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Chapter 2: Day 2

Paran woke up slowly.

The sheets were unfamiliar. Soft, light blue linen.

He lifted his head groggily. 

What?

Oh yeah.

He was in the Count's house, in a small room just off the kitchens.

I made it! He lifted his fist into the air triumphantly.

He sat up and stepped over to the mirror, marveling at his reflection. A six-foot-tall mirror would have been a luxury before, and now he had one all to himself.

Back at the yard, a mirror this size would have been sold before anyone got to look in it.

He opened the wardrobe next to it and marveled again. Five shirts, three uniforms, one set of formal wear. Two pairs of boots. So many options.

All light blue, though.

Not that he minded.

A knock at his door.

Huh?

He opened it cautiously, keeping one hand behind the door where a knife would have been, if anyone had bothered to give him one.

A boy waited in the hall. Maybe ten years old. Sandy-haired.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Provisional Knight Paran,” the boy bowed perfectly. “I have been assigned to you as your squire. My name is Kit. It is my honor to serve you.”

“Squire? Kit?” Paran questioned.

“Yes, sir.”

Paran considered for a moment.

“Ah,” he snapped his fingers. “Kit, you're from the slums, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stop being so formal, I'm only seven years older than you,” Paran chastised him. “I recognized your accent. So, how did you become a squire?”

Kit looked uncomfortable. “My mother had connections to someone important. She sent me here to work.”

“Ah, an illegitimate heir, got it,” Paran said, nodding. “So, they assigned you to me, figures. Two rats from different litters, so to speak.”

“Please don't talk about me that way, sir,” Kit said, a touch of edge entering his voice. “I work hard. I behave myself. I learn fast. I've earned my place.”

“You know that doesn’t matter,” Paran grinned. “But,” he held up a hand, stopping Kit's interjection, “what we can do, is fight so incredibly viciously that they'll have no choice but to acknowledge us.”

Kit did a fascinatingly accurate imitation of a fish for a moment, then he nodded. “Be that as it may, Sir, I was sent to get you ready for your first day in service.”

“I'm not some noble brat,” Paran said. “I can dress myself.”

“As you wish, sir,” Kit said. “Then can I assume you know how to wear your uniform properly?”

Paran hesitated.

“I thought not,” Kit supplied. “I suppose I can inspect it for you, once you're ready.”

Paran grinned. “I think we'll get along famously, Kit.”

“I hope so, sir.”

---

Paran drank deeply from his glass.

The drink that had been introduced to him as “Amber” was delicious.

Sweet, with essential vitamins and minerals mixed in, with the option for a slow-release energy boost.

And quite unlike anything available in the slums.

He dug into the morning meal with gusto. It consisted of a nutritious, balanced spread of silky smooth grains, fresh fruit, eggs, and a delicacy Kit called “gelatin.”

He paused as a shadow fell over him.

“Provisional Knight Paran,” the man greeted him. “I am Serg, another Knight serving House Draykneff. I was wondering, after your fine showing yesterday, if you might have it in you to do some contact sparring after breakfast.”

Paran regarded him coldly. On one hand, it smelled like a trap. On the other hand, this might be an opportunity to learn beyond what he'd already been through. 

After all, fighting one man only teaches you so much.

“Sure,” Paran grinned. “I'll be happy to give you some instruction in the sword!”

The man's eyebrow twitched, but he said nothing. He bowed, just barely, and withdrew.

“I'm not sure that was the best choice, sir,” Kit said a moment later. “A number of the Knights were quite upset with what happened the other day. I fear they might mean you harm.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Paran waved away the objection. “That’s never stopped me before. Now, tell me how to get to the training area, then go take a break for a few hours.”

“Yes, sir,” Kit leaned over and tapped his communicator a couple of times, then sent the map over to Paran's.

Paran finished his breakfast, then made his way to the training room.

As he entered, the door shut behind him automatically. Then he heard the distinct clanking of the lock dropping into place.

There were three men waiting for him, including Sir Serg. 

They didn't look like they were there for a pleasant chat.

Paran cackled before he could stop himself, drew his brand-new sword, and advanced on the trio.

This is going to be fun!

---

Paran shuddered, breathing heavily.

He'd done better this time, but numbers were numbers.

One Knight was formidable enough; throw two soldiers into the mix and it was no wonder he was slowly bleeding out.

They're used to working together.

Useful information. Just not useful quickly enough.

They rushed forward again, blades ready.

Paran gritted his teeth.

This part sucks.

A thrust broke past his guard.

Darkness took him.

Then, he woke up in his new bedroom, soft blue linen filling his vision once again.

---

“Can I reject a formal request to spar?” Paran asked Kit as he fixed his collar in the mirror.

“That's a possibility,” Kit said hesitantly. “However, you would need a good reason, otherwise you would simply be seen as unreliable.”

“Unreliable, huh?” Paran said, zipping his uniform jacket. “What does that mean?”

“Well, it means other Knights might mistrust you in battle, but more importantly, it can affect your employment prospects,” Kit replied. “Unreliable Knights don't get hired, and don't get their contracts renewed.”

“I see.” Paran turned to Kit. “How do I look?”

Kit looked him over critically. “Presentable.”

“Good, let's go get breakfast.”

That was the second attempt. It ended badly too, but at least he learned something.

---

“Provisional Knight Paran-”

“Kit, right? Squire from the slums?” Paran asked rhetorically. “Let me get dressed. I'll have you double check my uniform, then we can go to breakfast.”

“Sir-” The door shut in Kit's face.

Momentarily, Paran reopened the door. “Well, what do you think?”

“It seems you wear the uniform competently, sir,” Kit observed. “Let us make our way to the hall.”

“Lead the way.”

Minutes later Paran sat down to breakfast. The familiar spread before him was only slightly less impressive than before.

Soon, that shadow fell over him once again.

“Provisional Knight Paran,” the man greeted him again. “I am Serg, another Knight serving House Draykneff. I was wondering, after your fine showing yesterday, if you might have it in you to do some contact sparring after breakfast.”

Paran ate a spoonful of creamed wheat, chewing thoughtfully as he ignored the man, who became increasingly indignant.

Finally, he set down his spoon, stretched, then turned to Sir Serg.

“If you’re trying to ambush someone, you could at least make it less obvious.”

“How dare you accuse me of such a thing!” Sir Serg recoiled as if struck. “Are you questioning my honor?”

“Mmm...” Paran said through a bite of fruit. “Nah. More like, I'm denying its existence altogether.”

“How dare you!” Serg barked. “You… You upstart commoner!”

“Yeah, I suppose I am,” Paran agreed. “Still, what are you going to do? Either admit I was right or challenge me. I just hope you're a lot better than Kiran.”

“Sir Paran,” Kit said from behind him. “It's not a good idea to-”

“To what? Antagonize my betters?” Paran questioned. “What you are forgetting, Kit, is that I am quite keen for a fight, and none of these schoolboys in fancy uniforms know what a real fight costs.”

Sir Serg let out a strangled noise.

Then he coughed, recomposed himself, and stepped back.

“Sir Paran, I challenge you,” Serg declared. “You've insulted the honor of every man here, so I would expect further challenges. Let's see how you fare against all of us.”

“As amusing as that sounds,” Paran said, chewing the last bite of his breakfast, “I only chose this path because I wanted to see how it played out.”

He took a drink of Amber.

“Fighting endless duels sounds exhausting, so I'd rather just face you and your two friends in the training hall,” Paran finished. 

He stood up, withdrew the chef's knife he'd stolen from the kitchen from within his coat, then slit his own throat.

Gasps rose around him. Kit screamed his name.

Darkness.

Then, the light blue linen again.

---

Three hundred fifty-four attempts.

Way less than Paran thought it would take.

He was not sure what that said about him.

He heaved, leaning against the wall, gulping for breath. Blood ran down his body in several places, and his uniform was certainly ruined.

But he was alive.

He raised his communicator to his mouth, transmitting on the general channel.

“This is Provisional Knight Paran. I was ambushed in the Sixth training hall. I need medics, fast.”

The response came from Central Communications almost immediately.

“Copy that, Sir Paran, dispatching guards and medics to your location. Hold off your ambushers for one minute to buy time for staff to get on site, over.”

“I already beat the ambush,” Paran replied. “Three down. One Knight, two soldiers. I’m hurt, but still standing.”

There was a long pause, then:

“Copy.”

Paran grinned to himself.

I lived!

---

Sitting up in a hospital bed in the medical wing, Paran chatted with the doctor casually as the man ran a device down one of his wounds.

It cleaned and closed each wound slowly, using a canister of builder materials to formulate replacement tissue. It was a slow, painful process.

“I dare say, young man,” the doctor said. “You are the first man I’ve seen refuse painkillers for this procedure who’s stuck to that decision.”

“Yeah, well,” Paran pushed his hair back with his free hand. “Getting turned into a human skewer a few times makes pain a very relative experience.”

The doctor gave him an odd look, then shook his head. “Look, just because this machine fixes you, doesn’t mean you can get up and run around immediately. You’ll need to rest and recuperate a bit. I’ll check in with you later.”

“Sure thing, doctor!” Paran said cheerily. “I’ll try to only fight one Knight or soldier at a time for a while.”

“Lunatic,” the doctor muttered as he left the room.

Paran reclined, closing his eyes and listening to the buzzing of the medical machine.

Minutes later, his peace was momentarily interrupted.

“Would you care for a glass of Amber, sir?” A small voice asked.

Paran opened his eyes to a squire standing at the door with a tray containing two pitchers and several cups.

“Sure,” Paran agreed. “Just the regular one, though.”

He’d earned it.

The boy nodded, setting his tray on the table by the door. He poured from the pitcher on the right carefully, doing his best not to spill a single drop or overfill the cup.

“Thank you,” Paran said, taking the cup from the boy.

He took a long drink.

The boy stood there, as if waiting for something.

“Sorry, did you neeeeeeeee…” Paran’s chest seized, muscles contracting all at once as his heart froze.

Son of a bitch.

Darkness claimed him.

Then came that damn blue linen again.

---

It took him another twelve attempts to survive the training hall cleanly enough to reach the infirmary again.

This time, when the doctor left and the young squire appeared at the door, Paran was ready.

“Would you care for a glass of Amber, sir?”

“Sure,” Paran said, swinging his legs off the bed and sliding over to be closer to the table. “Regular for me.”

The young squire picked up the right pitcher again, struggling against its weight.

“Here, let me help.” Paran deftly took the handle and poured the cup.

“Actually…” He paused, turned another cup upright, and filled it halfway. “Have one yourself. You’ve earned it.”

Paran picked it up and pressed it into his hands.

His fingers were too small around the glass.

“Go on. Drink.”

The boy shook his head wordlessly.

Paran hated the words as he said them.

“A Knight gave you an order,” Paran said in a serious tone. “And you always obey a Knight's orders, right?”

The boy stared at him, trembling.

Paran leaned down and whispered.

“Tell me who's forcing you, and I will gut them like a pig.”

The young boy looked down at his shoes and mumbled.

“I can't hear you.”

“I cannot!” The boy cried, head rising. “It was me! It was my decision! No one else!”

Paran withdrew, considering.

Then:

“Are you prepared to accept that kind of responsibility?” he asked.

The boy looked down again.

After a long moment, he spoke.

“Prepared or not, I have no choice.”

---

The guards shut the door loudly, taking the young squire away to his fate. The whole room seemed to breathe in perfect stillness for a moment after they left.

Paran watched the door for a moment.

“So, where did you get that shiner?” Paran asked Kit as he reclined in his hospital bed.

“Some of the other squires take issue with you,” Kit shrugged, his face puffy and red under his eye. “Because you’re beyond their reach, they strike for who they can.”

“That’s rough,” Paran said, considering. “Need me to step in?”

Kit shook his head. 

“They are foolish and misplace their anger,” he said. “However, I must show I can stand on my own. I do not want a reputation of dependence on the kindness of others.”

“Fair enough,” Paran closed his eyes. “I’m going to sleep for a bit. Do whatever. I don’t care.”

“Not very polite,” Kit observed. “And not very nice either.”

Paran’s chest moved rhythmically. He was already asleep.

---

Next

Chapter 1:

“Paran, get your lazy ass up!”

Paran jerked awake, rolling off the bed as he reached for his boots. He knew that tone.

As he hopped out of the room he shared with three other boys on one foot, tugging on his boot, the Boss was there to meet him.

“There you are, you dog,” the Boss grunted. “Hurry up and set up the cart. The boys got some good scrap last night. Run it to the recycler for me.”

“Yes, Boss,” Paran nodded, grabbing his jacket off the rack.

“And you better not get in any trouble,” Boss warned.

“I never ask for trouble, Boss.”

Boss's eyes narrowed. “Shit. Shit twice. Hurry up before I smack you.”

“Yes, Boss,” Paran nodded, slipping out into the yard.

In the yard some of the other boys stood around talking, arguing, and moving copper conduit into the back of the truck. The truck shuddered, pipes coughing soot into the yard.

Paran wished, for the thousandth time, that they had antimatter drive instead of this choking old beast. But antimatter was for people with money.

Not scrappers.

“We loaded yet?” he questioned, pulling on his gloves.

“Almost,” Santin replied, looking down at his tablet. “Four hundred more pounds, then you can go.”

Paran grunted, yanking open the door to the truck's cab. The handle always stuck a bit. Then he hopped up into the driver’s seat and did his prechecks.

“Tire pressure good, oil good, fuel good,” he muttered. “Signals work, good brake response…” He tapped the mirror control gently, making a final adjustment. “Good to go.”

He leaned out the window and gave a thumbs up to Santin, who nodded and barked something at the others. Seconds later, the tailgate slammed upwards, locking into place.

The truck rumbled out of the courtyard, slow and ponderous, like a beast of myth.

---

Paran desperately pulled the truck over to the side of the road as the sirens resounded around him.

Soon came the announcement. “Make way for His Excellency, Count Draykneff, Lord of these lands!”

He gritted his teeth as the ancient engine choked. “C’mon…” he muttered.

Seconds later, it died, the rear end of the truck still blocking the road.

“Fuck…” He kicked open the door, hopping down. He pulled the first hood latch and ran around to the other side, ready to throw open the second.

Too late.

The lead car stopped, hovering in the air, its antimatter engines whining. Soon, the rest of the motorcade followed suit.

The lead car could have climbed over him, if the road had been open above. But the old industrial lane ran beneath a lattice of pipes and power conduits. 

“Move aside, driver!” The voice within commanded.

Paran bowed, or at least did his best to. “I’m sorry, your lordships, the engine has died. Please give me a moment, if you would.”

Instead of responding, the engines changed pitch, winding down as the lead vehicle settled onto the road.

Paran froze.

Out of the vehicle stepped two soldiers, clad in light blue uniforms, with shield generators at their belts, hands resting on their blades.

“We said: Move!” One of them barked.

Paran regained his senses. “I’m sorry, the engine is dead. I’ll need a minute to get it running.”

“Hurry up! Or it won’t just be the engine that’s dead!” the other one said.

Paran nodded, turning to undo the second hood latch. Then he moved around the front, grabbing the hood handle and throwing his entire body backwards to hinge the bonnet open.

“This is taking too long!” came from one of the cars further back. “Run that thing off the road.”

“As you command, my Lord,” one of the soldiers spoke into the band on his wrist.

“Please, wait!” Paran pleaded. “It’s not my truck! I’ll have it moving in a moment!”

“Move aside!” One of the soldiers barked, advancing. “We’re going to ram this hulk with our vehicle. If you resist, you will be killed.”

Paran shook his head. “You don’t understand, if my Boss finds out I got the truck destroyed-”

“I said,” the one advancing drew his sword, blue energy glowing along its edge. “Move.”

Paran hesitated, glancing between the man and his truck. No truck was worth his life, but if he went back to the Boss with no money, no scrap, and no truck, he’d probably be killed anyway.

“Please forgive me,” Paran said quietly, seeing only one choice.

When the guard was within a few feet, Paran yanked the breaker bar from the rack on the truck’s door and swung with all his might.

Bounce.

It ricocheted off the man’s belt shield.

Moving too fast, Paran thought.

The soldier laughed cruelly, then stepped forwards with a clean thrust.

Paran looked down as pain flared through his body. The blade stuck out of his chest.

That hurts, he thought.

Then he collapsed.

His vision folded inward.

Then there was nothing.

“Paran, get your lazy ass up!”

Paran jerked awake.

He was back in his room at the scrappers, heart beating so fast it nearly jumped out of his chest.

He yanked off his shirt, examining.

No wound, no bandages.

What the fuck?

---

As the truck coughed and died, Paran swore again.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He bashed the steering wheel with his fist.

The same siren, the same announcement.

He kicked open the truck door, stepping out onto the road. He ignored the orders coming from the motorcade. He’d done this before.

When the two soldiers stepped out of their vehicle and approached him, he ignored them.

Finally, one of them got tired of his blatant disrespect and approached him, sword in hand.

Paran turned. “How do your shields define force?”

The man stopped. “What?”

“They’ll stop a breaker bar swung hard enough,” Paran said. “But what about other things?”

The man regarded him warily. “Why do you want to know?”

“No reason.” Paran raised the brake cleaner and lighter. “Think fast.”

Fwoosh!

The flame struck the shield, but crucially, many of the aerosolized droplets weren’t stopped.

The man staggered back, screaming as he was set ablaze.

The other soldier drew his own blade reflexively.

Paran stepped forward, raising the can. The soldier flinched back.

“Ah, beans,” Paran grunted as nothing came out on the second press of the nozzle.

The soldier grinned wickedly and advanced.

Paran threw the can and lighter in opposite directions, opening his arms.

“See you soon,” he said as he felt that familiar, painful piercing sensation.

His world turned sideways.

Then went to black.

“Paran, get your lazy ass up!”

Paran woke shaking.

Then, despite himself, he grinned.

---

“I hate this,” Paran muttered as he pulled the truck over again.

There’s no other road I can take, though.

This was his fifth time pulling the truck over in the same spot.

The third time, he’d tried saving some brake cleaner for the other soldier, but that hadn’t worked. There was only enough for one.

The fourth time, he’d used the truck as a bomb. Rag in the gas tank, a touch from his lighter. It had been impressive.

It had also blown him up.

Sub-optimal.

He waited as the soldiers climbed out of their vehicle and approached him.

He picked up a length of copper pipe, tucked it into his belt, then stepped forwards.

“Gentlemen!” he greeted them. “How about a bet?”

They pulled up short.

“Me against one of you. Metal to metal. No energy edge. If I win, you give me ten minutes to get the truck moving. If you win, I’ll be dead, and it won’t matter.”

One of the soldiers hesitated, lifting his wristband to his mouth.

“His Lordship is amused,” the taller one said after a moment. He drew his sword and thumbed the blue edge off. “He grants your audacious request.”

“Thank you.” Paran bowed. “I’m Paran. What’s your name?”

The soldier stepped forward. “Doesn’t matter. You won’t live long enough to use it.”

“Fair enough,” Paran sighed, drawing his pipe and setting his feet. “Let’s go.”

The soldier came within striking distance. Then came that familiar thrust.

Paran sidestepped the blade and swung the pipe slowly enough to feel ridiculous.

It passed through the shield.

Success!

He smacked the man’s wrist with the pipe.

The soldier grunted in pain, withdrawing his hand closer to his body. He regarded Paran warily.

Paran, sensing an opportunity, closed the distance.

The soldier’s arm flicked out. 

A new cut, one he hadn’t seen before.

This one made it past the pipe.

Paran’s hand closed on the side of his neck, where blood flowed freely. 

He grinned despite himself.

“Another time, then?” he asked.

The soldier glared like he was talking to a madman as he thrust again, ending Paran’s life.

The familiar darkness.

“Paran, get your lazy ass up!”

---

One hundred fifty-seven attempts, as it turns out.

That’s how many times it took for Paran to learn how to beat the soldier perfectly.

Sometimes, a slight change of events on his part could throw off the entire loop, and he’d be sent back to the start sooner than expected.

Then came the many, painful lessons.

He learned how to stand, how to strike, how to lunge, how to disengage. The copper pipe was a poor weapon. Around attempt twenty-nine he swapped it out for a steel tire iron. At least then it wouldn’t bend when struck.

On the one hundred fifty-eighth attempt, Paran stood over the soldier’s beaten, bleeding body and felt triumphant.

“Now,” he said, squatting down. “Your name, my good sir?”

The man looked at him, then spat blood onto the concrete. “I’m Chenj. Where did you learn to fight?”

Paran shook his head. “You won’t live long enough for it to matter with those skills.”

The man grinned angrily, a familiar fire behind his eyes.

“Now, let me fulfill the terms of our duel,” Paran said.

Paran walked over to the truck, hit both release latches, then pulled the hood down. Once inside, he began checking things over, and quickly found it was one of the truck's usual problems.

“Blown gas pump fuse,” Paran muttered, stepping down to retrieve a box of fuses from the cab.

As he held it in his hands, it hit him.

I died more than one hundred and sixty times for a blown fuse, he thought, turning it over in his hands.

He shook his head, leaned back over the engine bay, and replaced the fuse.

The engine roared to life moments later.

Paran buttoned the truck back up, then finished pulling it off to the side of the road.

The noble procession continued past him after a long moment. As they passed, Paran got the distinct impression they were watching him carefully.

Well, that can’t be good, he thought.

He shook his head once again. He had a job to do.

Best to get back to it.

---

As Paran laid his head on the rough linen pillow, he smiled contentedly. He’d made it through the day. 

Finally.

He dropped into a deep sleep, finally dreaming for the first time in what felt like forever.

Hours later, he woke up to his body dying.

As his head rolled to the side, he saw the boy who had the bed next to him, Caen. His eyes were wide open in shock, a garish red gash under his chin, running from one ear to the next.

Then his own throat opened wider as he tried to breathe.

Blackness took him.

Then, those familiar, dreaded words.

“Paran, get your lazy ass up!”

---

Paran sat, staring at his hands.

What’s the point? He thought.

If he went out, he’d just die again. Either on the road or that night as he lay in his bed.

He felt like a madman, desperately struggling against fate.

“What are you doing?” the Boss demanded from the doorway. “I need you to take the cart to the recyclers.”

Paran shook his head.

The Boss seized him by the collar immediately. “Why, you scrawny pig! I ought—” he trailed off when he saw the look in Paran’s eyes.

“Kill me,” Paran said. “Please.”

The Boss set him down gently, backing off a couple steps. “Look, Paran, I know I’m a little hard on ya...”

The Boss looked away. 

“Aw, screw it.”

He turned and barked down the hall. “Caen! You wanna make some credits?”

Paran whipped his head toward the Boss.

That’s right, he realized. Just because I don’t do it, doesn’t mean someone else won’t die for it.

He couldn’t live with that. Or die with it either.

He got up, pulling on his boots. “I’ll do it.”

The Boss turned back to him grinning. “That got you motivated, huh? Bout damn time.”

Paran ignored him, grabbing his jacket off the hook and slipping it on.

“See you next time,” he said, already tired.

“Huh?” the Boss questioned, scratching his head as he watched Paran walk out into the courtyard.

This is gonna be a long day, Paran thought.

---

This time, Paran was crueler than he needed to be.

As Chenj lay on the ground, bleeding and broken, Paran delivered a final, shattering blow to the man’s kneecap.

Then, he stalked over, got the truck running, and pulled it to the side of the road while the other soldier helped Chenj back into their vehicle.

As the motorcade passed, Paran ducked down, making sure to stay out of sight. They probably had him on camera anyway from the duel, but he didn’t want the spotlight any more than was necessary.

He went about the rest of his day as usual, but that night as everyone else retired to bed, he stayed awake.

Paran sat in the hall, a twelve-inch wrench in his right hand, waiting.

A few hours later, a floorboard creaked down the hall to the right.

He stood, brandishing the wrench.

He felt the hand slip over his mouth, the knife cutting deep into his throat.

Fuck. 

That’s an old trick.

As he lay dying, he heard the whispered order.

“Kill the rest, then burn it to the ground.”

Two other voices assented.

Three of them, he thought.

Then he died.

---

Paran waited in the darkness.

The door to his shared room opened silently as a whisper.

The three men entered cautiously, approaching the beds quietly, not a single sound escaping them.

Paran pulled the pin and did a short, underhanded toss.

Bang!

The flashbang went off like a thundercrack in the small space. The three would-be assassins reeled, hands rising to ears as they tried to blink away the sudden black spots clouding their vision.

His roommates screamed, blind and deaf and terrified. Paran hated himself for half a second, then moved.

He speared the first man with the hunting knife he’d bought at the same back alley store he’d got the flashbang. 

Then, he took up the wrench he’d left on the end table, and bashed the second one across the face with it.

The third had recovered by the time Paran finished. He stumbled back into the hall, bringing his own blade to bear.

Paran picked up the stool next to the end table and charged forward.

The assassin expertly sidestepped him.

Paran threw himself to the floor and yelled. “Boss! Shoot!”

The assassin looked down the hall, as if suddenly, acutely aware that they weren’t the only one who had brought friends to this fight.

Boom!

The shotgun spoke from down the hallway, turning the third one’s insides into his outsides.

“Got ‘em!” Paran crowed triumphantly.

Something snapped from the far end of the hall.

Then pain lanced up his chest.

He looked down at the metal bolt, perfectly aimed for his heart.

“Fuck,” he croaked.

Four, he realized.

There were four.

---

Paran spent the next few nights on recon.

He left the building and figured out where they entered, where they came from, how they moved, which ones obeyed the others. He made sure to always kill at least one before they got him.

When he was ready, he struck.

The antimatter bikes came to a stop three blocks from the scrapper’s yard. The four black-clad figures stepped off, throwing a camo netting over their bikes that immediately rippled and shimmered, matching the surroundings uncannily well.

Paran knew from previous nights that the second you moved the material, it stopped working as camo. Probably the only reason the assassins didn’t wear the stuff.

Paran watched from his perch as they approached the side gate of the scrapyard. The shortest one knelt down, withdrawing a lockpick and tension bar from within his clothes.

The others stood with their backs to him, covering his work and watching every approach.

Perfect.

Paran hit the button.

The nail bomb went off, directing shrapnel in a one hundred-eighty degree arc above the shortest one’s head. The three standing assassins stopped being a present-tense problem.

That had taken several attempts to get right.

The shortest one bolted.

He ran, holding one shoulder, escaping toward the hidden motorbikes. He ripped the cover off of one and jumped onboard, reaching into his cloak for the key.

Paran stepped out of the shadows and clocked the assassin across the back of the head with a wrench.

Finally, he thought.

“I win this round,” he said aloud.

Then he grinned.

---

The short assassin awoke, head rolling around like it might fall off.

She blinked under the harsh light. Tried to stand.

And found herself bound.

“Your head must be thunderin’ something fierce,” Paran said. 

Her vision came into focus as he leaned forward, chin rested on one palm.

“Sorry about hitting you so hard, but if I did it too softly, you'd have kicked the shit out of me,” Paran continued. “too hard, and you'd die.”

“Then I gotta blow my own brains out to get the reset,” Paran said. His smile twitched. “Which is as uncomfortable as it sounds.”

She glared at him, saying nothing.

“Ah, listen to me babbling.” Paran rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “Relax, princess. You’re alive because you’re more useful that way.”

“So, you'll torture me?” She said, breaking the silence.

“I might be mad, but I'm no monster,” Paran rejected the idea. “Nah, the way I figure it, you have a tracker in you somewhere.”

She winced.

“I know, I know, this is the part of the holo-movie where the guy says ‘and I'm gonna go digging for it’ or some shit,” Paran snorted. “I already told you, I'm mad, not psychotic.”

“Charming,” she muttered.

“Thank you,” Paran replied.

Suddenly, the air was filled with the whine of an antimatter engine.

“That would be who we're waiting for, most likely,” Paran supplied.

Tense seconds passed.

Then the world exploded.

As Paran lay with his guts spilling out, hot metal knifing through his internal organs, he realized something through the pain.

They'll kill all of us to save face.

A few impossible seconds passed.

Then:

“Paran, get your lazy ass up!”

---

She woke up draped over the handlebars of her antimatter bike, Paran seated behind her, one arm braced across her ribs.

“Keep calm,” Paran instructed. “And whatever you do, don't piss me off. I'm strapped with enough explosive gas to take out a city block.” 

He slipped his hand in front of her face, showing her the switch in it, and the wire that ran up his sleeve.

She froze.

“I took a couple days off after last time,” Paran said. “Thought things through. Experienced some new things.”

She stayed silent.

“Drowning sucks,” Paran continued, “and burning to death sucks worse. Electrocution varies. It can be instant or suck the entire time.”

“Why are you saying this stuff?” she interrupted.

“Oh, no reason in particular,” Paran responded with a shake of his head that she felt through her hair.

“When I was riding the lightning one time, an epiphany struck me.”

“Oh?”

“The tracker in your arm doesn't matter if I don’t try to hide,” Paran finished. 

“How did you-?”

“Shhh! We're here,” Paran interrupted.

As they pulled up to the gates of the Count's residence, a guard stepped forward, approaching them smartly.

By the looks of it, he was more prepared to receive the misplaced orders of nobles drunk off of a night of partying, than face a real threat.

So when Paran’s hand shot out and grabbed him by his collar, he was startled beyond his capacity to defend.

“Listen close,” Paran whispered, eyes deadly serious. “I'm carrying enough explosives to blow us all to hell. If you want to survive, do exactly as I say.”

The man nodded slowly, nervous, eyes calculating.

“Call whoever handles problems like me,” Paran said, nodding toward the man’s wrist. “Tell them Paran is here to pay respects to Chenj, and that he requests an audience with the Count. They’ll understand.”

The guard swallowed.

Good.

Paran slipped off the bike, hanging onto the soldier as the man hesitantly raised his wrist to make the call.

He turned his head slightly towards the girl. “You can go.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I can only reasonably control one hostage,” Paran reasoned. “And you got me through the front gate. So go, get out of here. And, apologies for hitting you.”

She gawked at him momentarily, then moved back in the seat and took over the controls.

“Call me sometime!” Paran shouted over the whine of the engine as he and the soldier walked through the now open front gate.

She gave him the universal hand sign, then took off, speeding away from them.

“Tough breakup,” Paran said to the soldier, who now had his full attention. “She'll be back though. They always come back.”

“Uh…” The soldier responded.

Paran smiled.

“Now, let's go meet the Count.”

---

As they stepped into the room, guards lined every wall, weapons ready. They regarded him coldly, eyes twitching from the dead man's switch in his hand to his face, then back again.

An aged man sat on a plush throne at the center of a raised dais at the far end of the room.

“To what do I owe the displeasure of this visit?” He asked, his tone sour.

“Your Lordship,” Paran inclined his head. “I am Paran. I come seeking employment.”

The Count paused, studying him thoughtfully. “If that was all, you could have left an application.”

“Circumstances have left me with only drastic measures,” Paran replied. “Several people, all having your best interests in mind, have tried to kill me. I'm here to demonstrate that I'm too valuable to lose.”

“By blowing yourself up?” The Count questioned.

“No, by issuing a challenge to prove my value,” Paran responded. “A duel. Your best man. One on one. I'll show you I'm a talent worth sacrificing for.”

The Count laughed. “You must be insane, thinking you can match one of my knights!”

“How about we find out?” Paran asked.

The Count smiled, despite himself. Paran could see the calculation behind it. If the duel killed him, perhaps the switch would never matter. If it did not, then the Count would learn what kind of animal had crawled into his hall.

“Most amusing…” he muttered to himself. “Very well. House Draykneff accepts your challenge.”

Paran grinned, reaching into his hostage's belt and removing the sword from its sheath. 

“I'm borrowing this,” he informed the man.

Paran pushed the hostage aside. The man stumbled away, suddenly irrelevant. Every eye remained on the switch.

“Metal to metal,” Paran said. “Unless your champion is afraid.”

The Count snapped his fingers, pointing. Seconds later, all of the other soldiers stepped back, leaving one man to face Paran.

“I hope you realize,” Paran said as he took his stance, “that you have to win every single time. I only have to win once.”

“What are you on about?” The man asked.

“Nothing you have to worry about,” Paran replied. “Yet.”

---

Six hundred eighty-seven attempts.

Not that he needed that many to win once.

He could have memorized the fight move by move, countered Kiran’s pattern, and stolen a victory much earlier.

But that would have wasted the opportunity.

Kiran was an honest-to-goodness knight. A real one. A lesson in swordsmanship far beyond anything Chenj could have taught him.

He learned so well that on the last attempt, he defeated the Count's head knight almost purely by skill alone.

As he withdrew his blade from Kiran's body, he let out a subconscious breath he'd been holding for all that time.

I did it.

The realization sparked joy and sorrow, all at once.

He had spent lifetimes in that room. All of them short. All of them painful.

He turned and kneeled to the Count.

“Count Draykneff,” Paran began. “I have defeated your champion.”

“Indeed,” the Count stroked his beard. “A fine showing, I must admit. Raise your head.”

Paran looked up at the Count, who now stood upright at his throne.

“You have cost me a very expensive man,” the Count said.

“I intend to be more expensive,” Paran replied.

Silence reigned for a long moment.

“I will take you into my service,” the Count decided. “I will sign a contract with you for five years and a day. After which point, you will be free to pursue your own endeavors as a Free Knight.”

Paran lowered his head again. “I'm honored to serve.”

“Now,” the Count said, waving his hand. “Can you resolve that ongoing suicide vest problem?”

“Oh, this?” Paran grabbed the detonator with his other hand and yanked it free of his sleeve. 

The men around shrank back in terror. Several of them covered their heads, the more experienced ones crouching with mouths open.

“Yeah, that was fake from the start,” Paran said, tossing the wired remote to the floor. He opened the jacket, exposing the cylinders underneath. “These are empty.”

The other soldiers and knights stared at him, mouths agape and eyes wide. The Count, however, broke out in laughter.

“Gods above!” He howled. “What audacity! What cunning!”

Paran grinned.

“If you liked that one, just wait,” he said. “I'm full of surprises.”

---

First Previous Next

Chapter 34: Voyage

Peace ran back and forth across the deck, peering over the sides of the ship in open fascination. She waved to her escort on the shore, where they stood after seeing her off in a muted ceremony. The only person coming with her was her personal maid, the same woman Arthur had seen searching for the princess on his first day in Lanostira.

“It’s so big!” Peace giggled. “I’ve never been on a ship at sea before.”

“We’re not even out of the harbor, Princess,” her maid said nervously. “Please restrain yourself, lest you fall overboard.”

Arthur watched from near the mainmast, arms folded.

“That one’s going over the side before noon,” Drew muttered.

“Hopefully not,” Catherine replied. “International incidents are tedious.”

Peace spun on her heel at the sound of their voices. “I heard that!”

“You were meant to,” Catherine said.

The princess grinned, entirely unoffended, then rushed to the rail again as the sailors began hauling lines. Her maid followed two frantic steps behind, hands hovering as though she could catch the girl by sheer force of anxiety.

Seven stood several paces away from the others, one hand resting against a coil of rope. She watched the water in silence. Not wonder. Not fear exactly. Calculation.

Arthur noticed.

“You ever been on a ship?” he asked.

Seven shook her head.

“First rule,” Arthur said. “Don’t throw up into the wind.”

Drew made a face. “That happened to you?”

“No,” Arthur said. “I listen when people explain obvious hazards.”

Kaufungen laughed from beside the cargo hatch, deep and pleased. “A fine rule. One learned either by wisdom or humiliation.”

Peace leaned over the rail again. “What happens if you throw up into the wind?”

Her maid made a strangled sound.

Arthur looked at the princess, then at the open harbor beyond her.

“You learn quickly.”

---

Arthur awoke to a familiar thrumming sound.

He opened his eyes.

Above him stretched the desert-sand canvas he had grown so used to. The sound in his ears was a mixture of portable AC units that never worked right, Humvees, and men moving about.

He sat up, taking a deep breath, trying not to show his alarm. 

Let’s see what you missed.

Beside his cot sat his M4, next to a pouch whose contents he knew well. He dumped it onto the cot beside him.

A Rip It. A bottle of Motrin.

He cracked the can, tapped four pills into his palm, and swallowed the combo in one go. A ritual as old as time.

He stood, grabbed his M4, and left the tent.

Out front of the tent, a table had been set up, and a furious game of cards was in progress.

“Tuna, what are you doing man?” One of the guys asked. “Thought you were gonna sleep all day.”

“Got rattled pretty good by that blast,” Arthur responded, pulling up a seat. “Deal me in, Shorty.”

“Sure thing man, just let me finish this hand,” Shorty said, grinning. “I’m gonna win Trunk’s socks next.”

“Can it, man,” Trunk said, chewing his lip as he examined his cards. “I’m just unlucky right now. My time will come.”

“Sure, sure,” another one of them interjected. “And pigs will fly.”

The group laughed.

Next hand, they dealt Arthur in. Arthur picked up the cards and paused.

“Guess they can’t get everything right, huh?” he muttered.

Frenchie leaned over, trying to peek at his cards. He’d earned the name after being cornered by a French bulldog on R&R.

“What was that?” Frenchie asked.

“Nothing. Anybody got a smoke?” Arthur asked.

“Yeah, here,” Shorty tossed him a pack, which he caught with his off hand.

Arthur set his cards facedown, tapped out a single cigarette, lit it, and took a long drag.

“The good shit,” he remarked. “Not those shitty Paki cigs.”

“That’s right,” Shorty replied. “Picked up some Marlboros off a guy who owed me a favor.”

“Nice.”

Arthur took another long drag, then he set down the cigarette.

“Too bad it isn’t real,” Arthur said.

“The fuck are you on, Tuna?” Trunk asked.

Arthur smiled across the table. Then, without warning, he snatched up his M4, rolling the selector to full auto.

One continuous press.

The illusion shattered.

Arthur jerked upright with a start, the familiar rocking of the ship greeting him as he reached out.

Quickdraw Cache.

Seconds later, his Glock 17 appeared.

He stood, throwing on his cloak and exiting the cabin.

It was quiet. Too quiet. He made his way from cabin to cabin, peering inside each berth in turn.

Everyone was asleep. Too asleep. They didn’t stir at his entry.

He approached Drew and gave him a shake. He didn’t wake.

Arthur finally found the answer in the maid’s cabin.

A creature, with the body of a fish, demonic limbs, and a head shaped like a tulip bulb sat on her chest.

Her head was fully enveloped by its own.

And judging by the sounds, it was eating.

Arthur raised his gun, flicking on the light.

The creature hissed and recoiled from the bright beam.

Arthur didn’t give it a chance to recover.

BANG! BANG!

It dropped instantly. Arthur stepped forwards, still aiming.

Bang!  Bang!

He made sure of it.

Then, he went and cleared the rest of the ship.

Two more of the creatures. Two more victims, both sailors.

When he was done, Arthur sat and waited as the others slowly awoke, staring off into the night.

No alarm bells. No shouting. Just the creak of the ship and the slow return of breath from sleepers who did not know how close they had come.

I miss them, he admitted.

---

“Quite interesting, indeed,” Liam said, sketching in his notebook as he walked around the creature. “This specimen has never been documented before, as far as I know.”

“Probably because no one who’s run into them has survived the encounter,” Arthur said. “It bypassed my resistance completely.”

“Very likely,” Liam said, adding a note beneath his sketch.

Arthur looked to the other side of the ship and frowned. Catherine sat with Peace, comforting her.

She’s crying, but she’s also calm, Arthur noticed.

“Anyway, what are we going to do?” Drew asked. “We can’t keep the bodies onboard, they’ll rot. But this is important.”

“We document what we can. Then we preserve a head and tissue samples in empty salt pork barrels.”

Seven leaned closer and whispered. 

“They won’t come back, will they?”

Arthur shrugged. “I don’t know. If they do, I’ll kill them again.”

Seven nodded.

---

As Arthur stepped down the gangplank, he was mildly surprised to find five cloaked figures waiting at the foot of the pier.

They stood like soldiers.

“Sir Arthur,” the tallest of them greeted, inclining his head. “I bring greetings from His Royal Majesty, King Alric Dragula. He has dispatched us Royal Knights to escort you, your entourage, and Princess Peace to the Palace.”

Arthur studied him.

Royal Knights.

“The King moves quickly,” Arthur replied evenly. “You had word of our arrival?”

“The Palace has eyes everywhere,” the man said with a faint smile. His graying beard caught the morning light. “If you would follow us, we’ll see you safely to an inn for the night. We depart at first light.”

“An inn,” Arthur repeated mildly.

“Of course.”

Arthur held the man’s gaze one heartbeat longer, then nodded.

He waved a hand, signaling them forward.

Drew shifted position. Kaufungen adjusted his stride. Seven followed behind them like a shadow.

Princess Peace descended the gangplank behind them, composed, curious eyes taking everything in. Catherine grasped her hand.

“So you don’t get lost,” Catherine grinned.

They moved into Southcross’s waking streets.

The escort spoke easily of travel times and carriage routes. Arthur answered in clipped phrases, his pace unhurried, posture slightly weary. He let them think he was tired.

At a three-way junction, the road split wide.

Arthur’s gaze traced the angles.

Too open.

Six men burst from behind them, knives flashing as they charged the rear of the party.

The tall escort reacted instantly.

“Merrin, Sieg, Fram, hold them! This way! Quickly!”

Three of the cloaked men wheeled around, swords out, clashing with the attackers.

Steel rang.

Too evenly.

Arthur’s group ran with the remaining two escorts.

Behind them, the fight sounded controlled. Measured.

No screams.

No panic.

They rounded a bend.

The older escort glanced back. “We’ll lose them through the market—”

“Kaufungen, take the one on the left,” Arthur said conversationally.

The words landed mid-stride.

The two escorts hesitated for half a breath.

That was enough.

Kaufungen pivoted cleanly, slamming his shoulder into the younger man and driving him face-first into the wall.

Arthur’s hand slipped inside his coat.

The Glock 17 cleared his Phlster holster in one smooth motion.

The older man’s hand continued toward his sword. He had not yet processed what Arthur held.

Arthur fired.

The crack of the shot detonated in the narrow lane. The round tore past the man’s ear and shattered stone behind him.

The concussion hit him a heartbeat later.

The man staggered, dropping his weapon, hands flying to his head.

“Ah—!” He bent forward, blinking hard. “My ears—!”

The smell of burnt powder lingered.

Somewhere nearby, a shutter slammed closed.

The younger escort struggled uselessly under Kaufungen’s weight.

Princess Peace had flinched at the blast, hands rising instinctively to her ears.

A second later she lowered them and smoothed her skirts, composure settling back into place. Her gaze flicked from the muzzle to Arthur’s face.

Arthur did not raise his voice.

“Royal Guard,” he said evenly. “Try again.”

The older man blinked through watering eyes.

Arthur adjusted his stance slightly, muzzle steady.

“An inn would be inappropriate for a princess,” he continued. “And real ambushes don’t happen at crossroads.”

Silence pressed in.

Boots pounded somewhere in the distance. Whether drawn by the commotion or part of the act, it was impossible to tell.

Arthur’s eyes never left the man in front of him.

“Now,” he said calmly, “who sent you?”

---

First Previous Next

Chapter 33: Negotiations

Several children stood in line, nervously awaiting drying after their bath.

A few more sat off to the side where Liam had set up a small clinic. He documented injuries, offered healing, and gave each child a sweet as they cycled through.

Catherine dried and dressed each child as they finished their bath, drawing from a pile of hastily gathered clothing.

Drew and Kaufungen stood vigilant at the door. Across the hall, two palace guards looked back at them coldly. They had been locked in that silent standoff for quite some time.

Arthur moved around the room, speaking with each child in turn. He reassured them that they were safe, that they would be healed, cleaned, and returned to their families.

Except one.

The girl who called herself Seven sat waiting, watching as the others were cared for.

She’d refused all but the most basic help for herself. 

“The little ones,” she said. “They suffered the most. Help them first.”

Then a royal messenger appeared at the door. He bowed and called inside.

“His Majesty, the King of Lanostira, requests the Hero’s presence at once.” 

Arthur looked up. “Catherine, are the children ready?”

“Very nearly,” Catherine replied.

Arthur turned back to the messenger. “Inform His Majesty I will come when the children are ready.”

The messenger hesitated, then bowed and withdrew.

Arthur looked over the room. 

“Get the children together. We’re going to see the King.”

---

Thirty-four children stumbled into the throne room, looking about in awe. The polished white floors and golden filigree glinted in eyes that had grown used to darkness.  

Unlike their previous engagement, there were no courtiers to greet them. Not even visible guards.

Arthur, Catherine, and Kaufungen stood before the throne. Drew remained behind, holding the hands of two younger children as the others gathered near him for protection.

The King sat upright for once, hands clasped before him. Trouble sat plainly across his brow.

“Arthur White,” the King began, “what troubles have you brought before my throne today?”

Arthur stepped forward, reaching into his coat to produce several documents.

“I hold in my hands a map of tunnels under your city, copied from the office of a criminal enterprise. Several royal contracts to various smelteries for brass blanks the size of Cinderian silvers. And…”  

Arthur gestured behind him. 

“Thirty-four victims of kidnapping, enslavement, and forced labor by that same enterprise. I have gathered their testimonies. They all swear they were forced to produce counterfeit silver coins at the direction of multiple violent individuals.”

“These are grave accusations.”

“No accusations,” Arthur replied. “Evidence.”

The King regarded him cautiously. “Who else knows?”

“Thirty-four children, Your Majesty,” Kaufungen rumbled. “From beneath your own city. And the contracts… If you did not know, then someone has been ruling without your notice.”

The King went still.

“Your Majesty,” Catherine said calmly, stepping into the silence, “this is a delicate situation. But there is still a path by which this becomes a criminal conspiracy discovered and corrected through royal action, rather than a scandal that stains the Lanostiran crown before every trading partner in the world.”

“A path?” the King asked.

“Indeed.” Catherine smiled, but there was little warmth in it. “Restitution for those harmed by the counterfeit currency. Restoration of these children to their families. Arrests carried out under royal authority. And a public statement regarding our joint effort in bringing down these vile criminals.”

The King’s expression shifted, not to relief, but calculation. Restitution was ugly, but familiar. Money could be counted. Money could be paid. Money did not scream and riot.

“All of which can be arranged,” he said.

“However,” Catherine continued, “trust has been damaged, Your Majesty. Between crowns, trust cannot be mended by coin alone.”

The King’s eyes narrowed. “What would you suggest?”

Catherine let the silence hold for a moment.

“A royal ward.”

“Impossible,” the King said at once. “To give one of my own as a prisoner? Unthinkable.”

“You’re surely joking,” Kaufungen countered. “A treasury officer signed for counterfeit blanks. Children were caged under your streets. You are asking Cindergold to accept your word that it will not happen again.”

Anger moved behind the King’s eyes, but he found no answer.

“What if we look at this through a different lens?” Catherine asked. “Not a prisoner. A guest. A student of the Cinderian court. A living promise that Lanostira and Cindergold remain bound by peace.”

Catherine and the King regarded each other coolly for a long moment.

A familiar head poked out from behind the throne.

“I’ll go!” Peace volunteered cheerily.

Everyone turned.

Princess Peace smiled brightly, as though she had just volunteered for a picnic.

The King snapped around. “Peace. You cannot—”

“That only makes me want to do it more, you know.” She giggled, then looked past him toward the children. “Besides, Papa, if the Hero meant us harm, he would not have brought them here.”

The King blinked. “You would trust him?”

Peace nodded. “He saved children he didn’t know. I’m sure he can manage one princess.”

For the first time, the King truly looked at the children before him.

The silence changed.

“I suppose,” he said slowly, “there may be wisdom in such an arrangement.”

Arthur looked from Peace to the King.

“Then let’s put the terms in writing.”

---

Much later that day, Arthur sat and watched as parents came and went from the palace.

Children and their parents hugged. Tears flowed freely. Every single one left with a pile of gifts and a well-filled purse, courtesy of the King.

The numbers dwindled quickly. Thirty-four down to twenty-nine, down to sixteen, until there was only one left.

“No one’s coming,” Seven told him after they had sat waiting for a while.

“You knew?” Arthur asked.

“Yes.” Seven nodded. “Before they took me… before the tunnels, I didn’t even have a name. I lived in a brothel. When they needed me they would call me… terrible things.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened, but only for a moment. 

Arthur nodded. Then he rose, holding out his hand.

“Come with me,” he said. “I’ll take you with me when we leave. We’ll find a place for you in Cindergold.”

Seven looked at his hand numbly for a moment, then she took it.

“You promise?”

Arthur closed his hand gently around hers.

“I promise.” 

---

First Previous Next

Chapter 32: The Ring

Arthur arose early in the morning and quietly slipped out of the palace, evading the guards and the servants with the practiced ease of a professional. He had work to do.

As he made his way through the sleeping city, he kept an eye out for his targets. He'd spent hours studying maps the previous night, just to locate one particular sort of business.

He stopped in front of the first building on his route and surveyed it. Large smokestacks that rose into the sky. Huge doors, behind which, no doubt, lay docks for loading and unloading. A smaller entrance to the left with a closed sign turned firmly towards potential customers.

One of five smelteries on the central island of Lanostira.

He walked around the building, checking it from all sides. Finally, he left, disgruntled at having not found what he sought.

Well, it would have been too easy. He thought as he made his way to the next facility.

At the next shop, he found something quite different.

Outside the building, he found a woman huddled in a heap on the street, the closest thing he'd seen to a beggar thus far. 

As he approached, she looked upon him with wild eyes, red and swollen from crying.

“Are you alright?” He asked casually.

“What do you care?” she snapped. “You’re just going to call me crazy! Just like the others.”

Arthur knelt next to her, turning to watch the building. “I've been called crazy a few times,” he responded. “Why don't you give me a chance first?”

The woman sniffed, carefully considering him. “My little girl went missing a week ago. She was running errands.”

“That must be painful,” Arthur said. “I can't even imagine.”

“No, you can't.” The woman said bitterly. “There's a servant boy, a friend of hers, who lives up the road. He saw her coming down this way as she left.”

“And you think her disappearance has something to do with the smelter?” Arthur asked.

“I don't know how to explain it, but I just know she was here.” The woman explained. “I feel it. A mother knows.”

Arthur nodded. “And the authorities?”

“They took a look inside, said they didn't see anything, but I don't believe them.” She said vindictively. “They're a bunch of corrupt bastards.”

“Unfortunately common, no matter where you go,” Arthur muttered, his gut telling him something stank about the situation. “Well, thank you for sharing with me. A burden shared lightens the load, if only by a little.”

She nodded, going back to her vigil as Arthur got up, dusted off his knees, and moved along.

As he walked towards his next target, the city started to come alive around him. Shopkeepers began turning their signs, opening for business, delivery boys and errand runners began making the rounds, and lamplighters spread throughout the city to snuff out what remained of last night's flames.

As he approached the third target, he scanned the growing crowds for anything out of place. And sure enough, he found it.

A young woman walked the street, clearly distracted. She was pale, thin, and frail looking. She peeked into every alley and behind every barrel, like a wandering ghost, lost and seeking.

Arthur pulled to the side where a baked goods vendor had set up his morning hotcakes for sale. Arthur bought two, then stood chewing, observing.

“Forgive me, Master Baker,” Arthur nodded towards the wandering woman. “I'm not from around here. What is wrong with that poor miss?”

The Baker responded in a hushed tone. “Quiet lad, lest she overhear.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “That there is Miss Aquinas. Her little girl, Siena, ran away over two months ago, but the poor lass can't move on, not that I blame her. She searches for her at all hours of the day and night, barely resting. Her husband's just about in shambles over it, blames himself, says he was too hard on the girl.”

“How sad,” Arthur said absently as he swallowed his last bite. He nodded to the Master Baker and moved on. Too many coincidences.

At his fourth and final target for the day, he found quite a different scene.

Two gladiators circled each other just outside of the smeltery, weapons bared. The crowd looked upon the spectacle with a mixture of curiosity and awe. Something of this nature was clearly a rare sight for the streets of Lanostira.

Just as they ceased their circling and prepared to beset each other, Arthur casually strolled out of the crowd, between the two men.

They pulled up short, the arrival of a newcomer both unexpected and unwelcome.

“Who are you?” the taller one spat.

“Don’t interfere!” The shorter one demanded angrily.

Arthur looked at neither, instead directing his gaze upwards at the bright blue sky. Finally, he answered the question. “My name is Arthur White. Perhaps you've heard of me?”

They both took a wary step back.

“Arthur White, as in the Hero? Preposterous!” The short one said in a disbelieving voice.

“The Demon King Killer? Here in Lanostira? I thought it was just a rumor.” The tall one said uncertainly.

“Test me if you wish,” Arthur said. “I hope your God is a better host than mine.”

Arthur! That familiar voice spiked through his brain.

They backed up another step, disbelief warring in their features.

“What is this little spat about?” Arthur asked, voice calm and cold as steel.

The shorter one puffed up, declaring, “I am Tillius, sworn of house Septimius, and I demand the return of the Master's son, at once!”

“And I am Maximus, sworn of House Quintana, and I declare you to be a lying knave!” The tall one answered. “We do not hold, nor have ever met, your Master's son!”

“A ridiculous denial!” Bellowed Tillius. “The younger Master went missing while on an errand to the Red River Smithy! Do you deny obvious facts?”

Maximus broke out into laughter, his voice roaring across the square. “Idiot!” He pointed at the sign above the door. “What does that say?”

Tillius squinted, reading carefully. “Red Sea Smeltery…”

“It appears you have the wrong address,” Arthur said to Tillius.

“So I do,” Tillius sheathed his sword with resignation. “Apologies. I will wait for the authorities to arrive.” With that, he sat down at the edge of the street, hands clasped as he contemplated.

The crowd began to disperse, grumbling at the lack of a free show.

Arthur cocked his head at Maximus. “Is there something I'm missing? No harm, no foul. Seems like it applies here.”

“You’re not from around here,” Maximus answered, “thus, you would not know our customs. Tillius has drawn steel without cause, in a public space no less. He will likely see at least one fight in the coliseum for this transgression.”

“You also drew steel.” Arthur pointed out.

“In defense of myself, property, and public order.” Maximus responded defensively.

“I see.” Arthur said. What a strange place.

He made a mental note of the name, then turned back towards the palace, satisfied with the progress in his investigation, but worried about what came next.

---

As Catherine slipped into the open seat at the inn table, she smiled warmly at Liam, who stiffened like a man expecting inspection.

“Arthur made a good choice, separating our groups upon our disembarking The Quiet Winds,” she said easily. “It seems you three have fared quite well.”

Gratianus snorted. “On first appearance, it seems that way, but that one's been up half the night sniffling.” He jerked a thumb at Grant. “Didn't sleep much cause of him.”

“I can't help it,” Grant whispered. “I miss my brother.”

“And Drew misses you as well,” Catherine said gently. She leaned over, taking Grant’s hand and clasping it between her own. “But you must be a brave boy, and not disturb Master Liam or Master Gratianus. Focus on helping them until we can reunite you.”

“Yes, miss,” Grant murmured, eyes fixed on his lap.

“We haven’t been able to find much,” Liam said, fingers twisting together. “The merchants are happy to sell us goods, but the moment we start asking questions, the shutters come down. As much as they pretend otherwise, they don’t like outsiders.”

“That’s just fine,” Catherine nodded. “If nothing else, it tells us much about how we should approach the situation.”

“I don't get it,” Liam shook his head. “But I'm glad you got something out of it.”

They were interrupted by a bowing minstrel, who called the whole inn to attention.

“My good friends and fellow Lanostirans, it is with great pleasure that I perform among you today, having been given the opportunity by the proprietor of this fine establishment. Please, gather round, drink in hand, for a tale of a noble warrior from the Cinderian lands. A man of much stature, who has earned legendary regard among the ranks of the Gladiators here in Lanostira.”

This should be good, Catherine thought, sipping her evening wine daintily, dabbing her lips with her kerchief as she listened.

The minstrel played his instrument for a long moment before launching into song, his voice lush and tenorous.

“They say the plains remember him
When banners fade and bones bleach in sun,
When watchfires burn, but none dare sleep
And shadows crawl where the wounded lie.
No trumpet sounding, no challenge made,
He comes with dusk, and does not leave.
By dawn the field is culled and still,
And none can say they broke his will.”

Could be Arthur. Catherine mused, but some details nagged at her.

“No rushed charge, no glory won.
Without reckless hands, or piercing sun.
He waits where hunger tests the brave,
Where time itself becomes the blade.
Each step measured, each loss counted,
Each enemy wounded, outmatched, outmounted.
They curse his name in whispered fear,
For he does not retreat, he disappears.”

Catherine sipped, enjoying the minstrel's tone.

“Oh Lebrun hunts where lines give way,
Where hope is thinned by night and day.
Through mud and frost, through blood and rain,
The Western Plains have learned his name.
Not for mercy, not for grace,
But for the war he will not waste.”

Ah, Lebrun, of course, Catherine thought.

“They say he smiles in polished steel,
A courtly man, composed, genteel.
He bows to crowns, he speaks with care,
He laughs as if the world were fair.
But when the banners turn to ash,
And ordered lines are torn and smashed,
It is Lebrun who remains behind
To finish what the rest could not.”

He never did need much of a reason to take on the battles that others would not, Catherine mused.

“No songs are sung for nights unending,
For hunger’s slow and patient bending.
Yet when the dawn finds none alive,
It’s his command that still survives.
He trains, they say, when wars are done,
As if tomorrow’s already begun.
No call compels, no oath demands,
He walks back out to cursed lands.”

He is as comfortable, if not more so, in the saddle than he is at court, Catherine considered.

“Oh Lebrun hunts where lines give way,
Where hope is thinned by night and day.
Through mud and frost, through blood and rain,
The Western Plains have learned his name.
Not for mercy, not for grace,
But for the war he will not waste.

Pray you never hear his voice,
For where the legend rides and raids,
The night has fallen fast.
And someone must endure it last.

None have him matched.”

The minstrel ended with a flourish of his instrument that hung in the air for a long moment.

Appropriate applause broke out from the patrons, who stilled as The Lady in Red arose from her seat and made her way toward the minstrel.

Catherine curtsied politely and greeted him warmly. “A thrilling song, my good man. And your voice is remarkable. Truly, you are fit to be a master of song.” 

She placed a single silver coin on his open instrument case.

The man eyed her appreciatively, pleased with her praise, and her silver. “My lady, I am but a humble student in a world filled with all manner of masters, though I do appreciate your kind words.”

“Then perhaps,” Catherine suggested, “you would care to learn a song never before heard, of an equally heroic warrior?”

“Does the Lady fancy herself a songstress?” The minstrel challenged.

“Nay, good sir,” Catherine responded. “Though I have had lessons, and I've been known to put pen to paper on occasion. If you would please to give me a tune by which to begin?”

The minstrel nodded once, gazing upon her with equal parts interest and judgement. He put his hands to his instrument, setting a tune.

And Catherine sang.

“He was born beneath the clouded skies
Where the soil ran thin and gray,
In a Keep worn down by centuries
That time had left behind.
No silks to bar the winter's bite,
Just wool and fire and stone,
But brighter still than hearth or flame
Was the will he called his own.

A child still bound to morning chores,
Too small to lift a blade,
Yet swing he did, and swung again,
Till callus split to pain.
His hands grew hard, his knuckles bled,
His breath came sharp and sore,
For someone had to stand and guard
The folk he lived for.

Before his beard had fully grown,
Before his youth was spent,
He stood alone with kin to keep
And choices heaven-sent.
With only steel and stubborn heart
He rode where banners flew,
To earn a future worth the cost
For those he swore to see safe through.

He came back scarred, but standing tall,
With honor unbetrayed,
His purse was full, his name was known,
His enemies outweighed.
But gold he gave where roofs were thin,
Where bellies cried for bread,
For coin that sleeps while people starve
Is better left for dead.

He took the oath while still a youth,
When others learned to boast,
And stood where kings and crowns are kept,
A shield at duty’s post.
He walked beside a restless prince
Who chased the clash and flame,
And where that prince would rush ahead,
Bedivere was named.

Oh, Brother!
Why do you fight?
Because I must.
Oh Brother, return to me,
I will, Sister. Trust.

When war withdrew and banners stilled,
And songs replaced the cries,
He did not lay his armor down
Or loosen watchful eyes.
For peace is kept by sleepless men
Who ask no thanks or rest,
And he would take no lesser stand
Than giving of his best.

Oh Brother,
Won't you rest?
I cannot, Sister,
I must prepare
For what comes next.

And when the darkness rose again
And hell returned its due,
He rode once more where fire fell
As he had always done.
Before his king, before his land,
He met the demon’s blade,
And gave the life he’d honed so well
So others might be saved.

What is a hero,
If not a man
Who sees his end
Yet makes his stand?

No crown was set upon his brow,
No song was owed his name,
Yet every dawn still stands because
He would not break his King’s last trust
Nor bury his kingdom in shame.

Oh, Brother!
As I lay ye to rest,
My tears do shatter,
Though I stand tall.

I regret only that I had but one Brother.”

For a moment after she finished, the tavern was still. Everyone sat absorbed by Bedivere’s story.

Then, slowly, a polite applause started. One that grew to encompass the whole tavern.

Catherine curtsied, gave a wave, then returned to her seat.

As she resumed her perch, Gratianus peered at her curiously. “He really said he’d return?”

Catherine nodded. “Always. Every time before he rode out.”

Gratianus shrugged. “Seems a bit unfortunate then.”

Catherine stared straight ahead, her eyes fixed on something no one else could see. “He wouldn’t break a promise unless it was absolutely necessary,” she said absentmindedly, as if a thousand miles away.

---

Drew followed the nervous merchant from a distance. The man checked over his shoulder every few steps, making sure the bored young man still trailed him.

“Watch the traitor,” is what Arthur had instructed. 

He hadn’t said anything about helping the man.

So, when two men came out of an alley, briefly conferred with him, then led him away at knifepoint, Drew merely followed.

Twenty minutes later, they disappeared through a door into a rather large business. Drew watched for a few minutes, then took note of the sign and left.

Red River Smithy. Drew committed it to memory.

Arthur would be proud. Might even reward him. Or even praise him.

---

“Too many coincidences,” Arthur said, tearing another piece of fish free. “Across too many smelteries.”

It was quite good. The flavor reminded him of something.

Soy sauce. The back of his mind supplied even as he concentrated.

Drew nodded. “Between that and what I saw at the smithy, this isn’t petty crime.”

“But is the King involved,” Drew continued carefully, “or just blind to it?”

The table went quiet.

Arthur looked at him for a long moment. “One point for Drew,” he said at last. “For asking the only question that matters.”

Drew beamed despite himself.

Catherine brushed a lock from her face. “So. What’s next? I infiltrate the smelteries?”

Arthur nodded once. “I’ll take the smithy. You gather what you can from the others. We confirm tonight.”

He set down his fork.

“We move after that.”

The rest of the meal passed in silence.

---

Catherine peeked through a crack in the shutters, looking for what she needed; a glimpse within.

She saw an outline, a sliver that encompassed a floor, a chair, some sort of tool.

It was all she needed.

Movement.

She blinked into the room a moment later. Some sort of meeting room, as evidenced by the round table surrounded by chairs. She moved quietly for the door, ears straining for any hint of discovery.

She slipped down a hall, cracking and peaking through doors before closing them again. She was looking for something resembling an office.

Finally she found it. Shelves lined the walls, with a single desk at the center. Upon the shelves were rows of documents, neatly aligned and catalogued.

She skimmed the spines. Taxes-Current, Copper-Procurement, Iron-Sales… looking carefully for something that stood out.

She moved steadily down the shelves, discarding the ordinary, the expected, the dull.

Royal Contract-Miscellaneous.

Her fingers stilled on the spine. An odd name to title a document. She pulled it down and began reading.

Legalese, quoted contract law, she skimmed it till she got to the real meat of the project. Money received per product rendered.

Twenty gold coins for every thousand brass coin blanks rendered.

Brass, not copper, silver, or gold.

Brass blanks must be no more than one twelfth a span across, and no more than two tenths of one twelfth of a span in thickness.

Catherine’s eyes narrowed. 

The size of a Cinderian silver.

And at the bottom of the document, beneath the seal, was a signature and title.

Deputy Treasurer of the Kingdom of Lanostira.

The seal was intact. Correct.

A floorboard squeaked in the hall.

She hesitated, considering leaving the document. But it was too valuable.

She folded it once and pressed it inside her coat.

“Movement.”

Back on the street, she pressed the document into Drew’s waiting hands, then she set out for the next smeltery.

Tonight had already proven fruitful.

---

Arthur lifted the latch with his knife, letting himself into the smithy quietly.

People in this world are so dependent on magic for security, they don’t spend a second on good locks.

The thought irked him, though he couldn’t place why.

As he walked through the smithy silently, he paused to open doors. Nothing that looked even remotely interesting, until…

He swung the office door wide and stepped inside.

At the desk, a partially rolled parchment lay pinned beneath a paperweight, the lantern turned low beside it.

Arthur unrolled it, squinting at it in the dim light.

Tunnels, he realized. Under Lanostira.

Curiously, a particular section was marked with red, circled, with a note in some secret code written beside it.

Arthur pulled his sketchbook out of his side bag and copied what he needed in quick, practiced strokes. 

Satisfied, he let the ink dry for a breath, then stowed the sketchbook.

Might as well check out the rest, while I’m here.

He walked by the rest of the offices quietly, into the heart of the smithy itself.

There, he encountered another, less fortunate discovery.

The merchant. 

The traitor they’d brought with them to Lanostira. He hung bent forward, wrists bound above him by a chain fixed to the ceiling.

Fresh burns marked his arms. Bruises darkened his ribs. Cuts ran the length of his arms and legs.

 He didn’t make a noise. 

Didn’t lift his chin. 

Arthur did.

They regarded each other for a moment. Arthur evaluating, the merchant silently pleading.

“I can’t take you with me.” Arthur said finally.

The man gave a slight tilt of his chin, as if he knew that from the beginning.

“I can’t protect you.” Arthur said quietly. “They’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth.”

The man nodded a little more this time, resignation on his face.

“All I can do,” Arthur said, voice low and cold. “Is release you from suffering.”

The man closed his eyes.

Then he opened his mouth and said his first words in the conversation.

“Please.”

Arthur nodded. 

Arthur stepped behind him.

An arm around the throat.

A long, hard squeeze.

Crack.

He lowered the body, then closed the merchant's lifeless eyes with a swipe of his hand. 

Then he stepped back into the night.

He did not look back.

---

“I hate tunnels,” Drew said.

“I don’t mind them,” Catherine replied. “Kind of cozy, actually.”

“Yeah?” Drew peered into the darkness ahead of them. “You never lost your arm in one.”

“Shut it, both of you,” Arthur ordered.

Catherine and Drew winced, falling silent.

Arthur moved through the tunnels with grim efficiency. He had not expected to be clearing caves when he came to Lanostira, but work rarely cared about expectation. 

The air was stale, damp stone slick under his flashlight. Drew and Catherine followed behind, their footsteps painfully loud compared to his own.

As he pied another corner, he saw it.

The first cage waited in the dark.

Children huddled inside, too many for the iron bars meant to hold them, clothed in rags. They blinked against the sudden light, shrinking back but not screaming. 

Arthur knelt.

“Are there any bad men nearby?” he asked quietly. “The ones who took you. Are they close?”

The children looked at one another. Then the oldest, a girl of perhaps thirteen, spoke.

“One,” she said. “Two turns down. He drinks before he sleeps. The keys are under his pillow.”

“Thank you,” Arthur nodded, palm brushing his lips and falling away in instinctive sign. 

“Catherine. Drew. Stay with them.”

He rose.

“I’m going to kill their guard.”

---

The guard woke to a hand clamped over his mouth. 

A blade hovered a breath from his eye.

“Don’t.”

The word was quiet.

The guard froze.

Arthur leaned closer. “How many?”

The guard shook his head frantically.

The blade lowered just enough to nick skin. A thin line of red welled.

“How many children are here?”

The guard whimpered into Arthur’s palm.

Arthur studied him for one second longer.

“Wrong answer.”

He moved the blade in one clean, practiced line across the throat.

The guard’s body spasmed once. Warm blood ran over Arthur’s hands.

For a second the tunnel vanished. 

A mud compound in Afghanistan. A man trying to bargain with his own son’s innocence. Blood on Arthur’s hands then, blood on them now.

Arthur blinked. Shook his head. 

He wiped the blade on the guard’s blanket.

Duty called.

There were children who needed help.

---

As Arthur used Nullification on the last slave collar, he froze.

Footsteps, coming down the tunnel.

“They must have found the body. Or I was too obvious at the smelter,” he said to Catherine. “Get ready.”

Catherine nodded once, drawing her dagger.

Drew readied his spear as the PDW dropped into Arthur’s hands. He racked the charging handle, chambering a round.

“I want to help.”

They turned and looked at her.

The girl who had spoken to them stood unbound. Her jaw was set, determination in her eyes.

“You should leave this to the adults,” Arthur instructed.

“I can help,” she insisted, holding out her hands. “Look.”

Lightning arced between her fingers, building into an orb that rotated, floating between her hands.

“That’s impressive magic control,” Catherine said, her voice betraying her excitement.

“Listen, kid,” Arthur kneeled, looking her in the eyes. 

Her magic sputtered out as it met his Nullification.

“I need you to keep the others calm,” Arthur clasped her right hand in his own. “Keep them safe if all else fails, agreed?”

“Yes.” She nodded bravely.

Arthur released her and turned to face back down the tunnel.

“Keep quiet,” he ordered. “Don’t engage until they're right on top of us.”

They sat silently in the dark for a long moment, until silhouettes appeared at the end of the tunnel, outlined by lamplight.

They approached cautiously.

Right as the light reached the chamber, Arthur thumbed the selector to full auto.

He burned a whole magazine, thirty rounds, in three seconds.

Several enemies dropped immediately, the rest ducked and dodged, confused by the sudden assault.

Catherine and Drew were on them before they could recover. In the tight confines of the tunnels, it was less about maneuver and more about momentum.

Catherine blinked in and out rapidly, striking hard and disappearing before any counter.

Maybe it was her movement, or maybe because she was in a dress, but the enemy seemed less concerned with fighting her than Drew.

People often underestimate how little force it takes to slide a stiletto under a set of ribs.

Drew wasn't slacking either. He used his biggest advantage, the sharp tip of his spear, to control the tunnel, then strike.

When they were done, twelve men lay dead.

“Let's get the children out of here,” Arthur said. “Let's move these bodies, quickly. These kids have seen too much as it is.”

The others nodded and the three of them set to work.

---

As they emerged from the tunnels, the sky was lighter with the false dawn. Arthur stopped, turning to the girl.

“How many children?”
“Thirty-four,” she answered.

“Count them as they come out of the tunnel. Make sure no one gets left behind.”

She nodded and set to work.

Drew and Catherine emerged last, each carrying a smaller child in their arms.

The count matched, thankfully.

Thirty-four.

Arthur looked over them. Hollow eyes. Filthy hands. Collar bruises on throats. Some stood on their own. Others leaned against older children, too exhausted or frightened to move without help.

Thirty-four children.

There was no way that many children disappeared, no way those tunnels were built, staffed, and maintained, and no way the contracts were levied from the royal treasury without royal complicity.

Catherine shifted the child in her arms. “Where do we take them?”

Arthur’s answer came without hesitation. “The palace.”

Drew blinked. “Not the guard?”

“No.”

“The Temple?”

“No.”

Catherine studied him for a heartbeat, then understood. “You want the King to see them.”

“I want the King unable to pretend he didn’t.”

The girl looked up from her count. “Is the palace safe?”

Arthur met her eyes.

“It is about to be.”

He turned to Catherine. “Get Liam. Quietly. Bring him to the palace guest wing. The parents of missing children that we know about too, if you can do so without drawing too much attention.”

Catherine nodded once. “Movement.”

She vanished.

Arthur looked to Drew. “You’re rear guard. Anyone gets too close, warn them once.”

“And after that?”

Arthur’s expression did not change. “Remove the obstacle.”

Drew swallowed, then nodded.

They moved through the waking city in a ragged column. Children limped between them in borrowed cloaks, some barefoot, some clutching the hands of strangers because there was nothing else left to hold. Dawn crept across Lanostira’s polished streets, gilding fountains and marble walls in soft gold.

The city looked beautiful.

That only made it worse.

A baker setting out morning loaves froze as they passed. A lamplighter stopped halfway up his ladder, flame-snuffer dangling uselessly from one hand. A woman carrying flowers stepped aside, one hand rising slowly to her mouth.

No one asked questions.

Perhaps they already suspected the answers.

By the time they reached the palace service gate, four guards had gathered there, lacquered armor gleaming in the dawn.

One stepped forward, hand raised. “Halt. You cannot bring street children through this entrance.”

Arthur did not slow.

“They are not street children.”

The guard stiffened. “Sir, I must insist you stop.”

Arthur stopped then.

The entire column stopped with him.

He reached beneath his coat, drew out the Hero’s amulet, and let it hang in the morning light.

“I am Arthur White, Hero of Cindergold, guest of your King.” His voice was quiet enough that the guard had to listen carefully. “These children were recovered from cages beneath your city. They will be given food, water, blankets, and medical care. They will not be questioned by anyone but me until I say otherwise.”

The guard’s face drained of color.

Arthur stepped closer.

“And you will send for Nartosko. Now.”

The man looked past him then, really looked. Thirty-four children. Thirty-four witnesses. Thirty-four accusations standing barefoot before the palace of Lanostira.

His hand dropped from his sword.

“Yes, sir.”

Arthur turned back to the children. “Inside.”

The girl stood at the side of the line, counting again as they passed.

“One. Two. Three…”

Arthur watched her.

She did not cry. She did not ask what would happen next. She counted, because he had told her to count, and because someone had to make sure no one disappeared again.

Good, Arthur thought.

That kind of mind survived.

By the time the last child crossed beneath the gate, the sun had broken fully over Lanostira.

The palace servants stared.

The guards said nothing.

And somewhere inside those shining marble halls, the King’s morning was about to become very unpleasant.