One day following the disappearance of Arnzos from the manor, Palmgrease’s carriage arrived at his king’s seat. A gigantic oak tree, a thousand feet in length with the width of its carved insides as large as a town. Countless red leaves scattered for half a mile. Hundreds of Butcherie knights roamed walkways above. The perimeter had similar security. Whenever Palmgrease would visit, it always brought back the warmest of memories.

  Although, they weren’t warm for his enemies.

  Case in point—five years ago was when the Knights of Braverie became House Butcherie. Even if Palmgrease’s mind withered away in the final moments of his life, he would never forget their siege on the Grand Arboreal.

  After their final adventure (which Palmgrease neglected to dwell on), Linro Fuerza commanded the Knights to decimate the Arboreal’s denizens. With the aid of freshly enlisted mercenaries and his four companions, the felinians’ greatest home was conquered in a day. Its leader, Elder Kurlai, lost his head from Linro himself. The Knights of Braverie vanished. House Butcherie birthed itself from the loins of decimation.

  The black-furred felinian, Linro, became King Sin. The light olive-skinned, puffy eyed human, Nhi Vuarm, became Lady Flay. The thick-skinned, steelclad cerog, Kerstgen Holt, became Sir Sever. Palmgrease earned his title as well, tearing out his real name from the pages of history. He was indifferent to his true name. It carried its sentiments, but not enough to consider keeping it.

  The four of them—new heads of House Butcherie. Yet, one of the adventurers faltered in their raid. The youngest of the Knights of Braverie, Spuria. An elf girl. Slaughtered in the confrontation. Kerstgen swore to protect her. A promise he broke. Palmgrease should have helped him too. That remained one of his many regrets.

  Back in the present, his carriage pranced under the maroon canopy. Its wheels jerking on the loose pebbles leading into King Sin’s domain. A batch of bandits perched over the walkway above yanked down a golden lever. Gears and spools cried and crunched under pressure. The Arboreal’s iron grilled gate lifted and made way for the Lord. The eager horses continued clomping.

  The Lord peeked from his carriage’s window to drink in the sights. It never failed to amaze him. Armies of blue vines and orange mosses engulfed the bark interior. Gardens with thousands of flowers—daisies, bluebells, dahlias, and orchids. Violets, marigolds, daffodils, and lavender. A beauty never to be found in the grimy halls of Hylverea’s cities. Or in their brown fields and dry plains. Another perk of the Scrupled Lands. Floors upon floors of open rooms roosted—with hundreds of workers tending to their duties.

  Knights trained, or greenskeepers gardened. Weavers crafted their art and blacksmiths perfected their metal. King Sin had given his subjects their own pockets in the Arboreal to labor in. They connected to each other via doors and staircases and cubical lifts held up by the toughest of rope. This vibrancy of variety was like candy to the eye. And the King had no fear of color as well.

  Brash purples. Explosive pinks. Sparkling teals. Crisp violets. The banners and embroideries and cloaks around the giant tree all made that clear.

  A troop of the King’s men saluted Palmgrease as his carriage stopped. Blais, a fat weaselman rodinkin and an officer of the Lord, guided him from the vehicle’s steps. A heavily armored soldier of the King’s whispered to Blais. He nodded and listened.

  All Palmgrease focused on was the carved oak memorial to that elven girl. Spuria. It stood in the middle of the Arboreal’s square. Always centralized. Never forgotten. He picked a poppy from a bunch nearby. Like he had done countless times before.

  He looked to the carving on Spuria’s monument. It read:

  “To the greatest of friends,

  A blessing to behold,

  The last, true Braverie,

  A heart of pure gold,

  Rest well, Spuria.”

  Palmgrease tossed the poppy to her. It joined a pile of others—a red-orange menagerie of floral tributes. What would Butcherie be like with her still here? Would this house still have functioned in such a way? The questions were tantalizing but all-consuming. And as far as deaths went, hers was far gentler than the previous three Knights of Braverie. Those who died in the final adventure. That was a glimpse of horrifying, unshakable carnage.

  Blais hunched over. His voice sounded like he had a clamp on his nose. “My lord. Sir Sever requests your presence.”

  “He will wait. I didn’t come here for him,” Palmgrease said.

  “Well, my lord… he says he requests you by the order of King Sin.”

  Yes, yes, of course. That was why Palmgrease grew so petulant. Years ago, he considered Nhi and Kerstgen and Linro to be friends. Equals. Adjoined rulers. But as Sin’s kingdom expanded and his forces fortified, he noticed the cankerous disease of politics seep in. House Butcherie was built from scratch to be different. Yet, time withered it all the same. He watched Nhi and Kerstgen fully transform into Lady Flay and Sir Sever. Lapdogs of Linro—though he was Linro no more.

  Linro Fuerza was confident, inviting, and strong. His alter-ego, King Sin, was a cruel, paranoid tyrant. Linro died and King Sin killed him. Palmgrease recognized little of his friends in these creatures created by House Butcherie. So, once Waterfowl’s team gathered the Psiona pearls and activated the constructs, he would dismantle the tyranny from within. Maybe, with Palmgrease as King instead of Lord, he could resurrect the remnants of his fallen companions.

  Palmgrease lowered his head in respect for Spuria. Then he said, “Make him wait. A happy king comes before a happy sir.”

  The Lord waved for two younger knights to approach. A pair of dwarven lads paid their respects. One leading the precious stallion nicked from Arnzos. The other—his saber. Polished on the ride over. Both gifts were prepared to shine under the fingers of King Sin. While Palmgrease aimed to overthrow his master, he would not break his facade until the deed was complete.

  “I understand, my lord. Still, it might anger him,” Blais said.

  “Kerstgen is always angry. He’ll yell until he’s hoarse and then abuse his opinids.”

  “Certainly, my lord. He’s a creature of habit.”

  Palmgrease patted the rodinkin’s back. “Aren’t we all, Blais? Aren’t we all…”

  ?

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  Four days following the death of the klougher at the Lahf’ikon ruins, Arnzos had made it back to the lake beside the hill. Where Modra and Palmgrease ambushed him. Where the constructs laid like corpses in a green ocean. The bothers of his travel wore on his legs. Stinging. A wave of fatigue. Thirst clawed at his throat. The crystalline waters called to him like a yearning lover. He submitted.

  Familiar waters. Not cold. Not warm. A jolt of freezing chill might have been better for him—to wake him up—but oh well. He basked in the cleanliness. Splashed his face. A bit of revitalization. He splashed again. Then, he just stood there in the lake. The bag of pearls sagged on the damp shoreline.

  “Phyletta? You around?” he said.

  She materialized. “Hello. Is something troubling you?”

  “I’m not looking forward to getting these constructs working. Just so… tired.” Arnzos rested on the water, his chest and belly facing the pleasant sun. He slowly drifted. It was so relaxing, he could’ve fallen asleep. “Do you know how they work?”

  She mimicked sitting on the lake’s surface. “If you mean ‘do you know how to activate them,’ then no. I don’t. I only saw them when they were working. Unfortunate, I know.”

  “Should I sell the pearls?”

  Phyletta sat stunned for a moment. “Sell them? I don’t understand. What about Palmgrease and your equipment and the fleece? ‘I can topple the Lord.’ Are you just going to—”

  “Maybe I am, Phyletta. I’m so tired. I have nearly died so many fucking times in the past three weeks. I mean, I thought I did die during the siege on Fort Blavim. How I survived? I still have no idea. A few days ago, if I had those death machines ready to fight, I would have stormed in and taken my things back and killed as many of those bastards that needed killing. But now? Why should I do that? They have nothing to do with your husband or his champion or my family. And I can’t stop thinking about Modra’s son. If he’s real and I orphaned him or—”

  “Whatever you choose,” she said with a shrug, “is what has to be. That is how everything must go.”

  “Great. Cryptic bullshit. Super helpful,” he replied.

  She dwelled in the quiet. Clearly, with intention of speaking. Whatever her words were gathered in her throat like mucus. Hard to cough out. Until, “It was me that attacked Lahf’ikon, Arnzos. Not my husband.”

  He catapulted up like a rock fired from a sling. “What?”

  “I told you my father tried his best to support us. He did—in a way. I hated him for it. Because he married me off to Prince Milosk, as we were a lower noble family. I had feelings for someone else and they never came to fruition. Once I joined the Tulas Empire’s court of war, I was unbelievably frustrated. Milosk’s father died shortly after, which gave him control of the court. He announced his plans to plunder the Ena’qhy Nation, and since I hated everyone in that phase of my life, I unleashed it on their city of Na’keesti. Soon to become Lahf’ikon.”

  Again, the pang of burning hatred lit his soul aflame. Nobles always thought of themselves before the thousands of innocents their decisions affect. Phyletta seemed different. She seemed better, more compassionate, more sensible. Yet, she was no different. Did she think she could change? People can’t change, as much as they wish they could. Especially nobles. Their flawed system won’t allow it.

  He thought of spewing his anger at her, but instead let her finish.

  “I went with the army, against all advisement, and watched their city be ransacked. I heard the screams. The crashing rock. Soldiers calling for their mothers or their lovers. All those felinians… so many. I suppose I stopped hounding you about going after these bandits because… they’re the new Tulas. They take from everyone around them. They are parasites. Just as I once was. Just as my former husband was.”

  “I should have known your sad princess bullshit was all an act,” Arnzos said. “Nobility. You’re all the same.”

  “I regret what I have done. After the siege, I tried to advise Milosk on avoiding as much brutality as possible. Still, I wish to amend my mistake in some form."

  “Mistake!? Thousands of people died, Phyletta! That’s more than a fucking mistake!”

  “I know. I know… I don’t deserve forgiveness.” She turned away. Too ashamed to keep eye contact.

  Arnzos wasn’t the all-knowing judge of morality. She validated his already longstanding animosity with lords and ladies. This was worse—much worse than anything he knew Hylverean lords were capable of. Then again, Hylverea had not been to war in half a century. During wartime, they would likely be a lot more brutal. Plus… Phyletta saved him. He’d be marked with a pile of rocks in Ontullia if not for her. For that reason alone, he didn’t totally despise her.

  Moreover, his conflict with House Butcherie was in its final stages. He had the advantage. Dozens of Psiona Constructs ready to be unfettered. With the right guidance, it could slash apart their organization at the seams. The numerous felinian lives they had taken would be avenged. Would he be a puppet for Phyletta if he indirectly followed her will by following his?

  Arnzos recalled another saying that he beat into his head a week prior. ‘Steal the coat and leave.’ It served as… a kind of wisdom. ‘I must be selfish. To feed my sister and her family. Yet, I can be selfless too. To save other sisters and other families plagued by Palmgrease’s wrath.’

  “Phyletta,” he huffed. “I’m not sure if I should hate you. But what you said makes me doubt if I should help you at all with Milosk. Whenever that happens. That being said, you did save me. We’ll stick through with this, topple Palmgrease, and then… maybe you should find a different champion to confront your ex.”

  “I don’t believe that’s possible,” she said, her head shaking. “I can’t just release myself from you. That isn’t how—”

  “I didn’t believe a lot of things were possible. Like an empress from a thousand years ago coming back from the dead and inventing new magic. I’m sure we’ll find a way to pluck you off of me.”

  “Well, I cannot blame you.” She sulked with her eyes piercing black clouds above. The weather fashioned a storm. Pellets of round hail dropped gradually—then quickly—and finally, like a bucket of sleet poured onto the land from the sky. “If we are soon to separate, then I must tell you this as well.”

  Arnzos let the storm speak for him. He exited the water and pulled on his gambeson and gear. As well as snatching a pearl from the soon-to-be-soaked bag of Psiona.

  Phyletta said, “For many decades, I’ve dreamed of a kingdom. Free from war and repression and poverty. Where its citizens can live unburdened from worry and fear. There must be such a place somewhere in Ystryx. Besides stopping my husband, that has been… my true goal. To search for the virtuous place. A kingdom pristine.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, but I doubt such a nation exists. I doubt it ever has and I doubt it ever will.”

  Had Arnzos also prayed for such a place to possibly exist? Of course. If anyone said they were content with the state of the world, they would be lying. Well, besides those at the top. Actively worsening Ystryx just by flinging around their grimy schemes and pitiful vengeances. Those never failed to catch commoners in their deadly web.

  In the spirit of his conflicted feelings, Arnzos approached a dead construct. He imagined it alive—ripping apart those in House Butcherie. Crushing skulls, goring eyes, and carrying felinian children away from their oppression. He saw the cheers of Arhuinim crackle in air. Families allowed to live. To prosper. Just as he would want for Frinzel and Guthro and Renzi. The dreams powered him, like these pearls would soon power the constructs.

  He prodded around the construct’s ovoid tubes. Many swirled around its spherical torso; a metallic ball of dull red. Zig-zag lines and letters in Alurio dotted its four legs. Their meaning was lost on him, but not their purpose. For in Arnzos’ prodding, he spotted a lone arrow. Curved and pointing at a spot in the many tubes. An opening.

  The dracokin slipped the pearl in. It knocked against the transparent tube. Tick, tick, tick. And it… lodged into the construct’s hollow center. It twitched and roared as it sprung up from the ground. The pearl was now a shining green; an emerald resurrecting the old Ena’qhy warrior. It stuck out its thin and black rusty arms; all three of its eyes on its tiny cubical head glowed a bright red.

  “Daelsih iu Lurpio?” It spoke with the rasp of someone who smoked from the age of eighteen to seventy.

  Arnzos reluctantly faced Phyletta. “Did you get that?”

  “It asked for a language. Taelish or Alurio,” she said.

  All Arnzos knew was Taelish. The most common language in the continent. Bits of Drusto too, from his mother, though not much. It was the easiest of the dracokin languages to learn, but he never seemed to grasp it fully. “Taelish,” Arnzos told it.

  It bowed. “Taelish is chosen. Name is Bream. What is command?”

  “Tomorrow, we march on the enemy.”