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Arthur Leywin
In my previous life, I had grown accustomed to nonstop war.
After the subtle coup within the Etharian Council, I'd waged war with Trayden first. I'd made more mistakes than I would have cared to admit: trusted the wrong people, took action when I should have waited, and waited when I should have taken action.
My decisions nearly lost me the war at the start. I'd lost so many men, so many troops. I hadn't yet honed my edge. Hadn't yet learned to fully suppress the child I'd been, tantrumming against a world that took what I'd loved.
But even children learned. And learned, I did. I'd retreated as the enemy thought themselves victorious, Trayden and her allies feasting and dancing as they paraded my supposed failure. We have bested this boy, they said. His army is decimated across the northern plains, with no supply routes or place to call his banners.
Oh, how they'd laughed. How they'd feasted and lounged and spoken of their nobility in putting down the menace that threatened peace. How they'd thought themselves secure, thinking me truly defeated. But like the age-old tales of Emperor Napoleon, I'd licked my wounds, observing where I'd failed, resealing the cracks in my armor.
Killing what emotion had taken hold of me, neutering any chance of growth.
And unlike the Corsican of centuries past, when I made my return by striking down the banks of the Mississippi, I was not waylaid by a coalition army. I met a legion of fools, too content in their gorging and victory to recognize that I had learned to direct my apathy, to cut with precision and certainty.
Yes, I had grown accustomed to nonstop war after that. Defeating enemy after enemy after enemy, as regional powers recognized the monster I'd become.
A monster, true, I thought absently, lounging forward in my chair, but a child lashing out in the only way he knew.
Regis and I were both silent as we stared at the flame-haired retainer, Lyra Dreide. With dark eyes, thoughts hidden behind words that sounded deceptively honest, and a voice intentionally smooth in every dip and flow of her inflection, I'd known I was facing a viper the moment we sat down in this interrogation room.
I gently placed the steaming mug of hot chocolate on the table in front of the Retainer, noting how her adder's eyes drifted to the rising vapor, then back to me. They weren't afraid—not truly. But the way she kept her arms crossed over her lap, her back straight, and her posture reserved told me precisely what strategy she was playing at.
"If I wanted you poisoned, I wouldn't present it to you so openly," I said with candor, leaning back in my seat in a leisurely contrast to the Retainer of Central Dominion. I adopted a slight smirk. "Considering how well you've been treated since your imprisonment, I'd hoped you'd have a better image of me than someone who slips nefarious concoctions to prisoners of war."
Lyra tilted her head slightly, measuring the room. It wasn't the sterile white of a hostile place, designed to bombard your eyes and senses with endless, stark non-contrast. The walls were cobbled and dungeonesque, true, but the crackling fire at the edge of the room, the rugs placed about, and the soft leather seats gave this place an aura of comfort and relaxation.
"In Alacrya, there are serums that loosen the tongue of those who imbibe them," the woman said in a voice that was carefully cadenced. Not sultry or alluring like Aya's projections of sound magic, but more like an undertow of silk. "The Instillers in Taegrin Caelum found that they were far more effective if the target was relaxed before taking them. You have treated me respectably, King Leywin, but I must conduct myself appropriately."
I affixed a light smirk to my lips. "In Dicathen, we call that alcohol. It's not an uncommon phenomenon." My smile fell slightly. "But if you don't wish to drink, it's up to you."
In the aftermath of the Second Dawn, manythings had changed. I'd spent the past few weeks scrambling across the continent, sweeping up the last pockets of Alacryan resistance, making speeches, and bolstering our troops for the next round of war.
Because we had won. Imposssibly, against all odds and every force arrayed against us, Dicathen had won. After Olfred Warend had openly surrendered to Lance Mica at the Battle of the Splintered Canal, giving the Dicathian troops undisputed control of the mouth of the Sehz Canal, my armies had swept east, surging up the mighty Sehz and reinforcing our troops besieged at Carn City.
It was there that the true devastation of the asura became apparent. Seris Vritra's army had been scattered like matchsticks in the wind, forced to flee through the tunnels for their lives as the almighty, apathetic deities of Epheotus stalked them like lambs before almighty wolves.
As Darv fell to the asuran hunters, each of them systematically butchering any pocket of Alacryan sympathizers they could find through their tunnels, I'd done what I could as King to offer respite to the dwarves and Alacryans being hunted.
Because I owed someone a debt. Someone not even of my continent had died defending it, sparing my world asuran devastation; and everyone he'd fought for were being treated like wheat beneath a scythe.
I'd taken a note from Seris Vritra's playbook, offering sanctuary to the remaining Alacryans. Granted, such sanctuary was as prisoners within war camps, but it was the only thing that kept the blades of Kezess Indrath's warriors from relieving their heads from their shoulders.
Despite it all, though… Despite the fact that I had given our enemies shelter in camps across the Beast Glades, I could not forget that they were my enemies. Of their own volition, or not.
It was because of the failures of my first enemies on Earth that I was here today, sitting across from a Retainer. I'd seen what happened to foes that thought they'd won, letting down their guards after beating back a foe. I'd been what happened to foes that became arrogant in their triumph.
So here I was, conversing with one of the only Alacryans that could give me truly valuable information about the other continent.
"I've done what I could to keep you and those who surrender to me comfortable. Think of it as… repaying a debt. Seris Vritra, before her death to the asura, treated those under her care as kindly as she could manage. I am a benevolent man, and I do not punish cooperation."
Lyra appeared to consider this for a moment. "Seris Vritra was of Sehz-Clar. Their practices are quite different from the rest of Alacrya," she said simply. "In Vechor, mercy toward a defeated enemy would be construed as weakness."
I raised a brow, glad that the topic had so quickly found its way to those of the different Dominions. "And in the Central Dominion?"
Lyra unclasped her hands, reaching toward the steaming mug. She took it in her palms, but did not drink. "Most Central Dominion Highbloods would suspect a ploy," she said carefully, watching me like prey that knew it stood between sharpened talons. "A Central Dominion Highblood would be wise enough to recognize that pretenses of relaxation and mercy might mask deeper motives."
"An intelligent perspective," I acknowledged with an easy smile, glad to do away with some layer of pretense. "What else would you say separates a man from the Central Dominion from… say, a farmer on the outskirts of Etril? I can guess, of course, but considering you used to be Cadell's Retainer…"
Lyra's fingers twitched, her mask of composure fracturing slightly at the mention of Agrona's Severed Hand. "What do you want from me, King Leywin?"
My smile fell fully as I favored the woman with a long stare, measuring what I should say next. We both knew that I was the one in power, that I could get whatever I wanted from her with the right application of force.
So now, we waited.
My information network, headed by Alanis Emeria, was doing what it could to aggregate as much information as we could from our prisoners about their home continent. Because I couldn't sit back and wait for the enemy to come to us again. I needed my own spies planted across the continent, and the Central Dominion was the place we were least sure of. I already had one spy there, but it wasn't enough. If we wished to blend in…
"Viessa Vritra is going slowly insane a cell over," I said with steely reserve. "Her mana core was shattered, and she continues to bleed without recourse. I've plans to see her executed publicly as justice for the countless massacres across Sapin's countryside. Not far from her, Bairon Wykes is slowly dying from crippled lifeforce, also with a shattered mana core."
It was only recently that Gideon had been able to work out the concept of bounded fields, using the mana signatures of tempus warps to create devices that might disrupt their wayward teleportation. But the countless deaths Viessa had enabled still lingered.
I leaned forward, pressing my intent into the mana ever-so-slightly. All four elements of mana swirled about me, not in a direct application of King's Force, but something slightly sideways. A proclamation of what I always kept in reserve. "Before the Second Dawn, Toren Daen fought with all three of you. Two, he left broken and shattered, shells of who they used to be. But you were different. Spellsong let you live largely unharmed. And in life, Spellsong was someone that had a good sense for people."
I tapped my finger against the table a few times, measuring the pace of this conversation. "I want you to tell me what you can about your home Dominion, Lyra Dreide."
The red-haired woman brushed a lock of crimson out of her face. She had a remarkable ability to suppress visible nervousness, even though I could sense the trembling in her heart. She always met my eyes, unlike so many who couldn't do so out of fear. Likely a skill she learned beneath Cadell: never showing any sort of weakness.
"You wish for me to betray my people," Lyra stated bluntly.
"Betrayal implies trust," I countered easily. "The fact of the matter is that Agrona Vritra—and the Sovereigns by extension—are owed none of your loyalty. I'm not asking you to betray your people, Lady Dreide. I ask you to give me what I require to fight against your overlords."
The woman was silent for a long, long time, the crackling of the earth like splintering bones. She finally worked up the courage to raise the mug of steaming hot chocolate to her lips, taking a long sip as she played for time.
"You seem to misunderstand something about my home, King Leywin," Lyra said respectfully. "You speak of it as a place to visit: a separation of Dominions and cultures and natural events. The way you speak of each Dominion simplifies what they are. What our home is. You view it as a lesser would."
I crossed one of my legs over the other, leaning back in my seat. "And what is your home?"
Lyra's eyes fell to the swirling darkness of her drink. "Alacrya is War."
I narrowed my eyes, slightly unnerved by the anxiety that slowly surfaced in Lyra's tone.
"Darv may be home of the dwarvish people. Sapin is the origin of all humans, and Elenoir the resting ground of the elven race. Your countries have a history, a natural culture and throughline. I witnessed it in Darv, stationed there for as short a time as I was. When you rise above it all, asking yourself if there is a point, I suspect you find that the only point is living. But Alacrya… Alacrya is War."
Lyra closed her eyes, taking a longer drink from her hot chocolate. "Vechor is the brutality of bloodshed. The raving, maddening draw of battle fervor and the fires of those who want to kill, driving at the vanguard and smashing enemy lines. Etril, breadbasket of the continent and home of so many of our farmers, is the supply lines. They are the arm that sows the field and plants the seeds, only so that it might later be watered with crimson blood.
"Truacia raises some of the greatest minds. The tacticians and inventors and gadgeteers, pushing innovation and deadly efficiency. It is they who take the broken bones of our defeats and craft them into something else, before driving our knives into the stomachs of our foes. Sehz-Clar… I wondered for a long time where they fit into the grand Machine, why our Sovereigns needed such… softness."
I leaned forward, intrigued by the Retainer's speech as it spilled from her like blood from a defeated foe. "And what is their point, then? How does the empathy of the Southern Dominion play into this… model of yours?"
Lyra set her cup down. "They are what keeps us going in the first place. The hope for our families back home, the fervent wish to keep them safe and whole. They are what truly fuel the war. For when men and women die in the fires, it is the families who rise up to take their place. And when mages live through each battle, it is because of those they have back home. Mind, I've never had a family or loved ones, but I've seen how it motivates. It is one of the most important cogs in the machine."
I suppressed a slight shudder as her words resonated through the air. No mana attended them, but I felt an unnerving chord in my heartbeat as I recognized the cold, calculating veracity of it all. When I'd stepped up to take the mantle of King one more, it was my desire for my family to be well and truly safe that pressed me onward. It was thoughts of Tess and Virion and Ellie and Mom and Dad that made me defy Aldir. Defy an asura.
I'd even argued to the pantheon general this point. That I would fight that much harder. That much better than Taci, because I had people to fight for.
If there is anything that can make a man take up a sword against living gods, I thought dourly, it is the hope for those he loves.
Silence lingered between us for a long, long time, the crackling of the distant hearth slowly dimming and leaving us in greater darkness.
"So where does that leave the Central Dominion, then?" I asked, suppressing the hairs that rose along the back of my neck.
Lyra's eyes drifted to my head, where a black circlet rested. The midnight crown—lacking the vibrant purple spires of its fully activated state—rested heavily on my head. Dusk's Claim, I called it. It was evidence of my ties to Regis, to the higher Order of this World. She sat there primly on my scalp, unassuming and untarnished.
"All of my life, I grew beneath the shadow of the Doctrination, King Leywin," she said quietly. "Their great, mosaiced cathedrals. Those titanous constructs of stained glass and virtue through violence… They paved the way for the decisions of every lesser on the continent. The High Vicar Varadoth's decrees strengthened the people under a common identity, a common idea. And we worshipped, for there was no other choice. Subservience was a paradox. Rewarded for obedience, and punished for groveling. A dichotomy that has existed since the start of our home.
"The Central Dominion… We are Worship, King Leywin. We are supposed to be those who worship and demand subservience. Unyielding dedication to a goal we know not, even as we strike toward our enemies. Enemies that our gods point us towards."
Strange, how much power this defeated woman's words had.
"The crown, then," I said, understanding solemnly. "Is that why you say your home is War, Lyra Dreide?"
I tapped my fingers against my arm, already beginning to get a better picture of the philosophy of my enemies. The philosophy of the Sovereigns.
"But such a system doesn't create loyalty," I pointed out. "The leading direction of the Central Dominion, as you claim, only requests subservience, not true dedication. Not true respect."
Lyra clasped her hands together, then hunched slightly in her chair. "I saw them kneel to you, Arthur Leywin," she whispered, her eyes haunted. "I saw them all bend their knees as you marched forward. I saw you drive your blade into Cadell's core, depriving him of his life. That made an… impression."
I imagined it would, watching a man slay your Scythe. "There is substance to loyalty," I said, leaning forward. "There is value in it. Value that your Central Dominion does not seem to understand. That value is what saw my continent to victory over yours."
Lyra Dreide's eyes were shadowed as she stared down at the swirl of her hot chocolate. I couldn't read them, and I struggled to read her. I needed to learn more, and any Alacyrans I could sway to my side would only benefit me in the upcoming second wave.
"Blind obedience, and substantive loyalty," Lyra muttered, her fists clenching. "You profess that it is different, King Leywin. You say that your path is better, but in the end, there is no change.
"When Kezess Indrath demands you to sacrifice, when your god stands before you and demands your obedience," Lyra said, looking back up at me with a painfully honest gaze, "what will that loyalty be worth?"
—
I stepped out of the interrogation room with a heavy heart and a heavier mind. Thoughts of what the Retainer had said swirled in my head, mingling with my countless other thoughts and worries.
I'd seen the aftermath of Kezess' warriors as they methodically tore their way through dwarven tunnels. Cold. Brutal. Efficient. But within the asuran assaults on the dwarven rebels, there was a sort of angry fire. A contained desire for vengeance.
I didn't have the full picture, but it was easy to put together the pieces of what had transpired that made Kezess bring his warriors to Darv. They'd negotiated a way to remove the Hearth from the war, and in exchange, Kezess would get to reset the board. Wipe out all Alacryans standing against Dicathen.
But Agrona had taken a page from Lord Indrath's playbook, double-crossing him and pulling off his tactical gamble around Xyrus City.
I spared a glance to Sylv, who lingered just outside the door, keeping watch over two people in particular.
"We have a plan ready, Arthur," Sylv said quietly, sensing my unease about the topic. "You know what's coming, and I've been working on laying what groundwork I can. The stakes are high, but there is a path forward."
She stepped forward slightly, laying a hand along my arm in a comforting way. A smile stretched along my face as she did so. Where did my little, foxy dragon go? I asked humorously, relieved by the closeness of our mental tether. You aren't supposed to sound all wizened and old, at least not yet.
Sylv spared a single glance back at the two people she'd been minding, her brows creasing. "Toren Daen showed me a bit of the truth," she thought somberly. "Here, in this floating castle… There are things I can do. There are steps I can take, however small, to make things better."
Lusul of Named Blood Hercross stood nervously as my eyes washed over him, his dark skin glistening with sweat. Beside him, Olfred Warend—reinstated Lance for the Triunion Council—met my stare with an old, tired sort of acceptance.
"What do you think of Lyra's words?" I asked the young man, careful to ease off my intent. "She's smart with the political game, but it was clear she kept some from me."
Lusul Hercross had been at the head of a divergent group of Alacryans and dwarves, leading them away in the advent of the asuran massacres. The troops had followed him not because of his power in magic, but because of a talent for music. An ability to bind people together.
If there was to be any sort of peace between the Alacryan prisoners and Dicathians, Lusul Hercross was the lynchpin I was starting to bet my chips on; especially considering he had a child on the way.
"Lyra is… right," the young man said slowly. "Her words are a theory from an old author about the grand design of the Sovereigns. Benethor, I think… But I didn't read enough. But she forgot to tell you something. Or, I wager it was intentional, actually."
I focused more intently on the young man, locking my hands behind my back. "And that would be?"
Lusul chewed on his lip. "She said the Central Dominion was Worship. I'm of the Central Dominion, and I'd say that's accurate. Or, it was accurate."
"Was?" Sylv asked, her brows rising slightly. "What do you mean was?"
Lusul coughed into his fist. "The Doctrination was the center of so much, but Toren…" the young man's mana flexed slightly, vibrant in a way I recognized only from Spellsong. The utterance of the word itself seemed to hurt him. "They called him the Scourge of the Doctrination. He slew Mardeth, the Vicar of Plague, during the Plaguefire Incursion, and then he and Seris Vritra entered the Central Cathedral, challenging High Vicar Varadoth. And Scythe Seris left…"
"With Varadoth's head," Sylvie muttered, finishing Lusul's words for him. Her wheat-blonde brows furrowed. "What would that mean for the Doctrination, then?"
"Cut off the head of the snake," Olfred grunted, the first time he'd spoken, "and the body withers."
I spared the newly re-dubbed Lance a glance, solemn understanding passing between us. He was far more reserved than I remembered. Different, after all the death he'd experienced through a war both terribly long and terribly short.
Sylvie slowly approached the Lance. Even several weeks into his reappointment, trust had not fully been restored, which was why I let my bond keep an eye on him. "Olfred and I will likely need to finish up preparations for tonight's events," she said quietly. The passageway outside the interrogation room felt suddenly colder as I remembered what would happen tonight. "Arthur, I'll need to talk to you more later, okay?"
I put on a slight smile, ruffling my bond's hair slightly. "Alright, Sylv. Try not to trip on your feet again, hm?"
Sylv's golden eyes narrowed slightly. Not in annoyance, but in solemn confidence. Ever since her talk with Toren Daen, she'd been far more proactive. Stepping past her comfort zone, making plans, pushing for an idea she couldn't quite put to words yet. "Stay strong, Arthur," she thought to me. "You have all that you need."
I don't have all I need yet, I thought back. But it's there, just outside my reach. We just need to build the steps towards it.
I turned to the dwarven Lance, still affecting a slight smile, if more strained. "I still have one more person to talk to before I join the rest of them at Xyrus for the pyres."
Olfred's bushy brows furrowed as he caught my meaning. At these levels of the flying castle's prisons, there was only one other person that I could be referencing. "Aye, King Leywin," he grunted after a moment. "Tell me what he says. I'd be interested in hearin' more."
I nodded to my bond, who gestured to Lusul and Olfred. The young violinist followed after my bond, strangely certain and uncertain both in his role as bridge to the Alacryans. I turned on my feet, locking my hands behind my back as I began to stroll slowly through the tunnels, considering what was to come.
It was dark in these tunnels. Very, very dark, by design. They'd rarely ever seen light, except for when Spellsong had somehow managed to infiltrate not so long ago, freeing Retainers Cylrit and Mawar from my hold.
My brow twitched slightly in annoyance at that, but I couldn't maintain any sort of anger towards the phoenix-blooded mage. I could only feel a quiet sort of grief at what had become of him. The injustice of it boiled the blood in my veins.
He'd sacrificed himself—all of himself—to save my continent from Agrona's schemes. And when the High Sovereign murdered him for it, leaving his body to leak crimson onto the Earth, I had been unable to stop it. When the asura had come at last—Windsom and Aldir and hundreds upon hundreds more, bearing the bound and broken bodies of the Asclepius Clan in tow—I had been too weak to stop them from stealing Toren's body, too.
He won't even get a proper pyre, I thought, suppressing my anger. It is wrong.
Regis' shade slowly formed from null light: a tall, nearly feminine man with wheat hair and golden eyes. The shining silver armor gleamed in interlocking plates across his body. Our steel-forged bond hummed with something I could not define.
I couldn't sense my weapon's state of mind like I did Sylvie's, but nonetheless, I knew that Regis was agitated—at least the closest he could be to agitated. He was more human than before, in the wake of my acceptance of myself, but there was still something fundamentally other that kept him chained to a mindset he did not desire.
In the aftermath of the Second Dawn, Regis had granted me an explanation for his abilities and personhood. He was tied to a thread of some sort, always following that thread forward. He could not see the path, and sometimes he struggled to understand it, too. But after Toren's death…
Is that thread still broken, Regis? I asked, putting one step in front of the other, feeling slightly worried. Is whatever power that governs you still shattered?
I stopped in place as I reached a specific cell, gazing inward as I gave my Crown and Sword time to think. Inside, Viessa Vritra was curled into a tightly woven ball, her purple hair splayed around her as she cowered from the light.
She'd become a broken thing.
"The thread is not severed, Arthur-Grey," Regis said, his voice mellow. "It cannot be severed, as such a thing is against your Edicts. But it is as if…" The shade paused, searching for the right words. "I am a train upon tracks. Tracks that I have always been able to follow. But after Toren Daen's death, the tracks became indistinct. Invisible and undetectable. Unreachable."
I looked from the cowering Scythe—who was muttering something about Spellsong to herself—back to my weapon. Elder Rinia, when she was still alive… she said that something broke Fate, I muttered, testing the words on my tongue and suppressing my sorrow. Is this the same?
Regis was quiet for a moment, observing me with those too-knowing golden eyes. "No," he declared, his voice a perfect mirror of my own. "It is not the same. I do not comprehend what has happened, but we both know that it is something more fundamental than even that. The World turns, and yet it stays in place."
I exhaled a breath through my nose, forcing myself to look away from the cell where Viessa Vritra slowly rotted. Toward another cell.
Then why have you revealed yourself, if you cannot sense what guides you?
"Because it is still my duty to Judge. It is my purpose, Arthur-Grey, to ensure you are Worthy."
Worthy of what?
Regis' lips tugged at their edges, a wry, solemn smirk there. "You know my answer to that."
I let out a sigh. Worthy of the World, whatever that meant, I thought, annoyed again. And I suppose that this is an event where you need to Judge.
At least that part, I thought I could understand.
When I reached the cell, I stood at the threshold, staring at the metal door that barred this cell. Strange, that it should be metal, I thought grimly. It's almost mocking, unintentional as it is.
This cell had been utterly destroyed by Toren and Taci's fight, and only recently repaired. The walls were lined with newer technology designed to suppress a person's mana and keep them contained. It wasn't needed for this specific prisoner, but the thought was what counted.
With a low sigh, I pushed open the door, bearing witness to the prisoner within.
Their blonde hair was greasy and dirty, hanging down like chains around their face. Their head hung like a scarecrow's as they slumped weakly at the far end of the cell. Their arms were thin from disuse, their veins tainted an unnatural, reddish black that made him look sickly.
Bairon Wykes—former Lance Thunderlord and traitor to Dicathen—looked up through the dangling nooses of his matted hair. His eyes had once been an emerald green, but after using the very same Alacryan concoction that had corrupted his brother, they'd turned to a splotched, blackish color.
And how they burned with hate.
Bairon said nothing as he glared at me. Defeated, small, broken… While I stood tall, bearing scars, yet continuing on.
My eyes drifted to the tray of food sitting in the corner. Untouched and uneaten.
"You barely have any time left, Bairon," I said measuredly. "With your lifeforce crippled from using the Alacryans' concoction, you probably only have a couple months. Not eating will only make you waste away faster."
Gideon had taken a sample of Bairon's blood under my orders, hopefully to use in a datapoint to try and understand the corruption still plaguing Virion's core. We were making some progress in understanding the different strains of corruption used by the Vritra throughout the war, but this one…
Bairon had only hurt himself further during his fight with Spellsong. By using his lightning to force his heart to beat against the squeeze of the Lance Artifact, he'd strained himself well past what anyone should have reasonably been able to survive. And now, he was starving himself out of spite.
"Boy King," Bairon spat out, hateful and small. "Why are you here? What purpose could it serve?"
I tilted my head, feeling for an item inside my dimension ring. "I thought I should let you know. Your father's coalition has been stamped out. The Wykes, Ravenpor, Dreyl, and other houses can no longer claim to be nobility."
With the information Seris Vritra had provided to Lance Phantasm—the last she'd been able to grant before her death—I'd had the final bit of information I needed to oust the last, stickling thorns in my side from my inner circle. Otis Vayhur Wykes, alongside a dozen other nobles among his coalition, were also imprisoned in this very castle, one level above.
"Your father and his conspirators are imprisoned a floor above you. They receive the same food you do." My eyes darted to the bare oatmeal that had been provided to the Lance. It wasn't bad food, just terribly bland. A 'commoner's' meal. "I thought you should know."
Bairon's body puffed up, almost as if it were a balloon swelling with air. A spark of the thunder that had always gripped him seemed to reignite for a moment.
But then he slumped, the wind taken from his sails. "So you're here to gloat, Leywin? That's why you're here? To say that a peasant boy won, and the rightful rulers of this continent lost?"
I exhaled through my nose, forcefully keeping my temper in check. The rightful rulers, he said. The 'rightful rulers,' who threatened my loved ones at every turn. They did all they could to endanger his continent.
I exhaled a sigh, letting the broken Lance's taunt wash over me like water off a duck's back. He was a broken and defeated foe, not worth assaulting with my words. I flourished my hand, calling an item from my dimension ring into my hand.
A recording artifact, glinting in the darkness.
"I came here because I want you to watch this," I said, tossing the artifact forward. It clattered to the ground, bouncing a few times before it rolled to a stop near the former Lance's dirty boots.
Bairon glared down at the recording artifact, his hands clenching, but he ultimately couldn't deny his curiosity. He leaned forward picking it up with hands far too thin. "And what's this, then? Recordings of my noble family being tortured? Something you think can break me, boy? It won't wor—"
"You think that's what is on that recording," I said simply, cutting cleanly through the building tirade, "because that is precisely what you would do, is it not? Were I in your position, my core shattered and on the brink of death?"
Bairon's mouth closed, his jaw tensing as my words washed over him. "Watch," I ordered, feeling my temper strain below.
The former Lance snorted in disdain, then pressed the button to display the recording. A pane of pure mana fuzzed into existence over the device, casting shadows over his emaciated form.
I wondered what Bairon had been expecting to see: probably not the arrayed Council, ready to display another announcement to the world. And certainly not for Jotilda Shintstone to stand beside Elder Buhnd, nor for Olfred Warend to be at my side.
The former Lance watched with ragged silence as a recording of the announcement I'd made a week prior echoed through the stones. My declaration that Lance Olfred had finally returned to the Council, that he'd always been acting undercover for the Triunion Council, that he'd been waiting for the right time to ensure our total victory against the Alacryans… And now, after surrendering to Mica at the Sehz Canal after their talk, he'd been instrumental in helping Dicathen win the war.
It was a lie. Those with enough power all understood this, but it wasn't about the fact that Olfred had been a true traitor to Dicathen. It was about how the asura of Epheotus would wipe out everyone they could who even spoke with a fire of rebellion in their souls.
In my speech, I'd called for unity. I'd espoused the fact that the Alacryans would attack again. That our dwarven brethren had been lied to and used, and that the true enemies were the Vritra.
"Jotilda Shinstone is now a member of the Council, alongside Elder Buhnd," I said sincerely. "Lance Olfred has reclaimed his place as one of the Six."
Bairon stared at the pane of mana for a time, his eyes unfocused. "So what's the point of it all?" he sneered, tossing the artifact to the side. "Is this supposed to make me a Lance again, or some trash? You think you can win me over with your speeches of unity, when you've gone against everything our continent stands—"
"This isn't about me being King," I finally ground out, unable to keep my temper in check any longer. I bared my teeth as I marched toward the shattered Lance. I crouched in front of the powerless man, sensing his body locking up in instinctual fear. "You attacked my family, Bairon. You attacked my sister, my Mother, my Father, and Tess. You. Deserve. To die. And you will."
I pointed a finger at the Lance's heart. "But I don't need to do anything to assure that. You've doomed yourself, and your consequences have finally caught up with your actions. You've done nothing but make assumptions about why I'm here, so let me tell you."
Bairon recoiled, sweat beading down his skin as he shook from my aura. With restrained huff, I pulled it inward, mastering myself once more.
"I have been given many, many things that I did not deserve, Bairon. In your tantrums, you've been right about that," I said lowly. "But though I did not deserve what I got, I still had a desire to do better. To be better than what I was before. And I want you to look me in the eyes."
I leaned forward, my medium-length hair a curtain of autumn leaves as I glared into the former Lance's uncertain eyes. "How much of your words do you truly believe, Wykes? If you could do it all again, all from the start, what would you have done?" I asked, my words echoing into the stones. "If your father hadn't taken the steps he did, if I hadn't been forced into my role as King, if you knew where this war might go, would you be better?"
Bairon's eyes trembled as I held them, the first sign of true vulnerability I'd seen from him. He trembled lightly, and not from my aura. From my intensity.
"Tell me," I demanded again, unwilling to let this moment go.
"I'd…" Bairon swallowed, captured by something he visibly struggled with. "I'd take Lucas away from that asura-forsaken house." He blinked, seeming surprised he'd spoken at all. Then ashamed as he scoffed, turning away from me.
I let out a sigh, picking up the recording artifact. I noted the dents and divots across the surface, wondering how many Bairon Wykes bore. Then I stood, feeling exhausted already. I ignored Regis' gaze on my back as I strode toward the exit of the cell.
"You can never be a Lance again, Bairon," I said solemnly. "But I can give you a quiet place on the outskirts of Sapin. A farm, a place for 'commoners.' " I turned to look over my shoulder, noting how the former lightning mage still kept his gaze away from me. "It's a beautiful place, overlooking the sea."
When all of this was over, I'd live in a cabin like that. I didn't know if I could be a proper farmer—not like Tess could, with her nature magic. But I could give it a fair shot, living in a little cottage with my loved ones. With my family.
It was a place I wouldn't mind dying peacefully in.
Bairon turned to look at me again, his mouth pursed, his expression saddened. "It sounds… beautiful."
I nodded slowly, then turned away. I walked from the cell, not necessarily feeling lighter, but certainly… Better.
This world was just as full of pain as my last one, if not moreso. And it would only ever be filled with pain unless that cycle was broken.
Very few people deserved second chances. But so long as I was King, I'd give what I could.