows. Is that…do [Mages] know? We must find someone! Who—”

“The Mage’s Guild? Your Majesty, pardons, but—”

They were treating this like a ten billion alarm bell [Dangersense], and well they might. So were four other citizens who came over and began demanding the skeleton do things. When it was slow—they were wide-eyed. Fearful, and they clearly placed this matter above Jecaina herself.

All normal, correct? Yes. But what was strange was that no less than a dozen paces ahead of her, Jecaina saw a man sitting at a café table sipping some coffee and grimacing at a fly that had flown towards him. He pushed his coffee cup back as it landed on the lip of the cup and continued reading a newspaper imported from overseas.

He was not so focused on the newspaper he was blind to the world. In fact, he glanced at her, clearly intrigued, and began to eye her horses, wondering who she was. But he didn’t react to the raised voices around Jecaina.

As if he didn’t hear them. Nor did the other people in the restaurant or down the street. It was as if they stood in a localized [Silence] spell, Jecaina realized. Or a…

Pot.

Now, why would she think that? She pushed out her hands and aura experimentally and felt like something was…vibrating. She pushed harder, frowning, and there was a cracking feeling—she halted.

What in the world? Before she could make sense of it, someone called out.

“You, sir! Are you deaf? Didn’t you see that?”

The man with the newspaper jumped. He turned around.

“Who, me?”

“Yes, you! Did you not—look at this!”

Instantly, newspaper-man got up with a frown and walked over to the skeleton. When he heard what was going on, he grayed, and he was part of the hubbub. But the waitress didn’t notice…

“Your Majesty, what is this?”

Unsettled, one of her servants whispered to the Arbiter Queen, and she felt a prickle in her stomach.

“I don’t know. We go to the palace for King Fetohep. At once.”

——

As luck would have it, they found a commotion and saw the King of Khelt leaping a building as they were riding towards the palace. The sight of him pursuing a child as he spoke to his subjects, reassuring, calm, made Jecaina almost feel all was well. But when he froze up and his eye-flames diminished on seeing her, she knew.

“Your Majesty, Fetohep! Greetings, I wished to tender my compliments to Jecrass’ guardian and savior myself.”

She smiled as she bowed, and the crowd was distracted by her. But King Fetohep just stared at her and nodded slowly.

“Jecaina. Queen Jecaina, my apologies. You are well, I trust? Yes, as Jecrass’ protector…all is well in Jecrass, I hope?”

“Well as it can be more than a year into a war we need not continue with a King of Duels who shall not quit wasting his subject’s lives and loyalty.”

She gritted her teeth on more, then ducked her head.

“Well enough. I come, today, merely to beg your indulgence, King Fetohep. And I bring greetings on behalf of the Quarass, who bade me speak to you.”

“Ah. She has been quite chatty of late. I suppose you shall pass by her on the way back.”

His good mood seemed to become somber and withdrawn in a moment. Fetohep tapped one foot, then his chest rose. And fell. And rose…and she stared at him until he caught himself.

Was he…breathing? He spoke distractedly.

“I am pursuing a child this morning, Arbiter Queen. Anleth, a boy. It is a matter of jest, but some seriousness. I wish to see his hobbies. A pursuit of a [King]. What if you were to settle within the palace? I shall be there shortly. Yes, and Pewerthe may be able to speak with you.”

He reached for a speaking stone, and Jecaina forestalled him with a smile.

“I should be delighted to accompany you, if I may, Fetohep.”

There was nothing he could say to that but to accede. And so they walked, chasing a boy. A silly, trivial thing given what Jecaina began to suspect, but she realized…this was at the heart of the King of Khelt, whom she loved for all his faults.

The mountain trembled, but he followed a pebble, for he had to know the fate of the pebble. To him, it and the mountain were one and the same. He followed Anleth for hope.

What he found was…

Mrsha.

——

Mrsha du Marquin squatted on the ground, using the power of the [World’s Eye Theatre] to project herself into Eternal Khelt. It didn’t work in the palace, which was now warded unless Fetohep allowed her entry, but she had been here of late.

Looking around. A bit concerned.

Well, lots of people were ‘a bit concerned’. Like Lyonette, who kept coming over and being shooed away by Mrsha and Nanette.

“Mrsha, sweetie? I thought you were scouting about—okay, okay. I’m going. Have fun with your game! Would you like some cookies and milk as a snack?”

Mrsha turned bright red under her fur as all the kids stared at her, but she waved away her mother after signing that yes, perhaps some refreshments would be welcome. But in truth, this was normal.

Not glowing, semi-transparent Gnoll children, but adults getting in the way of real stuff. Which was, for the kids…

“Four and four! Eight and doubles, beat that!”

Duskie crowed as they gathered around a circle, and Mrsha poked Mrar, who dutifully rolled for her. The Gnoll girl’s face fell, and she covered her eyes as she got a ‘one’ and ‘three’.

They were dicing. King Fetohep stared, mouth slightly open, as Queen Jecaina blinked at Mrsha du Marquin and the street, and Nanette pulled off her beanie.

“Argh! This isn’t fair! I’ve never seen dice like these before! How do we know they’re good?”

The Kheltian children smirked at her as Anleth scooped the dice up and rattled them in a cup. He tossed them before smiling at Nanette.

“They’re mine, and if you doubt the game, don’t play.”

“What’re they called again? I want some.”

Nanette peered at the dice as they flashed over the ground, and they rolled and rolled, but never seemed to come up on the same side as before. They were, in fact…

“Let’s switch to thousand-sided dice! You can get hundred-sided ones carved, but anything over that is magic. Anleth also does cards.”

Mrsha held up her notecards, face determined, as Ser Dalimont handed her some milk and cookies.

I can do cards. Deal me in!

“You’re already down one secret. And you can’t pay us in favors or anything else. Whaddya got?”

Mrar was skeptical, but Mrsha air-nudged Cregg.

Cregg’s got me, right, fur-brother?

He snorted a booger out his nose.

“I don’t got you at all, sister. You’d better make it worth my while!”

He rolled a die, and it promptly turned red, began glowing, and everyone oohed.

“He got a one! Run for it!”

After the miniature flashbang and applause—it was a one-in-thousand chance after all—Cregg wiped his nose, and Mrsha held up a card.

I’ll get you Lehra Ruinstrider or Gireulashia Ekhtouch’s autograph. I’ll have to send it slow, but I’ve got both.

“Deal. I’ll pay for her.”

They began anteing in, and Mrar held Mrsha’s cards for her as Anleth grinned, eyes alight.

“Now, who wants to bet anything valuable? Secrets or coins or—”

It was only at this point that they realized they had an audience. All the kids’ heads poked up from under the bridge where they were playing by a running river.

Hiding from sight and other people in the oldest fashion of gamblers. True, it was still Khelt, so there wasn’t anything nasty there. There was a bit of mold that everyone stayed away from, and Mrar had killed some spiders and been so upset they’d nearly not come to play, but they’d thought no one would be able to find them.

When they saw two rulers and a lot of Kheltians staring at them, the children panicked.

“Oh no, the officials are going to be all over us! And His Majesty! Run!”

Half pelted for it, but Mrsha leapt up warily with Nanette. Both bowed, and Fetohep stood there as Anleth turned red.

“Gambling?”

It was not illegal to gamble in Khelt, but it was frowned upon, and there were strict rules about gambling for sums or other things. Because gambling could lead rapidly to addiction and debts that could not be paid. In practice, it was very rare because it was so regulated as to take out all the truly nefarious qualities—and Khelt was paradise, so the incentives were largely gone.

However, gambling and children had never come up on Fetohep’s radar, and Anleth was…well.

He was a [Rook’s Gambler]. Not just a [Child Gambler], but someone who played with amateurs. He blushed as Fetohep gazed at him.

“Your Majesty, I didn’t wish to say what I was good at. I—it’s just for fun.”

“You play this game often, Anleth?”

The boy was, in fact, known in his city as the best gambler among adults and children alike, at least by a certain underground. For Khelt, he was daring, exciting, and the Arbiter Queen hid a smile and then peered at Mrsha. The girl was smiling, but as she nibbled on a cookie, her eyes darted to the mold where water met the embankment. And she met Jecaina’s eyes and felt it too.

“It is not illegal to gamble, Anleth. I merely wished to know what you did. That you did not tell me—it is well. Please tell your friends I am not wrothful.”

Fetohep was assuring Anleth, and when he glanced at Mrsha, he did seem like his normal self.

“Wretched water rat, why hast thou trespassed in my domain?”

His eyes twinkled, and Mrsha grinned back, then hesitated.

Hey, Fetohep, everything’s good here. I, um, just was checking in. Is everything good? I heard you had a weird Pawn-type dude problem.

Fetohep paused a moment before replying steadily.

“I do not know of this ‘dude’ of which you speak, Mrsha, but I shall field your questions after my affairs with Queen Jecaina are concluded. Anleth, now that your secret has been revealed, would you care to meet the Arbiter Queen?”

The boy would very much, and he bowed to Jecaina, who shook his hand and exclaimed over his dice. Fetohep was glancing at Lyonette, who flitted out of view, and his voice rose for his subjects’, Jecaina’s, Mrsha’s, everyone’s benefit.

“I…realize there has been change of late. But I shall assure all and sundry that Khelt is well. It is merely my passing fixation, my wont to know Anleth’s potential. For is not any son of Khelt one who may one day rule?”

Anleth glanced up in shock. He didn’t want that! Fetohep lifted a hand.

“Ah, I see concern in your eyes, Anleth. This is mere hyperbole. But you have such potential! Many of Khelt are your seniors, and they…have fine hobbies and qualities which make our paradise more enjoyable. But you? If not swordsmanship, perhaps magic? Or have you seen Farmer Colovt’s fields. Farming is hardly glamorous, but there are countless things which may strike a passion in one.”

Smithing, weaving, creation of works of art, or mechanical and magical genius like the House of El. Archery, every field of magic…but the boy shyly indicated his magical dice.

“I do love gambling, Your Majesty. I’ll wager I could surprise even you with it.”

Jecaina hid a smile, for that was a [Gambler]’s madness, but Fetohep glanced at the dice, then spun.

“Yes, and a pleasing diversion it would be, and your parents also—astound me with their insights into the most enjoyable elements of culture. But surely, thou would dabble in other fields? What did you think of my gardens, for instance? Queen Xierca’s blooms which were sadly reinstated in the main display?”

“Which blooms, Your Majesty?”

This time, the King of Khelt hesitated.

“…The ones that weep? And scream? And let out hideous amounts of smelly nectar?”

Nanette made a face, but Mrsha gasped.

Are those the famous Sireen Lilies, the most horrible things ever? You told me about them, and a [Druid] friend said they’re nasty! Can I see?

The Gnoll girl was a [Druid], after all. Fetohep nodded at Mrsha, and Anleth scratched behind an ear, embarrassed.

“I don’t know plants well, Your Majesty.”

Nor did he want to muck around in dirt. Fetohep thought, and his eyes flicked to Mrsha.

“Then, perhaps you would care for the company of other children, I see. I do take it that you have met Mrsha du Marquin. Perhaps a penpal system may be instituted. If she must harass my citizens, let it at least be with somewhat legible handwriting and proper diction.”

Mrsha beamed and shyly waved at Anleth, who had awesome fingernails, and the boy grinned back.

“That I could do, Your Majesty.”

“Excellent, then a [Message] scroll shall be sent to—”

“She can come to g—visit! It’s better than writing.”

Anleth hated his letters, though he didn’t mind reading Mrsha’s writings. Fetohep stopped.

“I see. This is more convenient. But perhaps you…Mrsha, perhaps you would one day furnish Anleth with stories of your inn. Or render unto him a vision of the flames. The Knights of Solstice are the most popular figures in Izril, are they not?”

Mrsha hesitated, and now she was peering at Fetohep, and so was Nanette, who nudged Mrsha slightly. She wrote something on Mrsha’s card, and the Gnoll girl stared at it, then gave Fetohep a huge smile. Queen Jecaina peered at the card as Mrsha held it up for all to see.

Absolutely, buddy! I’d love to tell Anleth about home! Though between you and me, the Knights of Solstice are only ‘pretty popular’. It’s still adventurers and maybe the Players who are the most popular. Good thing, too, because I think Normen—he’s the Grandmaster of the Order of Solstice, Anleth, would panic if he got more famous than that. Do you know him?

Perhaps only Jecaina honed in on a single word that did not fit the Gnollish girl’s elegant penmanship. Fetohep didn’t notice, but his chest rose and fell as Anleth instantly responded.

“Of course I know him! It’s very interesting.”

They waited, but that was all. Fetohep murmured after a moment.

“Have you beheld his flames, Anleth?”

“Flames? Oh, yes, Your Majesty.”

“They are quite beautiful, are they not? Magic of emotion set to fire, the likes of which are dreamt of nowhere but imagination.”

“And Eternal Khelt!”

“Ye—and Eternal Khelt?”

The boy nodded cheerfully, and he puffed out his chest, for this he knew.

“They are beautiful beyond compare and almost fit for Eternal Khelt! But only just, Your Majesty.”

Fetohep’s head bowed.

“Ah. So they do not inspire you to become a [Knight] or to seek out the truth of that emotion?”

Anleth shook his head, bemused and amused. Fetohep was just staring at the boy and, Jecaina realized, Mrsha.

“You…truly do love gambling. A vice. And I trust you have picked up a sword and swung it. I beheld that. You did not try gardening or—but children are fickle. Most surely try magic, but it holds less magic for you than the cast of dice. Magic itself. Magical flame does not glitter as much as my Eternal Paradise which is well, but you wish only to rest upon it and gamble. Just as your parents review and organize lists of food for dieting.”

His voice was rising. Jecaina turned to Fetohep, and Mrsha held up a card.

Fetohep, I think gambling’s good in moderation. Ever met Viecel?

She smiled, but Fetohep went on, a monotone as Nanette nudged Mrsha again. She had rediscovered the eyes of a [Witch], and what she saw in Fetohep was bubbling up, growing by the second.

“This is not…you are allowed to, of course. But if it were needed, if you were to choose—gambling? I have made great war on Medain, Nerrhavia’s Fallen, and even the Drake Cities. Tell me, what did you think of those moments?”

Anleth didn’t know why, but he was getting frightened again. He took a step back as the children, the Queen, the citizens gazed at Fetohep.

“I…I was happy, Your Majesty. Proud and excited.”

Fetohep swung his head towards Anleth, then turned to his people.

“Yet it did not stir within you the desire to take up arms or change. Not you nor any of you? Not for the passing of an age?”

No one. He glanced around, then he spun again.

“Just but one thing. One spark of it, one ember to burn and give you a class and meaning that even paradise cannot. Surely, Anleth, there is something.”

The boy peered up at him blankly.

“Gambling, Your Majesty. Do you want to play?”

The King of Khelt stared down at the dice, and the boy’s eyes shone with the hope that he could dice with a king, even if only to say it. King Fetohep’s voice rose.

“Gambling. Gambling. A vice and a game when I have asked—no. No, this is the people I created. My kingdom, my beautiful—and it is worthy and worth it. Every second of it.”

Now he was spinning, spinning like a top, and they were all stepping back except for Jecaina.

“Fetohep? Your Majesty?”

The King of Khelt was rasping now, chest rising and falling.

“As long as it could remain and continue, it is well. As long as that. But the moons could split, the waters rise, and it would just be thus, wouldn’t it? A game. Gambling. Is there nothing else, Anleth? Nothing? Anleth?”

—The King of Khelt only realized he was shouting at the boy when Jecaina barred his way, along with Mrsha. He looked down, and the boy was hunched on the ground, shivering like a child in a storm of snow, not crying, but staring down at his feet.

Then, and only then, Fetohep caught himself, and the shame that washed over him was so visible that he sank to his knees. His people, another monarch—Mrsha—he knelt there.

“Anleth?”

“I am sorry, Your Majesty.”

“No. I am sorry, Anleth. Forgive me. I have been…”

Fetohep of Khelt hesitated, but the boy’s eyes were filled with tears, and the only thing he could offer to salve this wound he had created—he, the defender of his people—was honesty.

“…Stressed. I am unworthier than Khelt’s most pitiful insect to take it out upon a child.”

A single admonition from their infallible king. Anleth peeked up, and relief spread over his face, though the hurt was there, and Fetohep rose and tried to make it all well. But he felt it, then. As if it had run through all things.

A crack…like breaking pottery.

——

As the month passed, many things happened in Khelt. The protests returned until they were almost nightly, and the people learned how to protest. Kheltians came from the north, fleeing the mad Prophet, and the man was in the cities.

“Some Kheltians are even listening to him. He’s building something, Your Majesty. We cannot uproot him.”

That was Alked’s terse report, and apparently, Herdmistress Geraeri had ridden north herself, taken a look at the People of God, and refused to sally on his camps. But they had halted.

——

Chieftain Lessha of the Satest Fletching tribe leaned on a recurve bow, but she didn’t draw an arrow. She was so relaxed that the [Battle Cleric] and her followers hesitated.

“So you bar our path, and you are citizens of Khelt, but you do not wish violence? You come armed for it.”

“So do you, friends.”

Six Gnolls versus thirty-some faithful. Lessha spoke, voice clear and carrying.

“We know your people have clashed with ours. We are Satest Fletching, a tribe of Izril. Do you know us?”

The [Battle Cleric] lowered a shawl she’d been wearing over her face. It glittered like gold, and she bowed her head awkwardly.

“I am Jilthread Hemp. Formerly of Nerrhavia’s Fallen. Of course we know of you; how could one not? The Meeting of Tribes? We witnessed the treachery of Drakes.”

“It is good you see it that way. Then you know we are recent citizens of Khelt.”

The People of God murmured, and Jilthread nodded slowly, thinking out loud.

“Yes, I see it now. So your sins are not that of Khelt. We would not wish harm against you either, especially as you have introduced yourselves. Forgive us. There is an archer who has shot many arrows at us. Our wounds heal, but the pain will be returned to him in time.”

Lessha glanced around, brows raised.

“I would not wish to injure any of you. I admire Stitch-folk of all kinds from this land, who are a fascination to me—I knew none on Izril. We merely wished to stop you here.”

“From advancing. Did the King of Khelt send you?”

Jilthread moved closer, lowering the spear she held. Her veil, and the spear, seemed to be a strange gold that did not fit her humble attire. Lessha handed her bow to one of the other Gnolls and walked over.

“No, he did not. But I felt it best, yes? To avoid more unrest. I have heard you take things from Kheltians, even homes.”

“We merely answer them for the deaths of our people. Your—no, Khelt’s [King] rained down death on us. Thousands died. Children, the innocent—”

Lessha glanced towards the capital, and she bowed her head.

“This we did not know, no. Will you tell us?”

Jilthread nodded instantly.

“Of course, that you may know the truth and the Word. Come, please, let us stop and break bread. You who are not part of this kingdom may be redeemed, and the hour is soon coming when the Prophet’s sacrament be built.”

Lessha’s ears perked up, and she gestured with a welcoming smile.

“We have brought food just for that purpose. But there is one thing you are slightly wrong in, so I will correct you, yes, Jilthread? Fetohep is my king. For I took him as one when my tribe joined his. So it is our kingdom, and we its people. If you would like to rob us, well, this is my mother’s bow, but I do not wish to fight you.”

She nodded at the bow as a Gnoll brought provisions, and Jilthread hesitated.

“I would not—rob—you, Lessha Satest Fletching. It is only what we do to those who have too much wealth. Not to keep, either! The People of God take it and use it for other things. Clothes, food, supplies…”

“Mm. Some may call that theft, but blood has been shed. There are little niceties between those who fight. I merely stand here because Khelt’s people have been kind to me. I would see you turn back.”

Jilthread hesitated again, but Lessha was already sitting, breaking open some actual bread to add in food. The People of God eyed the food, which was richer and more varied than their plain manna, and Jilthread’s stomach rumbled loudly. She coughed and flushed.

“If you would join us—you would be saved. Let me first tell you of what power I serve, and then you may decide, Lessha.”

“Mm. Yes, I would like to hear it. But if not, will you take my bow or rob us?”

“We will not—we just wish to go past you.”

“And if we refuse to move?”

“…Then we would go around you. Our war is not with you, and I am not blind as some to either the world or the innocent.”

Jilthread glanced at Lessha challengingly. The Gnoll woman smiled and then reached out. She hugged Jilthread with one arm and didn’t let go. The Hemp woman blinked.

“What are you doing?”

“Making it very hard for you to keep going, yes? It seems to me that this is the best way. Let us sit, Jilthread, and be reasonable. And pour a drink.”

“I am on a mission to—I will not be swayed, Chieftain.”

Jilthread tried to get up, but Lessha grinned, and more Gnolls were coming forwards to sit. And it was hard to attack someone sitting if you had what people called a conscience.

“Ah, but you must talk to me first. Tell me your story, Jilthread, and I will take it to my people. It is better delivered, I think, than when one is frightened.”

The Hemp woman hesitated, then the [Battle Cleric] stopped protesting and sat, head bowed.

“…Yes. It is better heard that way. I did not wish to come with sword and gospel in hand. But…”

Her eyes were teary when she glanced up and pointed a finger towards Koirezune.

“…He turned so many of us to ash. So he is either god or monster, and I choose to believe god is loving.”

Lessha sat with a sigh, nodded, and knew other Gnolls were doing the same. She hoped it kept this stalemate and the Prophet from advancing. But she also listened and judged.

“I say to you, Jilthread, sit with me. For beyond me lies Centaurs, and they are quicker to anger. Is there a chance this may come to pass without further strife?”

The woman sniffed and eyed Lessha.

“The Prophet has been attacked six times and our people struck by arrows. No. Judgement is coming, but it need only be for him. The sacrament has been built out of precious metals and stone, just as it was ordained, and the faith gathers in it day by day, drop by drop. Let that be justice. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth…”

The Gnoll’s fur rose, but she forced herself to sit and listen as they prayed.

——

Stopped. For a moment. But the bugs were multiplying, and the other nations—no, everyone was noticing.

Trey Atwood came to call in Khelt. And Jecaina and Mrsha, and they all asked variants of the same thing.

——

The [Chaos Schemer] walked through Khelt, and every step he took was unsettled, eyes wide, as if he were the young man who had emerged from A’ctelios Salash, rattled to his core.

No. Those days had changed him from boy to man, and he had continued to change. Yet he was unsettled as Fetohep had ever known him, and when the [King] rose with a smile, Trey’s shadowed expression made Fetohep hesitate.

“I have to tell His Majesty what I see, Fetohep. What is…is it Roshal? The Blighted Kingdom?”

——

Queen Jecaina sat at a table laden with a feast, but only for her. She picked at her meal, though, and did not answer his questions. Fetohep spoke, alternating between grandfatherly king and gossiping sage.

“Ah, well, if you care not for discussions of Jecrass at this moment, then what about Pisces Jealnet? I had heard tell of a clandestine rendezvous between the two of you, but that is purely rumor. Did he impress you?”

“He did, but we didn’t have as much time as I wished.”

She murmured, flushing briefly, and Fetohep nodded.

“I had hoped he would visit, but perhaps he shall yet in time. Adventurers go where they will. Did you—truly find any affection for him?”

She flushed, but he was pressing, like an overeager opponent in chess, determined to keep it on her side of things, and Jecaina glanced up.

“Perhaps. Certainly enough to try.”

Fetohep sat back.

“Alas, then. One might have hoped for a moment to test such things. Even if it were purely carnal, but such relations take days; a luxury neither of you had.”

“Well, not a one-night stand.”

“True, but a night would have taken most of his short visit to you.”

For a second, that jerked her out of her pondering. Jecaina narrowed her eyes at Fetohep.

“A—how long do you think it’s supposed to be, Fetohep?”

He hesitated. It had been six hundred years, after all.

“…Half a night, then. Hours, one expects. I do not, personally, recall the passage of time…yes, hours.”

She smiled at him, fondly, as he tried to benchmark some rather embarrassing memories now that he saw less point in than he had at the time, and then Jecaina pushed her plate back.

“Fetohep, what is wrong with Khelt? If it is within my power, I shall help.”

And he froze. Froze, with indecision, and said—

——

—To the [Princess] who sat there, elegant, composed, aged—

Lyonette du Marquin. She had minced a few more words than Jecaina, but she was still straightforwards. She smiled, no longer a child or even a young woman, but someone who had taken on her own burdens. And she spoke to him as if she wore a crown in truth.

“Your Majesty? Is there anything we might do at The Wandering Inn to aid you? You have been such an inspiration to my daughter and a ceaseless ally to, well, everyone. If we may humbly aid you, please, let us know.”

It was well said. It was politely and deftly delivered, and yet the [King] snapped. For he had heard Trey say it, then Jecaina, and the Quarass in her way, and it was roiling in him. It had been growing like a tempest throughout this month, and so his response was ungauged, again, and made him ashamed, but it spat forth from his belly like Dragonfire itself.

“What could you do, Lyonette du Marquin?”

She paused, sipping from a cup of cocoa.

“I beg your pardon, King Fetohep?”

He sat forwards on his throne, golden eyes glowing.

“What could you do? Say there is some—issue in Khelt.”

His eyes darted to a little moth crawling up one curtain. It died, and his gaze swung back to Lyonette. She flinched only slightly, then straightened her back, and the undead king whispered.

“What aid would The Wandering Inn be to me? Have you an army to send me? Could you even but reach me if I begged for it? If the sky were to fall tomorrow, who would catch it? Ishkr? Better to prevail upon your allies, like Saliss of Lights or Grimalkin the Sinew Magus. No, there is nothing you can do for Khelt. I have known this. Khelt does not give out its riches in expectation of reward. It never has, for it has no equal. I have paid every cost, and when the debt comes to be paid, there will only be Khelt.”

He didn’t realize he was using his aura until he felt her push it back and caught himself. Slowly, Fetohep sat. He was losing control. The [Princess]’ head slowly inclined. But her eyes flashed.

“I realize we are not capable in many ways, but I consider myself an ally of yours, Your Majesty. It may be worth little, in your eyes, but know that I, and all those in the inn, consider it an obligation of honor.”

“It is well said, Lyonette du Marquin. And know that I, too, entered into every act of my accord. But truly…have you some limitless army?”

“We have gold…”

He laughed hollowly.

“The one resource I do not lack. Have you a way to contact Erin—no. Unless you have the means to send her to Khelt, there is no point.”

None at all. He was angry at her. Angry at the inn, but he had done it all of his own volition. It was just that he had not anticipated the costs. He had expected great ones for some deeds, but not…this. Lyonette sat there.

“If there is anything…”

“Unless you can best faith, no. Do you even know what that is?”

She shook her head, eyes alarmed.

“We ran into a being of powerful faith in the…palace. And I know more than most because of my past relationship with Pawn, but I—”

“Wait. You and the Antinium?”

Fetohep held up a hand and sat up, and Lyonette grew extremely discombobulated. She managed an explanation, and Fetohep stared at her. Then he dismissed her, politely as he was able.

She could not send armies. Even if she sent the Order of Solstice, and they would come, it was six [Knights] versus thousands.

But perhaps…Fetohep demanded an update from a ship at sea. He plotted its course along a map, and tried to calculate how much time remained given the uncertain state of the sea travel, and then the subsequent journey they would need to take over land…

Perhaps. But then he clutched at his stomach, where something was gnawing at it. He could not feel pain. He walked towards the windows and spoke.

“Call Adventurer Frieke. Summon Pewerthe. She is in her wretched pottery shop making pots. I need her. Summon Colovt. Summon…”

He stood there, listing names until his voice had no more to name. And it did not fix a thing.

——

Then a month had passed since the Prophet invaded Khelt. And the King of Khelt sat there and felt sand on his skin. He gazed at his withered flesh and now knew where the [Mercenaries] were.

They were coming. Moving across Chandrar. How many? All of them. So many major companies. But here was the thing: he had not paid a single one of them.

He did not like the conclusion he came to. Pewerthe told him that her sources had picked up on the unrest in Khelt, but that was not how Fetohep felt the walls closing in. It was silly, but it was just…

High King Perric of Medain.

The royal weathervane of the High King liked to talk. He wrote Fetohep constantly. Even after he’d been released from the terms of surrender, he had written. Fetohep tried to ignore him, but perfect memory—he remembered anything he read even if only glanced once. So the man’s voice—which in Fetohep’s head was slightly nasally and whining—read out his endless spiels.

At first, it had been sycophantic and terrified. Then ingratiating, flattering. The man had seemed to be reading into things that did not exist. Searching between the lines of a blank page. And then…?

Fetohep read a selection of [Messages] that almost perfectly showed him what he was searching for; he just skimmed down every sixty-four messages from the start of their history.

—sty of Khelt, I remind you of Khelt’s neutrality in Jecrass’ war. Any action at all to the contrary will be met by myself, and the many allies of Medain as—

—all my cities’ gates stand open. The incompetent fools who did not heed the exact terms of your gracious verdict have been punished, and I can personally attest to the disarmament of all forces on the border. I would also add that the Claiven Earth are not to be trusted, but upon my crown I do guarantee, once more, between sovereign [Kings]—

—more statues! Once more, I have dedicated the month’s feast in your name, and if you would care to send a citizen of Khelt to represent you (as I know your Eminence is not partial to such gatherings), we would feast them as an equal of mine in your stead! I did write to the Speaker of Trees about his lack of willingness to celebrate our mutual holiday in your honor, but wish you to know that all of Medain’s citiz—

—Happy to know that we have managed a quadruple tribute this month as a token of thanks for your largesse! I do hope your subjects enjoyed the Prelons? I note, purely by happenstance, that the people of Germina have enjoyed a rare harvest, which of course is my delight! If you would care for any other tokens of my esteem? It is, as I reflect, the will of kings to be both monster and man, and in that I have postulated—

—cessation in tributes, which I understand shall not inconvenience Khelt. I do appreciate your kind words of late, and I trust we shall correspond in due time. I have a war to win, sincerely—

And the last message of the list, just below the previous one, was shorter still.

Raiders in one’s lands is a terrible matter. Happily, my forces threw off the Prophet once. If Khelt were so generous, we might consider taking the matter on. I shall inquire about armies with my generals at my next council of war. I do hope to see you soon to tender all my gratitudes.

—Perric.

Fetohep stared at the [Message] for a long, long moment. Then he tried to calculate if King Raelt…no, he was operating a raiding force. Then Germina? Germina wasn’t even a full third of Medain’s…

“…Don’t know. Not yet. Images, optics. Where’s the ship? Insects.”

It always came down to insects. It wasn’t the Prophet. Damn the Prophet. It was the insects and the stupid citizens who yammered to everyone and complained and had [Message] spells. They never should have been allowed it.

“They should be grateful for everything. Instead, they whine. And when they do not whine, they fall into vices as they did in other ages. Gambling—!”

He raised a fist as he stalked around his throne room. Lowered it as he saw a boy’s downcast face.

“Gambling. It is not their fault.”

He cast around, and the walls of the throne room were closing in. Was that wind that he heard? The blowing sands…

Dirty. The throne room was dirty. The day-servants weren’t cleaning well. The wind that blew in blew a few moth corpses and some dust around. Fetohep began to clap his hands, outraged, but then he knew…

The skeletons did it all. They had always been the truest servants. If he could only hire some [Cleaners]…! But no one would come when there was the Prophet at the door.

Fix the bugs. Deal with the Prophet.

Allies. But the city of Dovive had pulled their forces back, and the twenty-remaining men and women had knelt and apologized to him.

How dare they be so incompetent—

Lashivet was dead. He had come here and died for a kingdom he had never known. Fetohep’s rage turned to guilt, and he looked around. Not with the eyes of a mortal man, but that of a [King].

He sat on a cracked throne, searching for light. An [Innkeeper]’s warm fire, but what could he do with it? It was so distant, and her garden was too small.

Allies. Like the links of aged metal that built the throne of Reim. Newly-made, fragile, but secured by a hundred thousand links worn in war. For all the ones that had fallen away, some had anchored, stronger than Adamantium.

But him?

Fetohep threw back his head, and there was a cry rising in his chest. No, something else. Something to express these terrible emotions.

In a way, he was his people’s king. Lanodest, the [Death Commander] of decent capabilities, who had a garden and a single Sireen’s Lily he kept in a box. Anleth, the boy gambler. Pewerthe the Potter, and every other soul in Khelt.

For even he, the Badger of Khelt, had grown up in paradise. Fetohep gave voice to that surging chaos in his heart, the discordance in his mind.

He walked into the center of the throne room, and his robes left a temporary swath of clean tiles as they picked up dust and insect carcasses. They swept the detritus as he turned, and he spread his arms, throwing open the curtains.

Angry lights from below. Chanting. A fading blood-red sky, and in the distance, a bright glow of faith. Fetohep’s golden gaze dimmed. His voice rose. And he felt that golden throne cracking. The wind was blowing.

“Falling thrones litter like waystones

Progress, recession, a monarch dies alone

I have watched each crown fall like glass

Never once did I move though they asked.”

His head turned, and the golden flames died, leaving only a dead man’s sockets.

“Now comes my moment, and I…”

His hands clenched into fists, and he reached for a weapon he didn’t bear, his voice rising until the palace trembled.

“I would burn a dozen nations to see mine live

Another decade!

This I have done now my debts incurred have 

Come bearing fell harvests.”

Then he glanced around, alone. Stepped back and gazed at the dust. Fetohep rested his hands on the balcony.

“Eternal Khelt calls for aid.

Salvation was spent to the world’s doom dissuade

One deed in the service of the world spurned

Now no ally as necrocracy burns

If I must watch it crumble and turn all asunder…”

His head tilted upwards, and he gazed directly into the sun. The King of Khelt let go of the balcony, and it cracked slightly as his grip released. A chip of stone joined the messy throne room’s floor. The King of Khelt breathed.

“…my pride must die.”

——

Fetohep’s Lament, written by Fetohep, performed by Fetohep. Accompanied with a string quartet and maybe one of those new pianos. Throw in a decent snare drum and you had a passable song from Khelt’s own ruler.

Applause.

Fetohep of Khelt stood in his throne room, not even registering the actual dry clapping of hands for a few seconds. Then the crimson orbs of the floating Revenant rolled upwards.

“[Chain Lightning].”

Vizir Hecrelunn stopped applauding and pointed a finger. The pathetic ruler almost dodged it, but he wasn’t even an adequate warrior; the explosion was of one of his personal magical shields, but it still tossed him across the room.

Vizir Hecrelunn flew into the throne room, hands tucked behind his back as he watched Fetohep roll into a wall.

“This is precisely why Khelt is failing. A monarch does not burst into song like some magical rabbit. If you were a tenth as worthy as any other ruler of Khelt, you would not be failing. What is this? Dust? In the throne room?”

His eyes focused on the floor as Fetohep whirled up, about to trigger defensive spells.

“Hecrelunn! You dare—”

The Revenant floated towards Fetohep and stared down at the King of Khelt.

“The Vizir has returned, at your request, or should the Vizir say, that of the ‘Heir’, ‘Your Majesty’.”

Little red quotation marks flared above him and the words transcribing themselves over his head. Hecrelunn continued.

“This Vizir did not credit it, the very same ruler who demanded so much of Khelt’s Revenants, begging for support? What is the Vizir told about Roshal raiding Khelt? Is this so?”

“Hecrelunn, I am grateful you have returned. I bid you sit, and in this dark time, I shall tell you—”

Fetohep was relieved the [Vizir] had finally come. One last hope—but he was reminded almost instantly of why he hadn’t wanted Hecrelunn, even now. The man just didn’t listen.

“The Vizir Hecrelunn condescends to this meeting, Fetohep of Khelt. Eugh. This is a filthy…[Mass Cleanse]!”

He inspected the floor as all the dirt and filth vanished, then ran a finger across the curtains. Seemingly not satisfied, he snapped his fingers.

“[Summon Dark Familiars]. [Chodlekith’s Obsessive Cleaning Cloth]. Do a circuit of the palace.”

Sixty-plus black imps spawned around him and seized glowing, too-bright cloths and began scrubbing at the curtains and floor. They grew cleaner than [Cleanse], somehow. As if a subtle varnish were being applied even to the cloth.

“Vizir, I am grateful. If you could cast that magic en-masse—”

A finger poked Fetohep in the chest. And the crimson light of Vizir’s eyes drew down as his voice rose.

“The Vizir asked you a question. Did Roshal attack Khelt?”

“Yes, and—”

Ostentatiously, Hecrelunn produced another cleaning cloth and swabbed at his earholes, then his eye sockets. Then he leaned forwards and spoke.

“I see. Then why can it still be located on a map?”

The Vizir sometimes forgot to speak in the third person. And he was bold, even for a super-spellcaster-ruler-warrior hybrid within slapping distance.

Fetohep was so tempted…but he needed Hecrelunn’s help. So he controlled himself.

“Vizir, subjects of Khelt were taken hostage. We were threatened with mutual destruction, and Khelt’s armory of long-ranged spells is not infinite. It is, in fact, reduced—”

“Ah. So you have come to the Vizir to wrap you in swaddling and tell you what to do. Very well. [Hecrelunn’s Infantile Swaddling Cloth].”

Hecrelunn tossed a blanket over Fetohep, who tore it off his head. Hecrelunn was gone. The Vizir was floating to his left and made tiny little figurines out of red magic. One looked like Fetohep if he had a pronounced overbite and a very small head.

“What one does is first assure the safety of one’s citizens. With skeletons. A captive is taken? Skeletons.”

He demonstrated, raising skeletons and surrounding a frightened person with a knife held to their throat.

“One does not negotiate. Then, one tortures each invader and broadcasts their screams over scrying orbs the world over. Then, one sends a million skeletons and drowns Roshal in blood. This is what the Vizir refers to as a ‘three-step plan’. You may require shortening to two steps, but—”

“Hecrelunn. Khelta’s skeletons have lost their ghosts.”

The Vizir paused. Then he floated upside down. He floated back the right way up, but then Fetohep felt the world rotating. Antigravity—he snapped.

“Vizir! This is not a joking matter!”

He dropped to the floor, and the Vizir stood there.

“The Vizir Hecrelunn is merely wondering if the world is tilted. For, certainly, he cannot have heard himself correctly. Implying Khelta’s undead are imperfect—”

Fetohep was tired, suddenly. He began to walk towards his throne.

“You saw the ghosts dying, Vizir. You saw Khelta d—”

“I saw no such thing.”

Hands seized him and lifted him up. The [Vizir]’s voice blazed.

“Whatever incompetence has led to present issues, I have come back to rectify. You will—”

Fetohep seized the hands and broke Hecrelunn’s grip on him. That surprised the [Vizir], and Fetohep grabbed the other man’s robes. There was a moment when Hecrelunn blurred, chopping for Fetohep’s hand, making to throw him—they pivoted as Fetohep put a foot on Hecrelunn’s knee, spinning in the air—-

They were rotating at such speed that both caught only a single frame of the doors opening as they made fists.

“Your Majesty? Did you call for a servant? There are little, floating, magic-things in the palace.”

A day-servant opened the doors to the throneroom a crack. He peered inside, and King Fetohep of Khelt was lounging on his throne. The Vizir Hecrelunn was standing at the balcony, staring outside.

All perfect propriety. Fetohep lifted a hand.

“I have a guest. The familiars are but there to clean. I am not to be disturbed.”

The servant bowed hurriedly and closed the door. Fetohep waited a beat, then Hecrelunn and he were striding towards each other.

“What do you mean the undead are without ghosts?”

“I mean exactly what I say. They are no longer capable of cleaning, serving, fighting—surely you knew this! I have been reaching out to you for weeks! And there is a Prophet to the north who can erase undead!”

Hecrelunn’s eyes-lights flickered as he stepped back and stared around.

“Ridiculous. Khelta was a peerless [Necromancer]. She…no. There was a vault. All of them? I saw the Jaws attacking and assumed…there are other undead. That damn ship’s captain.”

“One ship!”

“The half-Giants.”

“They’ve vanished!”

“They’ve what? They’re shirking their duty?”

Hecrelunn was outraged, suggesting that hypocrisy was one of the few words he didn’t know. He stroked his chin, then spun.

“—And you let another nation raid you and didn’t blast them to pieces? Have you not heard of a façade, you incompetent—”

“We are out of failsafe spells, Hecrelunn! There are no more bombardment spells left in Khelt!”

Fetohep screamed in Hecrelunn’s face, at the idiotic Revenant saying all the things Fetohep had been saying this entire time, and the [Vizir] recoiled. A long silence fell, and the throne room doors opened.

Closed. At last, Hecrelunn spoke in a far, far quieter tone.

“…None? Not one? You cannot have spent them all.”

“I struck the Blighted Kingdom after the Winter’s Solstice. And then there was the palace. If I had any spells left to strike the Goblin King or that Titan…there are no more long-ranged spells that can leave Khelt’s borders. All that is left are the Arrows of Razzimir. They regenerate. Slowly. One per month.”

“You—you don’t even have a single Tier 7 spell? You wasted them on other peoples? The last resort of a kingdom?”

Hecrelunn’s horror was turning back into rage, his default mode. Fetohep sat back on his throne.

“It was for Erin Solstice. Khelta asked me to protect her.”

“One woman. One woman whose name I have grown sick of remembering—these skeletons. I have to see them. I know something of [Necromancy]. If it is just their binding…”

“It is not.”

Hecrelunn ignored him.

“When I—the Vizir—take notes from a magicless successor—arise a legion of Khelt’s faithful!”

He flew out onto the balcony, and Fetohep sat there. He had the grim satisfaction of hearing cursing from the balcony after a few minutes, and he spent that time telling servants not to interrupt and letting Pewerthe know Hecrelunn had arrived.

Surely this would solve things. Surely…but he remembered his composition. One man, even Hecrelunn. Could he really solve—?

The [Vizir] coughed, and Fetohep peered up. Hecrelunn floated in the air, staring past Fetohep. He spoke very rigidly.

“It appears that you are correct. There is a…lacking in Khelta’s enchantments. Due to these Seamwalker-adjacent threats. Inform me without delay. What issues is Khelt experiencing?”

“An undead-slaying Prophet and an entire people of thousands armed with anti-undead Skills of unknown potency to the north. The threat of other armies and growing knowledge of Khelt’s weakness. Insects, along with a lack of skeletons providing sufficient expertise to take care of the cities.”

Fetohep ticked off the issues on his fingers, these being the three biggest. Hecrelunn nodded to himself.

“[Disintegration]. [Meteor Storm]. And…[Slaves] for cleaning. Or Djinni, if enough can be taken. Merreid is likely too powerful to sack, still.”

Fetohep sat up in outrage instantly.

“Hecrelunn! [Slaves] shall never be part of Khelt, and you cannot presume to best multiple armies by yourself!”

The [Vizir] sneered at him.

“Now that does sound like one of Khelta’s successors. A pathetic king summons me and dares to put conditions on the nature of my aid? I have been raising and governing an entire nation far more vast than Khelt while you have been practicing idleatry!”

That was it. Fetohep rose, furious again, and pointed above the Vizir’s head.

“I have striven to keep Khelt’s reputation from sliding while you abandoned your position, because you feared, what? That I would use you and put constraints on your powers? You serve, Little Brother-King. Second, ‘idleatry’ is not a word. Thirdly—why is everything you say appearing over your head?”

He pointed at the floating subtitles, and the [Vizir]’s eye-lights swivelled upwards, and he cursed.

“Nekhret’s six breasts—has that been on the entire time? Dismiss!”

He waved a hand, sighing.

“Do not concern yourself with that. It is merely a way for those of deficient hearing to know what is being said. A defect not corrected in lesser kingdoms. As for the rest—I am the Vizir Hecrelunn. Whatever I term a word and use in acceptable parlance and context is therefore understandable by anyone of sufficient intellect.”

He poked Fetohep in the chest. Then poked him again.

“Second, you have come to me for aid. Your kingdom has been botched, ill-managed, by Khelt’s most incompetent ruler. If you wish for the Vizir Hecrelunn’s aid, do not presume to lecture me, King Fetohep. Beg for it.”

“I have summoned you to safeguard Khelt!”

Fetohep shouted, and the Vizir turned his head.

“And I have built a second Khelt. Or did you think Khelta’s compassion extended only to her subjects? You rulers. She formed Khelt out of generosity for the worthless, mewling peons who flocked to her. You call it a kingdom with a people of Khelt. I have never known them. She would care for random [Beggars] or cats and induct them into her kingdom with the same validity as your pampered rats. More, since one has known only hardship.”

Khelta did that? Fetohep hesitated, because he had not actually ever thought to ask where the original people of Khelt had come from. He spoke quickly, worried now.

“I do not intend to take you from this second kingdom if necessary. But I require your magics, Vizir.”

“To do what, sweep a kingdom clear?”

“To—aid against the Prophet without endangering yourself. Or at least safeguard against other nations. Having you present will be a boon, but I do ask it of you, Vizir. Humbly.”

The other Revenant floated to the balcony. He seemed to be in good spirits despite his dismay, because he knew he had Fetohep desperate.

“Hmm. Should I, I mean, the Vizir give aid? My loyalty is to Khelt, not you. It may be easier to secure the citizens of Khelt to my new domain, or wait until the citizens demand your head. This new ‘Heir’ seems far more practical than you. Perhaps I should devote some magics to this. If I were motivated by pleas.”

He laughed hugely, then turned to look at Fetohep. And the Ruler of Khelt sat on his throne, and he was tired.

But magic of the old days floated in front of him, and the Vizir’s crimson eyes winked with amusement.

“I shall offer you a deal, Fetohep of Khelt, and it is simple and munificent: kneel. Kneel to me and grovel. Press your head upon the floor and tell me that you cannot save Khelt without I, the Vizir Hecrelunn. We both know it is truth. Do this and I shall render to you my aid unceasing.”

He chuckled again, and Fetohep sat there as the Vizir waited for the rage of kings. The pride to almost match his own.

He did not know, you see, how Khelt truly was. Or the month that had passed, or months before that. So he expected a fight. Even violence, and was readying spells when Fetohep rose from the throne.

“Aha. So it seems I must teach you a lesson, just like that fool Tkayl—”

The Vizir saw Fetohep remove his crown that Khelta had once worn, that no one deserved but her, and tensed with anticipation. Then he saw Fetohep’s robes shift as he lowered onto one knee.

Leaping attack. [Haste].

The Vizir moved into overdrive, wishing he had [Greater Haste], which would make fights so easy, and he saw the King of Khelt’s head bow. Then his entire body lower past the position of someone crouching, and the motion was wrong. And then Hecrelunn realized Fetohep’s head was…

The crimson eyes narrowed to pinpoints, then Hecrelunn swung around. He turned to the balconies, and the half-open drapes snapped shut. A rune of sealing appeared on the double doors, and he floated there.

“What are you doing?”

“Hecrelunn.”

“Are you a fool?”

The [Vizir] snapped, and the figure lying on the floor spoke.

“Hecrelunn. I have tried to hold it together. I have done it with pride and ego, and it is crumbling. Save it, I beg—”

The [Vizir] pointed and fired a spell from his finger, blind. Fetohep popped back onto his throne, and the Vizir spun.

“You are a wretch and a coward. No fit Ruler of Khelt bows their head.”

“Yes. This is likely so. Hecrelunn…it’s breaking. I implore you.”

The weary King of Khelt sat there, and the Vizir Hecrelunn hesitated. He folded his arms. Uncrossed them.

“If I do this thing, it is for Khelta, not you. And there are limits to even this Vizir’s magic. But if only to—it cannot be this dire. I flew over cities and saw mere tantrums. Crying children can be spanked and then their woes fixed. Mass-cleanse spells and hiring servants. All that need be done is kill this Prophet.”

“He is up to something.”

Fetohep felt like a man clinging to the last scraps of grass. His head rose as Hecrelunn nodded, speaking more calmly.

“Yes, yes. I will gauge his strength. Even if he can slay undead—”

“He is dangerous, Vizir. His power is faith. An unknown. The same faith that killed Khelta.”

Hecrelunn paused, and his eye-lights shone brighter.

“Then I will slaughter him twice as readily. Have you trusted servants? Sand at Sea…no, mortals. I shall do this. You will sit and regain some dignity. Now, I require a meeting with this Heir. I require more understanding of which armies are coming and which ones to make an example of. Let us conduct a thorough list.”

He snapped his fingers, and a floating scroll appeared. Fetohep began to nod and sat up slightly. Hecrelunn made an exhaling sound.

“Strange, though. I feel as though I were but a mere [Bandit] again, in parables. Is there some kind of…Skill affecting this kingdom? Not yours. I know you are a simple warrior.”

“What Skill?”

Fetohep paused, and Hecrelunn cast about. He felt at the back of his neck.

“It does not affect me, but I flew through…it must have been thousands. It’s one of those stories that was common even when I was alive and mortal. You know, the one about the [Thieves] and pots? Yes, that’s it. Pots.”

…Pots?

King Fetohep of Khelt didn’t understand. Then he saw, in his mind’s eye, Pewerthe at her potter’s wheel, and he remembered her class.

The silver-tongued [Potter of Secrets] who had once turned a famous [Bandit] group against each other by manipulating them. Getting them to do silly things like speak into a pot which she buried in the ground.

Pots. What kind of power came from [Potters], anyways? It was surely as nonsensical as that of an…

[Innkeeper].

What happened if you hit high levels as a [Potter]? What could a pot contain? Liquids, objects? Act like a bag of holding? Something more? Could you put a secret in a pot if you were high-level enough?

But could you hide a kingdom’s secrets in one? No, not without a vast pot. But what about small ones for small conclusions? If it was just keeping someone from connecting the dots…

How many pots would that take? The King of Khelt remembered seeing mud under Pewerthe’s nails, her fingers run ragged, and he had snapped at her for wasting time. A hobby.

A hobby like gambling. He saw the Vizir casting about and spoke.

“Pewerthe.”

“What kind of stupid name is that? Is that the Heir’s name? I—”

Crack.

Both Revenants heard the soft sound in the night. Sleeping citizens in the capital heard it.

——

The Prophet heard it in his headquarters.

——

Farmer Colovt heard it in his farms from one of the unused fields.

——

Pewerthe heard it as she spun clay into a new pot with bleeding fingers and peered up.

“No. No, nonono. Not yet. Please, just a while longer! Just a—”

The second cracking sound wasn’t audible by ear, but it ran through the marrow. A crack in reality itself. Like something breaking.

The [Potter] was running outside to her messy backyard with her upturned soil. She was digging with a shovel, shouting for Frieke, for help—but it was too late. When she unearthed the first pot, buried and tightly sealed, she saw the crack running down the face of it. Then, on another, the same crack. She was trying to hold it together, and then…

The pots cracked open. Pewerthe was flung backwards and cried out once before she struck the walls of her house. She felt pain, heard a snapping sound, and then heard it.

Voices.

“—attack by Roshal! [Slavers] in Eternal Khelt!”

“A Prophet of God! Robbed on the open road! What is His Majesty doing…”

“—saw them falling to bits before my eyes!”

“—[Mercenaries] running. What of the army?”

A chorus of voices, a babble of silenced truths. Rumors and secrets. Pewerthe reached up blindly.

“No…”

They were growing louder. That was the secret of pots. You could put anything you wanted in them, but nothing lasted forever, and she had held onto them as long as…

Louder. As citizens of Khelt woke up in a blind panic. Spies and gossipmongers put together pieces of a web that became a single, damning conclusion instantly. And upon their thrones…

——

King Perric of Medain sat up in his war-room meeting as a nebulous idea became, suddenly, obvious. His eyes blazed with fury.

——

The Empress of Sands smiled bleakly on her throne.

“Call for [General of Sands] Izzec now.”

——

Queen Jecaina of Jecrass sat for a moment and wiped at her eyes. But before the [Royal Spymaster] was running into the throne room, she was already there, calling for her father.

——

King Fetohep of Khelt stood in his throne room and spoke as Vizir Hecrelunn reached for the strands of truth flowing past them.

“Those damned—they’re finding out! Those wretched citizens! Was that why I didn’t hear anything from my spies? This…who did this?”

“My glorious [Potter].”

Cracking. He could still hear it, but not from Pewerthe’s lovely pots. It was coming from behind him. Fetohep stood, and Hecrelunn’s voice was urgent.

“This Prophet must be taken care of. Show of force. What they believe is not the truth we present, even with this. We work together now, Fetohep. Fetohep?”

He turned, and the King of Khelt was resting a silent hand on the throne. He glanced up.

“Shh.”

“What? No ‘shh’. What are you doing?”

Fetohep glanced at the Vizir, amused, for he could hear it, and any ruler could except the self-absorbed man.

“Can’t you hear it? It’s breaking. This is my duty, Hecrelunn. My responsibility. My fault. I’m sorry, Khelt.”

Hecrelunn was opening his mouth to retort, angry, when the golden flames in Fetohep’s eyes winked out. The undead king sagged, and the Vizir caught him. He shook Fetohep, and then—

——

Frieke had to use a potion on Pewerthe, who’d broken a leg. But there was no time for a [Healer]’s. Pewerthe received the summons from her speaking stone, heard Hecrelunn’s desperate voice, and then she was running.

Running with Frieke, who no longer smiled. Running as citizens poured into the streets, no longer rioting, but screaming. Screaming with a mortal panic, which was oh so much worse than anger.

Terror and bedlam, and Pewerthe kept running, up the palace steps. When she burst into the throne room, she already knew what she would see.

For the second time in his undeath, King Fetohep of Khelt dreamed.

——

This was the King of Khelt’s second dream. He was not in his palace.

It was dark. He felt like someone had taken a pillow and pressed it over his lungs—he couldn’t breathe. He was trying, but air only came in short bursts, and a needle of fear was ramming through his stomach.

He—he couldn’t think. He was flailing. Falling. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t.

A [King] did not scream. But it was coming out of his heart, his soul. A kind of shriek beneath his panicked thoughts.

—have to stem the Prophet—armies aware of—Eldavin, what does he know? Jaws. Medain, Claiven Earth, tributes to Roshal.

The image of Khelt crumbling away in his hands was ringing through his head, as it had every second of every moment since he had witnessed it. Prophecy? His failings made manifest?

He did not know, but the undead could not forget.

His memory was perfect, so the horror of it was fresh. He tried to draw himself up, call on his learned regality, the pride of Khelt, but how did you sit just so?

Falling, tumbling into a void, and at the same time compressed into a coffin an inch too small in every dimension, shaking within his own body with the scream he could not utter, because he was the last bastion of Khelt, the ruler. If he fell…

It was slipping through his fingers, through a thousand skeletons’ eyes. His people raging at him. Their voices pleading, demanding—

To dust. TO DUST.

And it came upon him, another vision—

A’CTELIOS SALASH RISING, DEVOURING SCREAMING CHILDREN BY THE THOUSANDS. WALLS BURNING. SKIES OF FIRE.

AN [INNKEEPER] IN CHAINS. SEAMWALKERS RISING.

“Fetohep.”

DUST FALLING FROM THE SKIES. THE CHAINS OF ROSHAL DRAWING TIGHT.

“Fetohep, hear me!”

DUST. ALL TO DUST—

Then a voice broke through it all and spoke with the power to stop the earth from shaking. With the will to halt falling mountains and remake them in glorious gems. As a parent spoke to a child. With all the certainty in the world, a voice he had not heard since he had lived.

“Fetohep of Khelt, breathe. Calm yourself. Be silent and listen to me.”

It cut through the ceaseless panic attack, into the dream, and the darkness vanished. A voice like golden sunlight. Fetohep of Khelt sat up, looked around, and then…he saw the undead.

Not a skeleton. Nor, even, a being like Captain Cikroleth. This was someone else. A preserved corpse, shrouded in purple robes, the style of which had not changed for aeons. An emaciated face, noseless, the leathery skin of a mummy from Trey’s world.

For a moment, Fetohep thought he was gazing at his reflection, but the figure was shorter. He had never been a warrior, but a [Mage], and his eye-flames were not gold, but a warm red, the color of cherries. Still regal, but so kind…

He stood there, and a woman who stood next to King Razzimir of Khelt, the 15th Ruler, was even shorter than he. She had mortal flesh, and the years had made her short near the end of her life, hair white, wizened. Then in another moment she was taller, hair black and white, wearing a dress embroidered with bones.

Khelta.

“I am dreaming.”

That was Fetohep’s first thought. The second was to panic.

“I am dreaming! I have failed again! If I do not wake—”

A torrent of terror dragged him downwards, but King Razzimir spoke once more.

“Fetohep. Fetohep, focus on my voice. Look at me. Breathe. In and out. You are dreaming, partially, but you are also standing in the lands of the dead. Khelta, words of encouragement.”

Fetohep’s whirling mind re-focused as Khelta visibly jumped, then cleared her throat.

“Er. Well done, Fetohep, my successor. Don’t panic. There there.”

She glanced at King Razzimir and, for once, seemed uncertain. He stroked his chin as Fetohep’s panic receded once more.

“There. Fetohep, take your thoughts slowly, you understand? Even for undead, you can work yourself up into a frenzy, and we cannot stop. It is like a spinning top: we will never slow down. I told you I had advisors who had panic attacks in my time, Khelta.”

He turned and gave her an arch look. Khelta pinched at the bridge of her nose.

“And I mocked you for it. It is clear that there are elements to undeath even I did not predict. Yes, Fetohep, listen to King Razzimir. Though what kind of panic attacks?”

The 15th King of Khelt steepled his fingers together and spoke with a smile, possibly for Fetohep’s benefit as the 19th Ruler focused on his voice.

“As a matter of fact, they were my trusted companions who chose to follow me into undeath. A practice which seems to have ended with Queen Xierca? She mentioned difficulties in that regard. My advisors were quite capable, but the Creler Wars terrified them. And as I said, with undead, it can result in such calamitous emotions that at a certain point it becomes sheer madness. Self-harm to destroy oneself because the vessel cannot physically contain the emotions.”

“Fascinating. Perhaps it is a flaw in how I made the Revenant King spell. I never tested it upon myself…”

“You could never be so foolish, Great Khelta.”

Razzimir assured Khelta, and Fetohep opened his mouth to do the same, but the Great Necromancer of Khelt just stood there, hands bunched in her dress, head hung low. Looking…miserable.

“You say it kindly, my successors, but I did not anticipate this. My magic warded Khelt longer than most, yes, but look what I have given to Fetohep. A struggle beyond any of us.”

A wretched gaze, now, and Fetohep took in his surroundings and realized they stood in long, swaying stalks of dried grass. Blue sand under moonlight, vast hills in the distance—where were they? He bowed to her.

“It is my failing, Great Khelta. Mine and mine alone. I sacrificed the ghosts and undead of Khelt at the Meeting of Tribes. I deemed it just, but I weakened Khelt, and what follows is my sin. I shall never atone for—”

Razzimir nudged Khelta.

“As I told you, he was blaming himself.”

“Yes, yes. Oh Fetohep, my successor nineteen times over…be silent a moment. Breathe. You are dreaming, and perhaps it is ill, but hear us. Look upon us. We stand in the lands of the dead. Free from the Goddess Formerly Known as Death’s grip. We are free.”

Khelta’s eyes flashed. Her lips quirked, and she wore a smile of victory. Fetohep’s remembered heart leapt. He knelt before her, staring around and realizing—yes! This was it.

“You triumphed. As I should have known you would—”

Razzimir coughed, Khelta inspected her shoes, and both avoided looking at him. Razzimir spoke while hiding his mouth behind his hands in an old-Kheltian gesture of embarrassment.

“It was not our doing, Fetohep. Say, rather, it was the defeat of Kasigna which returned our souls. As for the, ah, rest, it appears the force that governs all has recreated the deadlands, albeit with changes. If we owe anyone gratitude…it is to a white rat of our mutual persuasion.”

Fetohep stared at him as he rose to his feet.

“…Haldagaz?”

Khelta sighed louder and pursed her lips.

“He refers to the Gnoll Fatechosen. Among many, many others. What we know is rudimentary, gathered from hearsay—flashes of insight while we were part of that damned goddess. Happily, we are freed and our connection restored enough that we may talk. Only four of us; the others were taken by the other gods. But it brings us hope they may be returned, in time.”

“If they haven’t been digested.”

Razzimir muttered darkly, and Khelta regarded him. Fetohep was stunned. Then rejoicing.

“Then our connection has returned! The glorious dead are Khelt’s once more! We are saved! I shall wake and set it all to rights, Great Khelta, I—”

He stopped. Because she had lifted a hand, palm out, and her face, her mortal face, was guilty. Fetohep felt that sinking feeling again as Khelta whispered.

“Fetohep, I regret to tell you that it is not the same as it was. If it were, Khelt would have been returned to strength, or a modicum of it, the moment we were freed. It has been some time since then. The souls of Khelt shall not empower the undead.”

He stared at her, and she began to pace, her finger glowing in the air. Razzimir’s head bowed, and she spoke.

“Allow me to explain. This very ground we stand on is the palace in which you now reside. Chandrar looked different in my age. I laid the magics to create Khelt’s undead, my finest work, into the earth.”

Razzimir and Fetohep gazed down.

“Why blue sand?”

“…Because it is. Sand comes in many colors. Blue, black, white, orange—no?”

Khelta glanced at them and went on without missing a beat.

“It was the most complex work of my life and a collaboration between masters of other disciplines. Only a combined ritual allowed Khelt to be created, and it was still the work of centuries refining the magic. I laid a [Million Sigil Magical Array] as the entry conduit, and from there…it doesn’t matter. Even Hecrelunn didn’t understand it. Hence the issue. No [Necromancer] since my death has ever managed to alter the wards. By now, I imagine they are embedded; any attempt to shift them will likely erase it all.”

Fetohep listened, trying to find hope, and feeling himself slipping into panic. He slowed himself, forced away the panic, as Razzimir had just shown him. Khelta went on.

“That connection is how we ghosts drew upon the power of Khelt to defend the deadlands so long. But when we were taken, lost, we were ripped from the [Vault of Glorious Souls]. Our knowledge, our presence, the thing that gives both the undead and ghosts the power of Khelt, was lost.”

“But you have returned, Great Khelta. Does that not mean…?”

Khelta turned her eyes upon Fetohep and shook her head.

“The deadlands were utterly obliterated, Fetohep. Our souls repatriated to this new place—but not to Khelt. Nevermind that we are returned. If one rips the paint from a mural, can it be put back just so?”

He understood, but it was so…Razzimir muttered.

“Unfair. I would petition the system of such cruel justice.”

Khelta stared skywards.

“…I think our connection with Fetohep is already that concession, Razzimir. Or perhaps the rules are changing further. These deadlands seem different, but I do not know what it will bring. What I do know is this: Khelt’s dead shall not empower the land.”

Despair once more. Until Khelta added softly.

“Not for at least three generations.”

Fetohep’s head snapped up. The Great Necromancer paced back and forth along the sands as it floated upwards and refused to fall, hanging in strange drifts in her wake.

“The vault requires refilling. With capable, canny minds. By the thousands. For every skeleton who needs to know how to fight, there should be a hundred souls who have known combat.”

Fetohep opened his mouth, appalled, to point out that Khelta was suggesting something far more impossible, but Razzimir beat him to it.

“Khelta, that would suggest we need the souls of a hundred million Kheltians to field even a million undead! We could not fill Khelt with those numbers in three generations! I know you were famously bad at math, but how vast do you think Khelt’s population is? Even accounting for tremendous population growth, we wouldn’t have reached that capacity within four rulers of my time!”

Khelta paused and scowled at Razzimir. Fetohep’s head turned to her, and he closed his mouth hurriedly. Bad with…? She flicked her fingers out.

“My calculations are not incorrect. I rephrase. What I mean is that for every skeleton that must fight, a hundred souls, at least, should be stored in the [Vault of Souls] that they might provide pieces of the puzzle. No one soul fills a Kheltian skeleton. That prevents numerous issues. They draw from a whole, a gestalt. That means—”

“Yes, yes, we all know the word. Aha, I see. But would a hundred souls not be simple to accumulate? Not that I am implying one should sacrifice a hundred warriors, yet if it saved Khelt…”

The [Necromancer] glowered at Razzimir, and he finally shut up. She spoke haughtily.

“I would not sacrifice a single Kheltian. Nor do the unwilling work well with such magics. Khelt is based on loyalty, trust! A hundred souls will barely, barely give the skeletons more fighting prowess. But it is more than that. Balance, the simple way to walk, familiarity with tools—better to have a thousand warriors. Better still to have a hundred thousand. I have calculated this, and I saw it done in my lifetime, Razzimir. Three generations is how long it took the Khelt of old. At first, the effects will be barely noticeable due to the diffusion of memories in the vault and the spells I used to safeguard against undead turning rogue—bah, you two are not [Necromancers]. I shall not bore you with the details. Three generations, Fetohep. I know it may be daunting.”

Then she and Razzimir turned to Fetohep and seemed to recall the gravity of the situation. Khelta gave him an anguished look, and the confession slipped from his mouth.

“I shall not manage one, Khelta. It is failing. I am failing.”

“We know.”

Razzimir kicked Khelta in the ankles, and she amended her words.

“It is not your fault, Fetohep. You are handed an impossible task with events I could not foresee. And enemies—Khelt’s enemies we have accrued over keeping paradise secure. We…cannot help you. In truth, I do not know if you must dream to visit us, or if we can speak to you while awake. I fear the former; you will have to meditate or dream. We have tried to speak to you upon your throne, and see Khelt, but we can no longer do that.”

So, they had returned, but the magics that governed Khelt were broken. It might be remade, but—Fetohep knelt.

“You have seen me in my despair, and I have besmirched myself in your eyes, Khelta. If I must hold Khelt three generations, I will—try. But I speak to you in all honesty: I do not know if I can safeguard your kingdom.”

He waited for some grand words of encouragement, but Khelta just studied him, then fell onto the sands. She sat heavily, bracing herself with her hands. Razzimir was far more decorous and knelt. Khelta’s hair covered her face as she bowed her head.

“You will do all you can, Fetohep. I know you shall. No more can I ask. Have Hecrelunn…where is Hecrelunn? Has he perished? I have not seen him, but he could have gone exploring.”

Fetohep’s heart hurt, and now he was resolved. He had to wake with this seed of hope, with the knowledge in his chest. But he hesitated.

“I was speaking to him when I…collapsed. He agreed to help, but he had been ignoring my [Messages] and not understanding the full scope of Khelt’s woes, it seems. What do you mean…exploring? Where are the two other rulers of Khelt that were returned?”

Khelta spat onto the sands, such a vulgar act that both Razzimir and Fetohep gasped.

“That spiteful child. He never aged in spirit. What I mean, Fetohep, is that this is not the deadlands of old. It is far, far vaster, and it seems to have things meant for we dead. Many still wait to know what happens next, or in the hopes we can be of some aid to the living. But Tkayl has already gone exploring, with Salui, and so has Zushe-Greso.”

Razzimir nodded, smiling, and cast his eyes to the horizon, and Fetohep realized it was vast and infinite. He even saw other ghosts in the distance, and Khelta raised her hands and greeted them, as if meeting new people. Not like how Erin had described it, people re-living their lives, at the mercy of fading into nothingness without levels.

“There is peace here, for those who wait and so we do not all dance attendance on the living. A good thing, that. You would not enjoy Salui’s presence, Fetohep. He is rather…obsessive. A failing, I suspect, in either his upbringing or the cult of personality that His-Xe cultivated. Not that I would denigrate the rule of another of my predecessors, but if I were to analyze—”

Khelta shot Fetohep a stare as Razzimir began to drone and murmured.

“Were it not for the debt I owe you, I too might have gone exploring. But I shall remain until the end, Fetohep. I just…I wish I had more than hope for you.”

He knelt again.

“A chance Khelt can be restored is that hope, Khelta. I must simply hold it together. I must…I beg your wisdom. Let me at least consult with you upon a plan for Khelt. My problems are manifest, and I do not have a solution.”

He clutched at the blue sand in his hands. He wanted their wisdom. How to combat the Prophet. Or—whom he should approach. What they would do.

Great Khelta, his ruler and the founder of his nation, stood before Fetohep, and her face was anguished. Just as quickly she produced something, a mask made of porcelain, and put it to her face. Fetohep and Razzimir stared.

She wore a face familiar to them; a mask meant to look like a skeleton’s. It even had some kind of illusory effect so her eyes glowed from within like their eye-flames. Yet, after a moment, Khelta took the mask away. She studied it, rueful.

“I carried this around every day for centuries until it broke, since I was a little girl. I wept when it broke. Strange. I often feel like that girl, for all I am Great Khelta in death, and I lived for centuries as the world’s finest [Necromancer]. So powerless, though. We held the afterlife against the dead gods for ages, and all spoke to us as if we were heroes, but we were lucky. Now, my successor asks for wisdom, and I…I have only shreds of hope to give him. I fear it will be hard, Fetohep.”

“I did not mean to imply it was in any way your fault, Great Khelta. You have worked magic beyond any other nation in life and death! Even the Shield Kingdoms do not endure as finely as you! The Quarass’ Germina is poor while Khelt is rich. I only…”

Fetohep’s voice trailed off, and Razzimir, that kindly king who had endured the Creler Wars, put his hands behind his back. He rocked on his heels and peered down at his shoes.

“It is a strange thing to try to give advice. We do not live, Fetohep, we do not see the scope of your kingdom. If it were I, the advice would be easy: you must fight the Crelers. You cannot hide behind your walls. Unleash the might of Khelt, fool! Don’t you see how many you are damning? They’re eating the peoples of this world outside your safe walls. Experimenting on them. Torturing them for sport. Craven effigies rising, and you let it happen and think this is the will of Khelt.”

Khelta and Fetohep turned to Razzimir, and he clawed at his face. Fetohep saw grooves on his undead flesh. He knelt, bowing his head, and then his brilliantly cherry-colored eyes focused on Fetohep.

“My sin was complacency. I have not atoned for it nor shall I, Fetohep. But you did what I could not. You stood for just and moral causes, and you suffer a problem I never faced: weakness. Khelt was not weak. I should have unleashed Hecrelunn, every Revenant of Khelt, every weapon. You did. And now your kingdom is…frail. I have been begged and supplicated all my years, but never had to bow my head. I do not know how to advise you. I am sorry.”

He stood there, and Fetohep bowed back to Razzimir.

“I am relieved to hear you say that, King Razzimir. If you have never faced such a problem…it is some comfort.”

Razzimir conjured a seat of sand and sat by Fetohep and made another so that they might sit. He offered Khelta a sand-chair, but she remained standing, watching them from behind that mask. Razzimir spoke.

“I find that it is often my perspective alone which is flawed. We have advisors for a reason; no man, woman, Djinni, or even, I suspect, Gods have the perfect point of view. Have you people you trust?”

Fetohep thought of Alked, Pewerthe, Colovt.

“Fewer than I would like, but yes.”

Razzimir chuckled.

“Ah, that is the constant complaint of all those who lead. Then a second question. Do they ever argue with you?”

“Some, yes.”

“Good. If they only spoke what you wished to hear, it would be a poor mark. Diversity of thought is essential. But now is the question to test all rulers of Khelt. Your advisors, your companions. Do they ever win such arguments, Fetohep?”

Razzimir could not know about Pewerthe’s stridency, but his flaming gaze still made Fetohep hesitate and stare down at his hands.

“I have…no. No, seldom if at all. I grow wrathful, perhaps. She—it is the Heir of Khelt, a good and clever young woman—she sees Khelt’s woes differently than mine.”

“But you trust her character? Her heart?”

Fetohep thought of the breaking pots and bowed his head further.

“Yes. More so now that I realize how foolish and blind I was to her true efforts.”

“That is the lesson every ruler should take. When to bow and step aside. The crown tells us a simple truth: we must never yield, never relinquish a bit of power, never give away our authority. And perhaps that is how the state endures. But we are all fragile people made of flaws. I should have listened, Fetohep. So that is my advice to you. Listen and act. But I do not know how to speak of Khelt’s failings. Khelta?”

Razzimir stood, and the Great Necromancer sat next. Her black hair floated as she sat, and Fetohep wondered if she smelled of bone dust. She seemed unworldly as she removed her mask. A [Necromancer] of stories, eyes containing the power to raise armies, a voice which could thunder and speak to the dead.

But when she put the mask on her face, she became younger. A young woman, and she spoke softly.

“This mask. Do they have any in your time, Fetohep?”

“None, Khelta. I do not know its likeness, and I have known many artifacts of Khelt and death-magic.”

She nodded.

“Good. It is not needed. It is a Deathface. When I was a girl, everyone wore them. When I look at you and think of Khelt, no longer able to raise armies of capable warriors, I think of this mask. It has been long, long, since I needed to wear it. Do you know what it does?”

“It seems to make you look like a skeleton, Khelta.”

She nodded, and her glowing eyes peered out of the mask.

“It is a mask mortals wear to hide their features from the dead. You put this on, and the undead will think you are one of them, if they are simple. The clever ones know you wear it, but they might tolerate you more, even knowing it. It is the mask of people scared of the undead, of the Breathless Age of Nekhret and the Necromancer Kings. I grew up in its fall. I have been weak, Fetohep. And I think…you have not.”

He stared at her. Great Khelta had once been so afraid of the undead she had worn a mask to hide her living body from them? He tried to nod.

“I understand compromises must be made—”

She lifted a hand, and he fell silent.

“No, you do not. Before you speak, I hear it in your words. Compromise. No and no. At times, you must compromise, bend your position, but you surely know this. But at times, I have known only abject helplessness. Compromise is a word for those who have options. In the coming days and years, you will have none. And that is a terror, Fetohep. Have you ever known defeat?”

He hesitated. His memory of a heart was beating faster, and Razzimir whispered.

“Your breathing, Fetohep.”

He controlled himself and spoke.

“I…of course. When I was alive, I lost battles. I died fighting in one. I have known defeat, Khelta.”

She nodded, lifting her mask slightly, and her painted lips moved.

“Then have you ever known helplessness?”

This time, Fetohep paused long, and he replied.

“…Not until recently. It is—terrifying.”

“Yes. That is what you face. You have never grovelled, have you, Fetohep?”

“Me? In what sense of the word?”

Khelta’s tongue clicked, but softly.

“Grovelled. Crawled across the ground, forehead pressed to the rough earth to kiss the feet of an undead master. Begged for mercy and kindness and debased yourself to live another moment.”

He sat there as Razzimir stared at Khelta.

“No. Never.”

“It is not an experience I wished for any of my people. It is not something Hecrelunn knows. But I remember it. You think you have been pushed to the limit, Fetohep. That your pride cannot break. I tell you: it can, and the pieces can be stomped into dust. I wished never for one of Khelt to face it, but I tell you this now. Do not grovel or beg those who come for you. Hold tight to each treasure of Khelt, and fight for every piece of it you can keep.”

Khelta’s eyes locked on him as she lifted the mask again and handed it to him. He ran his fingers down the delicately contoured bones, and Khelta met his gaze.

“But when you wake, practice grovelling on the ground and remember how it feels. For if you raise your head when that moment comes, you will lose it.”

“I do not know…if I can bear it, Khelta. I don’t know how to be less than prideful.”

He confessed, and she took his hands.

“I know. But you can. You must. It is the hardest burden I have placed on any of my successors, but I charge you with it. Do you love Khelt?”

“Yes. With all my being.”

She nodded.

“Then, when you are forced to bow, think of that and all you hold dear. More than your own life. And bow further. Do what you must. But live, Fetohep. You and every one of my children’s children. But live.”

Her words did not make Fetohep feel better. If anything, they instilled in him a dread greater than he had held before. But not a panic. King Razzimir cleared his throat as Khelta stood, and then Fetohep rose.

“Now may be the ideal moment to more concretely offer you actionable plans, rather than broad concepts. A place for both, I feel. If you would give us a run-down on Khelt’s current assets and problems, perhaps we might problem-solve.”

Khelta nodded, visibly relieved as she passed a hand over her features, and she was then the imperious ruler who stood with the pride of Khelt eternal. She nodded.

“Yes, and if there are any capable [Necromancers] you trust, I might suggest some spells or undead that could aid. Did you say…bugs were an issue? There are undead you could make to catch such things. Or [Familiars]. Don’t they have those?”

“I do not believe it is common knowledge, Great Khelta. But I welcome both your inputs. I shall deliver a report of Khelt, then.”

The rulers were nodding, prepared to give him what guidance they could. Then Khelta threw out a hand.

“Wait. Something’s wrong. Fetohep, wake up.”

He saw her peering around and spun.

“I have been trying. What…?”

The world was flickering. Razzimir spoke, eye-flames darting in every direction.

“Impossible. Argh, I feel a fool as I did in the Creler Wars, naïve! But, Khelta, you assured us this place was now sacrosanct! How could it be—?”

“I never said that! I said it was changed unto the whims of this Grand Design! It might be a place where war can begin anew, and certainly the dead and living can influence each other! Weapons. We need weapons, but how are they made?”

Something was—Fetohep reached out, and static, the kind he had seen come over the [World’s Eye Theatre], seemed to flicker across his vision.

Only, instead of his vision, it was the entire world. Khelta and Razzimir recoiled.

“Fetohep! Your connection is breaking—Khelta, it cannot be, truly. You said she was defeated beyond recovery, forever!”

Razzimir tried to reach for Fetohep, but their hands passed through each other. Khelta was walking around Fetohep, a glowing finger raised.

“It is her. But…hm. She’s not coming here. Nekhret’s bones. Fetohep! She’s coming after you! In your dreams! She has not the power nor authority here, but you—wake up! Wake up! Resist!”

“Wake up! Wake up, son of Khelt! Breathe, in, out! Think of your diaphragm rising and falling—”

The two panicked voices receded as the static rushed across the world, and they vanished. Then, Fetohep stood in utter darkness. He turned, slowly, and…there she was.

Just as before, only it was one instead of three. And she seemed so wretched and exhausted as she knelt there, panting, as if this had cost her—but he flinched from her. He recoiled and backed away, for it was her.

She always lived.

Kasigna.

——

One instead of three.

By dreams instead of death.

No longer Mother or Maiden. Just Crone. Just…Kasigna.

No longer even the Goddess of Death. It had all been sundered from her. She had never fallen this far. Never…but she lived. She refused to die.

By these things, she came to him, a panting woman rotting away, as the King of Khelt stumbled back from her, fear filling him. But her outstretched hand had no power in it. She could not even force him to take her hands. So she spoke, her voice cracked with grief, despair, and desperate hope.

“King…of Khelt. Fetohep. Once again, I come to you, though it is not…a Solstice.”

For a moment, he was dumbstruck with horror, then he found his rage and pointed at her.

“You. You dare return to me, enemy of my people? Ruination of Khelt? I will have you slain, destroyed utterly! You drag me into dreaming; I see it now, your schemes! It shall avail you naught, spawn of grublings beneath even Rhir’s contempt!”

He might have gone on, but Kasigna licked her cracked lips.

“I did not. You dreamed of your own accord. I merely—intercepted it.”

Fetohep hesitated.

“—Lies.”

She panted at him, still with a trace of a sneer, but her voice had too much urgency. She spoke quickly, glancing around, as if afraid she was running out of time.

“It is not a lie. If I had the power to even…you dreamed yourself, undead king. Forced yourself beyond your limits, be it physical or emotional. I do…I don’t recall what the God of Undeath shaped his people to be. What rules govern you?”

She put her hand to her head, shaking grey and white hair. He stared at her.

She seemed pitiful. Which only put his guard up more. But Kasigna just gazed at him and rasped.

“I offer you an accord.”

“No. Begone.”

He whirled away from her, and she tried to stand, hobble forwards.

“Listen to me—! You are weak. I know you are. I was there at the Winter Solstice. I felt your unfilled dead, your precarious kingdom. It must be worse now, is it not? It surely is!”

She didn’t…know. Fetohep swung back to her, and Kasigna’s eyes were desperate.

“The dreams of your people are troubled. You are plagued by a swarm of gigantic insects. A being of faith walks your lands. These things I know, so I offer you an accord. Hear me out.”

“Ah. The swarms of giant insects are indeed troubling. Especially the giant man-eating centipedes.”

The King of Khelt actually advanced a step, and Kasigna’s lips stretched over her teeth in a desperate grimace of a smile.

“Yes. Yes! Thus, listen to me. I have been reduced in power. My aspect, my nature, it—it matters not. A pact between us will right both our wrongs. I require faith. You require guidance. I cannot control Death.”

She stumbled, as if that hurt her, then closed her eyes.

“…But there are still means. An alliance. Of equals. I shall restore your shattered kingdom to order, and you shall have your people speak my name. Teach them faith. As my power grows, thus shall your kingdom prosper. This is my pact. I offer it with no tricks, in full honesty.”

Fetohep was very still as he inspected her.

“And how shall I trust you, Crone, Kasigna, or whatever being you are? Once, you tried to control me. How shall this ‘alliance of equals’ play out, and when may I expect the dagger in my back? Why would anyone trust your word, wretched soul-thief?”

“Because I cannot even lie, fool!”

She launched herself at him, defying gravity in a leap, and he was too slow. He recoiled and dodged, but for a second, her hand touched his chest, and he staggered and felt—

Nothing.

Kasigna landed in an ungainly heap, and Fetohep patted his chest, ready to rip his very bones out, but he felt…nothing. She looked up at him, and now he saw her.

Just…her. No vast structure of harvested souls and ideals. No mighty aspect of death in a millions forms. Just a name, an idea, a face.

The very dredges of a goddess.

“I cannot even…take your will. Nor do I have the strength to lie.”

“A lie is but words.”

She rasped at him, amusement breaking through desperation.

“Fool. To you it is. To me? I am unto a soul as we meet here. Naked. Imagine that, and understand that I cannot even tell an untruth.”

“I shall not imagine nakedness in any form, much less yours. But I see.”

She was telling the truth. He felt it, instinctually and on an intellectual level—she was genuinely desperate. She might be deceiving him in some way, but he suspected there were now levers to pull in the course of a relationship that had not existed before. If ever there was a moment for a mortal to best a god…

“My kingdom is indeed beset, Kasigna. From all sides. I see it crumbling, and I see the limits of my vanity and pride. I cannot hold it together, and if I could for but three generations…the life of every soul in Khelt rests upon my shoulders, and I am weak. Therefore…”

He stepped closer, and her face rose. In relief, she raised shaking hands.

“Take my hands and we shall make a pledge.”

“As equals.”

“Yes, yes. I shall be Goddess of Khelt and Khelt alone. Whatever is within my powers. Restoring that soul called Khelta, your undead. Take my hands. Please.”

He took her hands, and she gasped as he helped her rise to her feet. They stood there as her eyes flickered with relief, and Fetohep waited. Waited until he read her unguarded expression and realized she truly meant every word.

Then he dropped her. She fell forwards, catching herself on the ground with her hands, and gasped.

“What are you…?”

She reached up for his hand, and he slapped it down. Kasigna recoiled, and Fetohep of Khelt stepped back.

“Your words have no lie to them, Kasigna, Crone. Former Goddess of Death. Yet know this: you who have attacked Khelt for countless ages, you who took the souls of my people and Great Khelta herself. You presume for a modicum of mercy after you were given every chance? It is true my kingdom is ailing. It is true I am desperate. But I would rather watch you ooze your last moments of existence onto the sands of Chandrar as I lay impaled by a thousand blades than lift one finger in your aid, even if it meant my own salvation.”

“You…fool. We’ll both perish. Your kingdom. Your people!”

For a moment, he hesitated as she tried to reach up for him. Just for a moment. But then King Fetohep of Khelt stepped back.

“I shall find and reach for every other way. I am not without resource, even now. You are. It may be the pride of the last King of Khelt who will damn us all. But I shall see you die first, wretch. By Great Khelta’s name, die. As you remember Erin Solstice bested you, die twice.”

He spun on his heel. She lay there, panting, then screamed at him, a shriek of desperate rage and defeat, and he smiled.

Just once as he bade himself wake to cruel reality. Kasigna screamed and screamed—

And then Fetohep of Khelt woke up. Grim, despairing as he expected more calamity, but even now, prideful.

His flaw. The mark of Khelt’s rulers. He rose to make an end to this, but he did not know how it would play out.

——

Fetohep’s dream ended, and she was cast into the void between dreaming, the only place a soul such as hers could exist. Reality would have torn her apart, and she had no way to enter death’s door.

She was an idea. A diminishing concept, and she screamed and screamed. But did not weep.

In that way, she and Fetohep were more alike than they would care to admit. Kasigna lay there, unable to even move for a while.

She did not know what became of Fetohep of Khelt or his kingdom after that. If she had any power to influence or see the world…she could do neither. Every scrap of her being was going into maintaining itself, and she had expended much of it just contacting and intercepting his dream.

The only reason Kasigna was still ‘alive’ was because of the faint faith flowing to her from Bethal Walchaís and her few followers and her pact with Archmage Eldavin. But neither had more than scraps of faith. She was fading away without her aspect of death. Soon, she’d be a spectre. A shadow, easily devoured, nameless, losing herself.

That undead king dared to damn himself and her. He…she was so bitter as she gathered her strength to at least picture herself sitting up. He thought he was her death knell. It was not him.

It was a death for a death, as it had always been. A fallen child. A Maiden’s choice. War with the Faerie King’s champion, the treachery of her daughter—

Kasigna knelt there for a moment.

Fetohep of Khelt was wrong. She had run out of almost every trick, every gambit, every shred of power and maneuver she could make, it was true. His had been a true last resort, a genuine offer. She would have even accepted an unequal partnership if he had truly intended to take her deal. But she was not out of options.

She had one…last one. But she had gone to Fetohep of Khelt first, because the last, last option was truly unpleasant. Nevertheless.

“I always live. Always. No matter how long it takes, no matter the indignity.”

Kasigna closed her eyes as she plucked something from the aether that she didn’t have the power for. But even here, it was watching her. Did Isthekenous’ invention gloat? Or did it regard her as just another piece in its endless game?

Either way, she took hold of the object and unfurled it. Kasigna, for the umpteenth time, read and re-read the object she had been given.

She did not like what she read. But slowly, with the trembling fingers of someone who reached for that final breaking blade of grass, she wrote on the glowing contract.

——

Nerrhavia was savoring Chandrar’s dry air far from her homeland when she cracked one eye open.

“What the—”

The unguarded statement had everyone on edge, but she held up a hand. Her general, her warriors—she spoke.

“Silence. Silence—everyone shut up and be absolutely silent.”

Something had activated in her head, but she pulled it out into reality. A contract, one of countless ones she had active. But even Nerrhavia pulled out some reading spectacles because…

“Tyrant?”

Someone whispered, because they’d recognized it too. Nerrhavia read.

She’d signed it. No, wait…the Immortal Tyrant saw a messy scrawl. She was invoking a negotiation clause.

The Goddess known as Kasigna does agree to the terms underlined in the contract, pending negotiation of one term. Namely, marriage to Puppetmaster General and appearances conditional upon…

When the Immortal Tyrant smiled, Maviola fled behind Falamizural, and even her most ardent subjects flinched. The smile warped the air, and even when Nerrhavia stepped away, a blotch on the very spot her face had been remained, terrifying all those who saw it.

She tapped her lips, then slowly wrote back, enunciating each word for her followers to hear.

“[Immediate Reply]. [Diabolical Negotiations: I Hold Every Advantage. Submit.] I do not accept any terms of renegotiation. [Penalty Clause: No One Negotiates With Me]. You will accept the terms of personal marriage to General Astival and adherence to his personal standards of bodily beauty and the penalty of a second forfeiture at my pleasure.”

She flicked the scroll back whence it had come with a smile. Everyone used the negotiation clause. No one thought she could punish them for it.

“Y-Your Immortal Majesty. What if she refuses?”

They were all whispering to her, fearful she might ruin the chances of—Nerrhavia turned to General Astival, who wore the most amusing expression she had ever seen on his face. Not that she ever looked at him.

“She will accept. The desperate have no other recourse.”

All she had to do was wait, and she did, savoring each second of knowing her victory, because it was sweeter for her subject’s uncertainty. When the contract did reappear, it appeared like someone had slashed a name upon the bottom, but there it was:

Kasigna, Goddess, Crone.

Nerrhavia held the scroll up for them to see. Astival stood there, poleaxed, and she smiled.

“When they retell my legends, those of you who were here, remember this moment. All that is possible in any land, I can achieve. Now, I believe…”

She conjured a quill of blood and dipped it in a pot of ink. Nerrhavia put her quill upon the waiting space for her mark and wrote.

‘Denied.’

She reached down, peeled something off the parchment, rolled the scroll up, then spoke.

“[Reject Contract: Explosive Words]. [Immediate Reply].”

She flicked the scroll, and it vanished. Nerrhavia was only disappointed she couldn’t see the results. She turned to Astival, whose mouth hung open like all of them.

Oh, how she laughed. Threw her head back and laughed and laughed.

Such joy had not come to her since, well, her previous life. Then the laughter ended. Nerrhavia turned away from them all, contemptuous.

“I shall indulge myself in small celebration. To forestall the foolish nattering—my enemies suffer and perish. This moment was worth setting up. Perhaps it was her very end.”

“But Your Majesty, it would have been glorious. The br—er, the potential of such a servant!”

General Astivan was now stricken with regrets. She shot him a look that pierced his chest, but she indulged him, because she supposed even he had his passions. She tsked.

“Astival, you are a fool unfitting the jester’s role in a true court of mine.”

He knelt instantly, pressing his head to the sand.

“Yes, Tyrant!”

“Yet I sense your doubts.”

“Never, Tyrant!”

“Shut up.”

He was silent. Nerrhavia lifted something between her fingers. And Astival peeked upwards as she smiled.

“Astival, what is this?”

The [Puppetmaster General] stared at whatever she was holding. It was thin, nigh on translucent, and it had a quality he suspected instantly to be magic or something only Nerrhavia could conjure. He rose, and she allowed him to peer at it.

“It…looks like…words, Your Majesty?”

Such a banal answer, but it was correct. Nerrhavia sighed as she held it out for him with both fingers.

“You just saw it.”

It took him another minute, then someone gasped, and Astival’s eyes widened. He recoiled, and Nerrhavia held up…

Kasigna. Goddess. Crone.

The dead goddess’ signature. Nerrhavia’s smile was very sweet.

“The ink and very stuff of the divine. What need have I of a mewling goddess I must nurture like some…thing that one nurtures to health if I have the stuff of her being? I must use this in a very fitting contract.”

So saying, she began to unknit the words, rendering it down into a substance she thought of much like ink. Of course, had she wanted to, she could have affixed the signature to a contract and forced Kasigna into it, but she was already worthless.

Which was more valuable? A treacherous, weakened goddess with no loyalty and too many variables, or the last lifeblood and her very essence scrawled upon the page, fit for use?

“Both would be amusing, but I owed Merindue that. To work.”

Nerrhavia began to walk onwards, but then she stopped, and glanced to the side, where she calculated an invisible camera might be, or the omniscient observer if one existed. Her best side, naturally. She spoke, with a hint of that smile playing on her lips, mischief from a mind without peer.

“I expect to regain a level from this moment. If not, I shall hold you to account, overseer of levels. Though, regardless, I shall be double-checking your accounting. We must be consistent, and fair. The rules should be equal, should they not? If they are designed to perfection, which I shall judge.”

She flicked her head back and smiled, archly, and yes.

Nerrhavia, the Immortal Tyrant, annoyed and possibly unsettled everything.

——

Then the world focused on Khelt as the premonition of [Kings] became an idea in the minds of observers, a story repeated on the news.

Rumor becoming fact by layers of repetition. Truth leaking from broken shards of pottery.

A breaking throne. Paradise falling, the gates unbarred by a Prophet reaching for god.

The streets filled with wailing people begging for a sleeping king.

A glowing, red-eyed vizir, who stood in the wreckage of a dream he had seen rise and now crumble within his lifetime.

He said only one thing to the Heir of Khelt, the woman who was unworthy of the throne and unworthy of the burden she was being handed. Vizir Hecrelunn’s voice was the gentlest he had spoken since the day he had lived countless thousands of years ago.

“There is but one tradition of Khelt you should continue, Heir of Khelta’s wishes. In the days when she breathed and lived, they still feared the return of Dragon’s wings. Hence, the bell they gifted us, that every nation across this world who took arms against them might hear it. When Khelt falls, ring the bells. That is how it is done for great nations. Once, a warning. Thrice, a call to arms. Eight times for great triumph or tragedy; ring it eight. And when it rings without end, look up.”

Then he floated out of the throne room, casting magic like a man trying to part the very desert itself by will alone.

——

They felt it. Not in some metaphorical way, but a very real, very tangible instinct. A sense allocated only to other monarchs. To those who held up the idea that was called ‘nations’, they had a sense of other nations. Beyond auras.

Something liminal, half-defined, not fully actualized in truth. Like many things, a possibility that some day might bloom into full existence. An unwalked path so few had even stepped down, thought up by the God of Games himself. Yet nevertheless, they felt it.

——

Sitting upon his throne in Avel, the King of Bows ate too much buttered popcorn. He was developing a bit of a paunch again, but every time he felt himself regaining weight, he ran a mile and shot a hundred arrows, and it rather worked. But he was a restless man, and so he did hover around the television too much. If he could not go to the New Lands, what else was there for him to do?

Rule? Good one, Minister of Defense. Oh, look what’s on the scrying orb!

He had been watching the news when an unusual piece of commentary from Nerrhavia’s Wonders appeared. Normally, King Itreimedes only watched it for the Horns of Hammerad or gladiatorial fights (or those rather alluring [Dancers], but he had to do that in private), but a strange segment had caught his attention.

“A what in Khelt? A [Prophet]?”

It didn’t sound like a regular thing. Wasn’t Khelt that place with the undead king? Horrible, outrageous, but rather funny—his neighbors in Noelictus didn’t like the idea of sentient undead, but King Itreimedes thought the fellow was nothing like regular undead or even normal Revenants.

He watched a broadcast summarizing recent events in Khelt, and the newscasters seemed as astonished as he. Some Prophet and ‘People of Lod’ or something—Itreimedes didn’t do details, but they had invaded Khelt. And Khelt had a bug problem. Mostly, it was surprising that anyone had passed Khelt’s borders, because, well, the undead.

Perhaps something was wrong. King Itreimedes stared at a few images of the border of Khelt. Flashes of light, recorded when people had seen some kind of attack spell raining down. He reached for another handful of popcorn, but he found, suddenly, he’d lost his appetite.

“Bah. I’ve got better things to be doing than watching some robed man shout about invisible rulers.”

He got up, grumbling, and rather to his court’s surprise, Itreimedes bade them bring him issues of the realm. He sat upon his throne, not really improving the state of things because he had to be told often why his decisions wouldn’t actually work or be the optimal choice, but Itreimedes sat there for hours, working.

He wasn’t hungry. His stomach hurt, and he waved away a snack, then dinner.

He could not say why.

——

Itreimedes was a different sort of [King] than most. He was lazy, inexperienced, and did not use his class nearly to the fullest.

What he sensed, from even a world’s remove, was felt far, far more strongly by an experienced man who had time to know himself and the weight of crowns.

King Nuvityn of Erribathe was at sea. He had been at sea for a long damn time, it felt, but travel was like that. He had no Skills to move anywhere quick because the King of Myths usually stayed in his domain, and the seas…

He’d heard all the excuses, and the [Captain] was doing his best, but they were off-course, and finding one’s bearings was difficult. Stormy skies meant no navigation by starlight, and his ships were warded against scrying, making their own position relatively invisible to themselves as well as enemies.

Even Magus Tserre claimed coordinates were not her great speciality, but she thought they were closing on Izril’s north, where he wanted to dock. First Landing, then south to Liscor. It felt like they should have arrived…but Nuvityn had time.

He had taken to sitting on the deck of his ship, observing birds, the sea, the moving of waves, all the things to delight eyes which had for centuries seen only Erribathe. But a great weight had settled upon him, and when one of his people worked up the courage to ask him why…

They sacrificed Vernoue, the Princess. He could see them pushing her out to ask him what they were too shy to. She bowed hurriedly.

“Your Majesty, does something ail you? If you require a tonic for seasickness or—a chat?”

He glanced at Prildor, Voreca, Miihey, Andromeda, all of whom ducked behind one of the cabins like children. Perhaps it was his pensive face. He gestured to his seat as he stood.

“No seasickness, I am pleased to note. Nor does anything ail me, but a chat may do. Sit with me, Princess. Tell me. Do you feel it too?”

She would not take a seat until one was hurried out, then she sat, peering into the distance and at him.

“I…I don’t believe I do, Your Majesty. Is it some great aura? Are we passing near some wreck, or is it the Five Families?”

He grimaced, shaking his head.

“I swear I felt them a while back—nothing now. It makes me feel like we’re going the wrong way, but I know better than to argue with our [Captain]. No. It does not surprise me you don’t feel it. This is a thing of monarchs. Those who sit on the throne. It is distant. I am surprised I feel it, but the place is old. So old. I had not realized it. We call them enemies, and I think we sent…perhaps my Kingdom of Myths did not. I don’t know. All I know is that it’s crumbling.”

His speech was nonsensical, and Vernoue tried to decode it.

“Another nation, Your Majesty? The Drakes?”

“Too close at hand. Further. I see…”

He closed his eyes.

“I see a throne of bones. A horrid sight, or it should be. Yet it is not. There are no screaming skulls, no yellowed bones. Just gold. Riches beyond measure and hands, limbs, joined together. Something made of its people—monstrous for it is built of them and upon their backs. But what nation is not? The throne looms over them, yet it is so humble. It is a shelter from the rain, a warden of each and every soul. Shield, sword, servant. I have never seen the like. And now…it is breaking.”

Her eyes were wide, but she breathed with that insight that was her heritage.

“You must mean Khelt, Your Majesty. Is something wrong with it?”

“Yes. It stands upon a precipice.”

He knew it in his marrow. What the nature of the threat was, he could not say. Only that he had sensed it.

“It is a great nation, an old one, Vernoue. It may be wrong to say, but the nations Ailendamus broke were not so…notable to me. Perhaps it was because I was careless. But most that Ailendamus and Taimaguros defeated were younger or failing already. This? This is like one of the oldest of thrones vanishing. And there are so few who made it this far. Sometimes, I dream of them. Shattered thrones. Kingdoms broken, some glorious, some mad.”

This was the power of [Kings], for the little good it did. It served the purpose of making his subjects and the young [Princess] wide-eyed, so Nuvityn supposed it was a fine power after all.

Even so, the King of Myths just sighed.

“He is an ally of my one true enemy in this world. But I cannot celebrate this. For look.”

He pointed, with a flair for the dramatic, and thought Vernoue almost saw it a moment. Nuvityn bitterly let his eyes see that lonely land.

“If his nation was so wretched, pitiful, and evil—why does the throne stand untarnished? It has its grime, its flaws—show me a nation that does not. But it shines.”

“And it’s breaking?”

“Yes. It may not break completely, but…”

Nuvityn listened. He closed his eyes and heard gold cracking. Never to be repaired.

——

Many might sense it. The King of Destruction may turn, on a whim, and call for Trey, like a warhound scenting an unexpected skirmish. Or the Empress of Tiqr might halt in her battles to reclaim her kingdom and feel as though carrion vultures were circling.

But a person who sensed it who was not a [King] was the humble [Witch].

Wiskeria. She stood in that world of rusted laws and ancient thrones. It seemed not so grand to her. But that was perhaps because she was a [Witch of Laws], not someone who admired thrones.

She stood in this place, which was a power the likes of which even her mother might not know of. This pleased Wiskeria, though it unsettled the other [Witches] when Wiskeria claimed to be able to actually step here. Someone had asked if that was a metaphor, a simile.

“What good [Witch] cannot step into the pages of a story?”

—Though that was definitely old magic. Absently, Wiskeria tugged at one of her legs; it had gotten stuck. She gave up, and it unwound as she hopped, one-legged, across the rusty ground filled with dripping water.

She wondered if she could steal something from the broken thrones. Or even an ‘intact’ one. It probably had consequences. Weigh them, choose the ones you could live with, or make someone else pay the costs. It was dangerous, but her mother had millenia on her. Matching her in any way required risk.

…But not, perhaps, taking from this throne. It was probably an ally in the grand scheme of things. Wiskeria peered at the broken gold and the crack running down the length of it.

“You are dying. Something is breaking beyond repair, forever. It was already broken. Now, what? Perception? A crown is only a crown so long as it shines upon your head and all believe in it. If a half-Elf steals it, does it matter so much?”

A fragment of gold flaked away as Wiskeria watched, falling into the rust-covered waters that were all that remained of this place. Broken laws…yes. She whispered.

“What is a law if it cannot be enforced? Your dead are gone. Flailing…sinking. Crumbling, breaking. You are dying. Sleep now and fall to pieces gently. Do not rot, beautiful Khelt. Fall, and become pieces still etched with gold so that someone may take them and forge the next law and crown anew.”

She rested one hand on the golden throne as it shuddered, as if feeling her words. Then, gently, like one of [Mercy’s Healers] closing the eyes of a patient, she drew a knife and put one knee upon the throne. Reaching out towards the crack, ready to thrust and widen the gyre and break it ap—

——

The explosion blew out every window in the neighborhood, and when Briganda rushed onto the scene with Alevica, members of the army, and pinpointed the epicenter of the blast, they found Wiskeria lying on her back.

Her robes, made by Belavierr herself, had kept her alive, but golden flecks fell off the cloth as she stood. Wiskeria stared at her tattered robes as her clothing—the clothing her mother had made—revealed places where gold had replaced cloth.

The explosion had nearly ripped her right leg off her body. It was broken in three places. She hopped around on it as Briganda stared in horror then began shouting for a [Healer]. Wiskeria glanced down at her dagger—the charred stump of it was melting onto her fingers.

“Well, maybe not just yet. That was an unpleasant lesson. Could someone send for Witch Eloise? I have a shard of pottery sticking out of the back of my head. Why pottery instead of gold or bone? I think it missed my brain.”

Then she fell forwards onto her face.

——

Paradise lost. Or being lost. Armies marching.

It was such a foreign, strange land, this Chandrar. The fate of entire nations was shifting about, and it seemed like it was all too vast and far-away. Pictures in a storybook or scrying orb.

Far beyond the deeds of mere men and women to alter, surely. Regular people were but ants caught up in a whirlwind of fate and other people’s stories.

But that was the thing about ants. They were only as small as they thought they were. Sometimes, mere ants rose to be…important. In their own little ways.

The first thing he said, as they stood at the prow of the ship, sails blowing wide behind them, was:

“Dry. The air tastes drier here.”

Pawn’s mandibles opened and closed, and he felt the wind coming off the coast blowing in his face as Yellow Splatters turned. The [Captain] of the Painted Antinium nodded once as Purple Smile rubbed at his chin.

“I have heard it is also sandy. I hope taking my vacation was worth the trip. It is using all my vacation days for the year.”

“We sacrifice much in the name of helping friends, Yellow Splatters. We shall commend your valiant efforts in prayer tonight.”

The crew of the ship listened to the Antinium speaking with a wide-eyed and wary reserve, even after their time on board the ship. But the Courier’s ship, the Four Winds of Teral, had been paid exorbitant fees for this trip, and now…Pawn’s head craned to see, but he knew Khelt was far inland.

“I am told a second ship is meeting us.”

“It is land, though. Unless a river runs to this paradise?”

“Apparently, this ship runs on land.”

The other Painted Antinium turned to Pawn, and after a moment, one nodded wisely.

“Aha. Then Anand truly was visionary. Landships.”

It made sense to them. None of the crew really had the heart to correct the Antinium. Rabbitears, Starfold, Salted Pork, π, a small band who was answering the call of a foreign king.

It wasn’t like they had anything better to do.

And yes, surely there were consequences, but as Pawn had observed, there always were; even if you just tried to live your life without bothering anyone, they were sneaking up behind you to hit you with something just for existing. So you might as well do what you wanted.

That sounded pretty good, actually, so he flipped open a page of his journal and wrote it down in case it would become part of his holy work, The Wondrous Sky (title in progress). Some Antinium had suggested it should be called the Book of Erin, but he wasn’t sure if it was appropriate.

He’d brought a copy for Fetohep and autographed it just in case he could sneak it into Khelt’s library. However—Pawn glanced at the scrying orb.

“It sounds like Khelt is in more trouble than we thought.”

“Maybe we should have brought all the Painted Antinium. Eighty of us will not be able to fight effectively, Pawn.”

Yellow Splatters was worried, but Pawn just clacked his mandibles absently.

“A thousand of us would be too hard to transport. Faith moves mountains. We’ll have to squash most of our enemies with that. We shall be strategic. Be ready, everyone.”

He kept staring just to the right, not quite at the harbor of one of Medain’s cities or the coast the other Antinium were admiring. A few of the other Painted Antinium were following Pawn’s gaze, though the crew could not see anything…Pawn touched the dangling censer at his side, then the simple wooden club he carried, and the air hung unnaturally around him.

“I sense a great work ahead of us. Thousands of tiny little…insects. Joining together to create some vast bug. Which I realize is not a flattering image to non-Antinium, but it seems beautiful to me. What do you see?”

The other Antinium murmured.

“I see nothing.”

“Nor I.”

“I think someone farted.”

“It is wrathful. An angry light. A gateway to…”

Pawn glanced at one of the [Priests] who spoke, then nodded. Another whispered.

“I see gates. They shift in my mind, but they are shiny. Pearly, and they hold a land that does not look like what I believe Heaven to be like. It is beautiful and locked.”

The [Priest of Wrath and Sky] peered again, and then nodded again. He adjusted his robes, took hold of his book, club, and censer in his hands, and grasped the railing with his fourth hand.

“Yes. So that’s what the kingdom of heaven looks like. Let’s break those gates open. They may have their version of heaven. But not paradise.”

Author’s Note:

Hello, if you’re seeing this chapter a bit early or late, apologies, but I am on my break for the month and I am using that time to visit family. So I’ll be travelling, and I’ve rushed to edit this chapter in preparation for a trip.

It’s important to take time to do that kind of thing, but I will be candid about this being a rather tiring month despite it being the first one off break. Lots of personal real life stuff which always gets in the way of writing itself. Some stress, but I think, positive and good on the whole. Just tiring.

You notice this isn’t like how I used to talk about constant exhaustion in writing chapters? That was writing burnout pushing to levels I don’t think I could sustain again without a lot of pain. This is just hating mundane stuff. Especially airplanes and airports. It’s not the flying that gets me, it’s the waiting around in terminals.

I digress. This is the third Fetohep-Khelt chapter and as you may have noticed, it’s not the last. I really was attempting to wrap Fetohep’s arc in 3 chapters or less, but I am the fool. If I had clown makeup I’d apply it, but I’d be doing that with every arc.

It’s 4 chapters, and it’s not going to be more than that. How do I know? I have written the 4th chapter, and it is awaiting tons of edits, but I finally have a 1-chapter backlog for after break. It’s very, very hard to rebuild backlogs but this chapter?

It finishes the arc and well enough, or so I think from initial reactions. I do have to edit it to make it quality, but I have hopes this will end well. Oh, and another reason to sigh at my hubris…the final chapter is in excess of 60,000 words. Turns out a lot of wrapup is needed.

Await that after I get back from break, and thank you for the understanding. Wish me luck as I jet across the skies, only I don’t have a private jet. Seems like it’d be nice, but way too expensive, bad for the environment, and gets you put in the rich people club. Which is not the place to be if you’re a decent person. Then again, Fetohep’s rich, and perhaps that’s why this arc is not so simple. I’ll put my thoughts together after I get back from break. Until then, thanks for reading!

—pirateaba

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