William blinked, startled by the formality. “Right now?”

  “Yes, sir. Commander Veylan requests your presence.” The soldier gestured for Will to follow.

  He rose, dusting off his armour, and sighed. “So much for a quiet meal.”

  “Try not to start another war while you’re gone,” Pip joked.

  “I’ll do my best,” Will replied with a faint grin as he followed the soldier towards a large cluster of tents being erected for the command staff.

  Veylan was sitting on a wooden crate beneath a torn canopy, his armour stripped to the waist, a bandage dark with blood around one arm. Even in exhaustion, the Commander radiated quiet authority. His greying hair was matted with dirt and sweat, but his eyes were sharp as steel.

  “Ah, Draven.” He gestured for William to sit. “Eat. You’ve earned it.”

  A squire set down two wooden plates, cold meat, bread, and something that might once have been stew. William accepted the food with a grateful nod, sitting opposite the Commander.

  For a while, they ate in silence, the only sound the crackle of a nearby fire and the distant murmur of tired men.

  Veylan broke the quiet first. “You fight like a man trained to command, not follow. Yet I’ve never seen armour like yours. Golden plate, heavy but elegant. You’re no common sellsword.”

  William swallowed his mouthful of food before answering. “I’m not from Mercia.”

  Veylan smiled. “So I gathered. There’s been talk, you know. Some of the survivors call you the Fallen God. Others, less kindly, a devil. I thought I should hear it from the source before superstition does my job for me.”

  Garrick’s supporters and family. William chuckled, feigning amusement. “A devil? I’d have hoped for something more flattering for a man who risked his life to save others.”

  The Commander’s lips twitched in a grin. “The ignorant will believe anything after fights like Brindlecross and Dunholme. Men saw you cleave through trolls with ease. They’ll start thinking you’re a legend reborn if you’re not careful, son.” He chuckled.

  “Then let them think what they want.” William’s tone was light but careful. “I’m no god, and certainly no devil. Just a traveller… from another world.”

  That caught Veylan’s interest. His brow rose. “Another world?”

  “Yes. Ganymede,” William lied. “A small realm, mostly elven. Isolated and overly proud. You’ve likely never heard of it, but you must know what elves are like?”

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  “Ganymede, you say.” Veylan nodded. “No, can’t say I have. But I’ve met elves. You’ve their eyes and ears, though not their arrogance.”

  William smiled. “My mother was human. My father; less so. The elves of Ganymede tolerate my kind, but advancement comes slowly to half-bloods. I served as a guard to one of the lesser Kings there. Nothing grand. But I wanted more from life than standing in the shadow of others, and I wanted to learn more about my mother’s people. There are so few on Ganymede.”

  Will tore another piece of bread, speaking between bites. “So, I left. Travelled through the gates to see the other worlds. Mercia was to be my first stop. I didn’t expect to find it at war less than two weeks into my journey.”

  He was modifying the biography of a half-elf prince who wouldn’t appear in the game until the ninth expansion pack. As a half-blood, he wasn’t eligible to be King, so he travelled the known worlds battling evil.

  Veylan studied him, eyes narrowing; not in suspicion, but in thought. “A half-elf knight from another world, then. Hmm. That explains the skill and the armour. You’ve seen battle before?”

  “Enough of it,” William replied, half-truths and fiction mingling in his words.

  The Commander leaned back, exhaling. “Mercia could use more like you. You fight with purpose, not pride. Most mercenaries fight only for coin. You fought for strangers with no rewards.”

  “Strangers or not, they were people who needed saving,” William replied, thinking of the children that would’ve died without his sword to protect them. “As a Holy Paladin, I’m obligated to never abandon the helpless. That’s something my mother taught me.” It was a phrase he half remembered from a charity ad campaign. He sat a little straighter to sell the lie.

  Veylan gave a low hum of approval. “A rare sentiment in times like these.” He pushed aside his empty plate and met William’s eyes. “When we reach the capital, you should consider joining the Royal Guard. We’re stretched thin. A warrior like you could rise high in Mercia if you choose to. Mention my name, and I’ll vouch for your bravery on the battlefield.”

  William smiled, though the gesture didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thank you. I’ll think on it.”

  [Reputation Increase for The Kingdom of Mercia +50]

  [XP: +10]

  He smiled while dismissing the notification.

  “Do so,” Veylan said. “Mercia rewards those who fight for her. And I’ve no doubt war with a neighbouring Kingdom will find us again soon.”

  They spoke a little longer—small talk of supply lines and lost comrades—until a scout interrupted, handing the Commander a roll of parchment. “Eight thousand,” Veylan muttered as he scanned it, sighed, and nodded for William to leave.

  As William walked back through the camp, the air was heavy with the sound of quiet grief. Priests whispered over the injured, and survivors of the two villages stared into nothing. A few children huddled by the fires, wrapped in cloaks far too big for them.

  Fredric waved him over when he returned. “What did he want?”

  “Just a chat.” William sat down beside him, stretching his aching legs. “He’s a good man. Smarter than most Commanders I’ve met.”

  Fredric gave a tired laugh. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  William glanced at the fading horizon. The sky was burning with the first hint of sunset, and for a moment, the clouds looked like the flare of his sword in motion. He thought of the titles, [Pawn of the Gods] and [Champion of the Gods], and what they might mean.

  The command came as the soldiers and survivors were still eating, passed from one exhausted sergeant to the next down the long line of wagons.

  “Dump anything that isn’t essential! Commander’s orders! We make for Thrymwall at speed!”

  The words rippled through the column like a stone thrown into still water. First came confusion, then anger, and finally the sound of heated arguments.

  "Hail Ringbreaker. Hail Apostate of Rust. Hail Dragon."

  Raziel is meant to be dead. He shouldn't have levels, skills, or the ability to throw lightning.

  But he does, and he's only just getting started.

  | ?? A noir-inspired, dystopian space setting | ?? A Gunslinger with growing magical abilities |

  | ?? Conspiracies, Murders, Mysteries | ?? Levels, Loot, and Boss Battles |

  Chapter 047 [Side Event: The Selfish Merchant]