Eusebio simply didn’t have a chance to react in any way.

  The action happened so rapidly that there wasn’t even time for the sword to cut Seymour’s hand. The contact point between his palm and the sharp metal briefly belched out a black aura as his sigil violently slurped up the entire blade. Eusebio gasped and the guard stood dazed, holding only the handle of his former sword.

  He stumbled back a step, staring dumbly at his suddenly bladeless hilt. His partner then raised his own weapon in a hurry and prepared to thrust it into Seymour’s chest.

  “Enough! Put it down,” boomed a commanding voice, coming from beyond the saloon doors which the elf-maidens were still holding wide open. The guard froze but kept the business-end of his sword fixed on Seymour’s heart. “I said put it down, Gamboldt. We didn’t come here to fight.”

  Glacius Uskander was better known as the WilderKing.

  A man of massive proportions, tall and broad, he blocked the sun from the entire entryway as he stepped inside. He looked like some sort of chimera, dressed under heaps of exotic animal furs; polar bear, dire wolf, and wooly mammoth among them. He wore a red cape and a crown made from interwoven antlers. He kept his face half-hidden behind a snow-white beard and mustache, but Eusebio couldn’t avoid noticing he wore a black, multi-faceted gem in place of his left eye.

  And he couldn’t help but wonder how in the world Seymour Little had just done what he’d done. There were hidden glyphs and runes all over the shop—functioning across every inch of public space—which were supposed to block the aggressive use of dangerous magics. And yet, the Riftborn had been more than capable of using his power just now right on the showroom floor, which was supposedly the most strictly-protected department in the entire depot.

  What did that mean, exactly?

  What did it mean about Seymour?

  But also, most importantly: for the shop’s security?

  Eusebio flinched then because Little had returned to his side undetected to elbow him lightly in the ribs.

  “Get a load of this guy, would ya?”

  “Quiet,” Eusebio warned through clenched teeth. “That man is a barbarian king.”

  “Does that beat a big ass dragon?”

  “What? Are you still drunk from your party last night?”

  “I mean, yeah, a little bit. But all I’m asking is: does a barbarian king really compare to a celestial-ranked dragon? Because I’m betting our boy Dan could fart on this dude and straight up turn him into a pile of blackened bones.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Eusebio warned.

  Glacius Uskander approached down the aisle. The showroom remained uncannily still, with the only movement other than Glacius’s being the heads of customers popping up in the rows and craning to gawk at him in passing. He passed his guards, giving each a stern glare, and proceeded until he loomed before Eusebio and Seymour, who were standing shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the counter.

  “Hail,” he said, nodding to Eusebio first and then to Seymour. “Which of you in this magic shop is the one known as Seymour Little?”

  Just then, the blade which Seymour had removed from the guard’s sword reemerged from his palm and clattered onto the floor beside him.

  “Sorry,” he said, suddenly sheepish. “I can only hold it in so long before it starts to burn.”

  “I’m….” Eusebio began, but feeling his face flush red he stopped, pausing a beat to collect himself. “I’m sorry. King Uskander, it is an honor to have you in our shop. My name is Eusebio Duartez—”

  “I have come looking for the one you call Seymour Little,” the WilderKing repeated.

  “Yes, I know—”

  “Why are you looking for him?” Seymour asked, entirely out of turn.

  Glacius turned his head slowly and gave the Riftborn a long, assessing stare. Eusebio was about to apologize on his subordinate’s behalf when the king finally replied, “My son, Prince Castor Uskander, has recently come of age and manifested his third sigil. Thus have I come in search of the one you call Seymour Little, so that he might be the one to evolve my son’s class.”

  “Seriously?” Eusebio boggled. “I’m sorry, but…. seriously?”

  “Quite,” he explained. “Word reached my kingdom in recent days of a man with rare powers. A prodigy, one capable of catalyzing unique sigil powers and evolving heroic classes.”

  “You bet,” Seymour chimed in. “That’s me. I’m Seymour Little the Sigil Power Prodigy.”

  Eusebio shot him a glance.

  “What are you looking at? You’re the one who started putting it out there in the first place. Just happened to be a lie that wasn’t.”

  “Then you’re saying it is true?” Glacius asked. “You possess the power to evolve a heroic class befitting a WilderPrince?”

  “Sure do,” Seymour replied. He crossed his arms. “But that doesn’t mean I have to use it. Not just because some bossy prick says so.”

  The heat beneath the skin of Eusebio’s face was nearly unbearable. This insolent Riftborn was antagonizing a barbarian king. Villages had burned for less; whole wars had been waged.

  “Again, WilderKing, please allow me to apologize. Seymour here is what we refer to as ‘Riftborn’, meaning he comes from another world.” Eusebio held up his hands while he talked, a gesture meant to calm all parties. Glacius didn’t take his eye off Seymour for even one second. “And that in turn means that Mr. Little doesn’t understand our customs and hierarchies as well as he perhaps should.”

  “I do, too,” Seymour huffed. “We have kings on Earth. Fewer than in the past, though. Hashtag no kings and whatnot.”

  “You believe it wise to deny me that which I seek?” It was almost as if Eusebio didn’t exist, the way the WilderKing addressed Seymour directly. “You believe that serves your best interest, Seymour Little?”

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  “Well let’s look at it from both sides, alright?” Seymour took a step forward as he spoke. Now, standing two paces behind him, Eusebio was essentially cut out of the talks. “Say I go ahead and do what you want. Let you come in here with your armed dipshit guards and your little dude with the loud horn and your slave babes and just treat the shop like you own it. What’s that going to get me in the end?”

  The WilderKing pulled a rope on his belt and his heavy coin purse fell to the floor with a clank!

  “I pay handsomely, and in gold coins, like the kings of bygone ages.”

  Eusebio saw something in Seymour’s reaction – something the Riftborn was unable to school away entirely. It was just a slight twitch, a tilt of the head; subtle body-language that told any good salesman all he needed to know: for some reason, Seymour was intrigued by the prospect of gold coins, despite the fact they didn’t spend as easily as chits anywhere in the empire.

  “Okay, so gold. Great.” Little had gotten himself under control again after the momentary lapse. “That gold goes into the coffers here, though. Not straight into my pocket. Shit man, I don’t even earn a commission. So while you can point to gold as the one thing I’d gain by doing business with you on these terms, I can give you three reasons why I shouldn’t.”

  “Seymour….” Eusebio cautioned.

  “Don’t worry, Boss, I’ve got this.” He counted off on his fingers as he spoke. “First, you’re just a bully. You come shoving your way to the front of the line, showing off your slaves and soldiers, expecting special treatment. And I bet you’re used to getting it, too. I bet everyone you deal with rolls out the red carpet for you. But not me. Not today. Maybe I’m nuts, or maybe I’m just going a little mad with power or whatever, since I’ve had some decent luck lately using my new magic powers to pull off wins against some straight up monsters.”

  The note of self-awareness in Seymour’s voice snatched Eusebio’s attention like a smack across the face. The Riftborn had said it out loud: his new powers and recent combat victory against the topiary tiger had made him over-confident and self-righteous. It seemed so obvious now that it had been put into words. Eusebio silently scolded himself for not seeing something like this coming and heading it off.

  And Seymour continued to lecture the WilderKing: “But anyway, I know for sure you should never give a bully what they want, not without a fight – where I’m from you learn that lesson in kindergarten.” He snorted. “If I let you walk all over us this time, you’ll think you can do it again whenever you please.”

  “He is the Wolf Father!” The guard who hadn’t been disarmed suddenly blurted. “Who are you to think you can deny him anything!”

  “You need to check your boy, Glacius. He’s not helping your case because I don’t know what it means to be the Wolf Father.”

  “Wait outside,” Glacius said to his guards without ever averting his gaze from Seymour. They hesitated only for a moment before pivoting to leave. The one who was still armed shot Seymour a nasty sneer as he went.

  “I appreciate that,” Seymour said to Glacius. “You sending them away, I mean. That’s a meaningful gesture, and I’ve noted it in your customer file, up here.” He tapped his own temple.

  “I am not—as you have in haste accused me of being—a bully.” Never turning from Seymour, he raised his right hand and snapped his fingers, as if summoning someone in from outside. “Come, Castor,” he called back over his shoulder. Then he said to Seymour, “I am a father. And you will find that in this role, my demands shall far exceed those of any mere bully.”

  “Ah, see, you had me in the first half but then there you go again.” Seymour shook his head and exhaled. “Look, Glacius – you mind if I call you Glacius?”

  “He is the Wolf Father.” A younger version of Glacius had just arrived, incredulous at Seymour’s casual use of the King’s name.

  “This must be your son.” Seymour nodded at the WilderPrince. “What’s up? Me and your old man are just having a quick talk.”

  Castor Uskander was like a slightly smaller replica of his father, and his hair was coal black instead of white. He wore a similar heap of exotic furs, and his crown made of antlers was just a little bit less ornate.

  “Anyway, Glacius, this just isn’t how we’re going to do business, alright?” Seymour waved his hand toward the door. “Why don’t you two both go back outside, and let’s try it all over again from the beginning.”

  The Prince turned to his father with a look of horror. “Who is this little—”

  “Seymour Little,” he interrupted. “I’m the guy who’s going to give you weird powers you can’t get anywhere else.”

  Prince Castor’s hand went to the hilt of his sword but his father stopped him from unsheathing it, putting his own huge mitt over his son’s. “No. Leave it be.”

  “Cooler heads,” Seymour said. The entire interaction continued to flummox Eusebio, who found himself hanging back, at a loss for how to wrangle the situation back to something less awful. He could only observe while Little laid out his terms: “So now, let’s try this. You two go outside, and then come back in. Leave your guards and your girls and your little guy.” He nodded to indicate the showroom at large. “And then you see all these people? They were all here before you. So you’ll get in line and wait your turn like everybody else. Then—and only then—will I even begin to think about hooking you up.”

  “Father, release my hand,” Prince Castor growled through grit teeth. “And I will teach this boy a lesson.”

  “Boy?” Seymour laughed. “Dude, I’m legit like a decade older than you!”

  Then he spoke directly to Glacius. “Anyway, you’ve heard my terms. They’re non-negotiable. Plus, they’re totally fair. And you know you can’t force me to catalyze any sigils I don’t want to, anyway. Now, if you don't mind, me and Eusebio have work to do. Namely we gotta help clear this line of folks who were here ahead of you. The line of folks your guards forced to the side.”

  Nobody moved. The tense moment drew out, reminding Eusebio of one of his theater shows – the kind where two spellslingers end up meeting at midday for a showdown in the thoroughfare. He usually loved that kind of thing, but it turned out not so much in person.

  Glacius and Seymour stood with their eyes locked, each waiting for the other to blink. Prince Castor alternated between staring death at Seymour and staring pleadingly toward his father, begging with his eyes for permission to kill Little.

  Finally, Glacius laughed. He bellowed as though the entire standoff had been nothing more than a big joke – but Eusebio could tell otherwise. He’d been working in sales long enough to know when someone was lying to save face, and that was exactly how the WilderKing’s outsized laughter struck him.

  “Seymour Little,” he said, “you play a dangerous game amongst figures whose power you can scarcely fathom. Whether you behave in this manner due to great courage and conviction or due to even greater folly, I do not know.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “We have traveled non-stop for three days and nights to employ your talents, and I will not see that time and effort wasted.” With a jerk of his chin he directed Prince Castor back toward the door. “I accept your terms, and their attempt to be just.”

  “There’s no royalty once you step inside Dragon Dan’s Adventure Depot,” Seymour explained. His demeanor had softened considerably. “We’re all just people in here. Even the orcs and trolls and whatnot. And we’re all going to be treated with equal respect.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s fine.” The Wolf Father prepared to leave; his son had already stomped off in a huff. “But know this about respect, Seymour Little: if you fail to deliver a heroic class befitting a WilderPrince, then I promise that you shall learn a painful lesson in resp—”

  “Alright, I get it.” Seymour rolled his eyes as he turned away, angling for his place behind the counter. The WilderKing still stood in the same spot, but Little called past the massive man as though he wasn’t even there. “I can help whoever’s next in line right over here at Counter Four!”

  Eusebio let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He cursed himself once more for failing to predict Seymour’s cocksure reaction to recent events. His face became unbearably hot as he moved toward Seymour with purpose, fully intending to give the Riftborn the proper scolding he’d just earned.

  But just then, as it so often did, the familiar voice of Gorgudan suddenly spoke in his mind:

  Leave him be. The words reverberated within his skull, momentarily forcing his eyes shut. This, too, has been foretold by Oscar Rusk.