Ambrose was ripped from wherever it was that he had been. He came back to reality, staring at his cupped, empty hands. He was panting, a cold sweat dripping from his brow as his heart raced. He was only half aware of the shouting in front of him, the voice drowned out at first before becoming clear as if he had just emerged from underwater.

“What’s the matter with you, Sebastian? You looked damn near possessed! And here I thought you weren’t the type to care for riches.”

Ambrose looked up, seeing the many faces staring back at him in an angry confusion, yet was only concerned with his breathing. It was like the air had been taken from his lungs, and his hands found both of his knees as he panted for breath. The diamond had been taken back by the man who held it previously, and he barked an order to the men around him.

“One of you grab that fucking sheet before I go blind!”

“I’ll get it, Reginald!” Another soldier, much younger, replied before shouldering his way back towards the King’s room.

Ambrose watched as sweat fell from his forehead, forming a dark spot on the red rug of the hall. His head felt heavy, and he lifted it slowly to fixate on the large diamond. For all that the man known as Reginald complained about, the diamond did not appear so bright to Ambrose.

Where was I just now? Did that diamond make me see things? Did he see me? Concrete questions took time to form, accumulating too many too quickly and polluting the ocean that was his mind. Guesses sprouted in the mess, but all he knew was that he had felt the cold air in that room, saw the distressed people there, and the final person had been able to see him. Yet none of this answered what had happened, why it had happened, and as he stared at the edges of the flawless diamond looming in front of him, all he could do was continue to catch his breath, slow his heart rate, and…

Ambrose’s eyes went wide, a jolt of surprise spurning his exhaustion immediately as he rose from his bent position. He pointed at the diamond, “That’s my name! That’s-”

He stopped, and so did the men around him. Reginald was not looking towards him, instead, he craned his neck away from the powerful light that was causing him so much pain, yet he spoke for the whole group anyway.

“What’s that? Your name, huh? Do you take us for fools, Willcotts? Where’s that damn- oh about time!” Reginald said, turning his head forward to find the diamond covered by what appeared to be a bedsheet.

“No, I misspoke, but there are names on that diamond! Look at it, tell me I’m wrong.” Ambrose argued.

“I might as well stare at the sun! I’m keeping it covered, now move! The bishop is waiting for us, isn’t he?” Reginald barked back at him.

Ambrose became immediately aware that there were men behind him as well as they pressed inwards, blades in hand. He had half a mind to see whether or not the fake blade on his back could indeed cut as Eleanor said it would, but while he was inpatient he was not about to be stupid. If he herded the group to the throne room, he would have another chance to look at the diamond. And that diamond surely held two names: Whitewood and Nola.

He tossed up the large arms of Sebastian, his hands open, “You’re right. All of you go, his holiness wishes to bless you for your efforts and all that jazz.”

Reginald sneered before brushing past him, leading the motley crew down the hall. All of them celebrated the whole way to the throne room, with treasure acquired yet more to be rewarded waiting for them. Ambrose followed the company, smiling to himself.

<><><><><>

Ambrose’s smile died as he entered the throne room, for as soon as he stepped in he wished nothing more than to leave. The group he had followed there had been quite noisy all the way to the room, but even they were silenced by both the atmosphere and the presence of their bishop. Ambrose was frozen in place, a growing fear halting his movement.

The only outdoor lighting source in the room came from the moonroofs above, yet the sun had set. No doubt there were plenty of other sources of light that could have been repurposed, and yet there were no candles that burned near him. The lack of lighting hid most of the details in the room, the light that spilled from the front only allowed a fraction of the silk banners that were hung from the ceilings to be seen, shadowing all of the figures in front of him. So many there were; kneeling in neat rows that started at the front of the room and ended less than five yards from the door, the soldier of High Hillford did not stir or even seem to breathe. Ambrose watched as the men he had followed, and specifically the man known as Reginald, found a spot to the far back right of the room.

A small gap in the formation of kneeling soldiers formed an aisle directly leading to the throne. The room was incredibly large, and it was difficult to see the details at first, or maybe he hadn’t been looking hard enough. The last person out of position, Ambrose began walking down the aisle. Half a dozen or so candles were burning towards that end of the room, painting a better picture yet not until he had cut the distance some. Passing soldiers on either side, the silence was not absolute, as he caught excited whispers like kids passing secrets. His feet seemed to drag and slow the farther he went, for the closer he was to the throne, the more his heart broke for his dead King who sat upon it.

On one side of the throne, Eleanor was still disguised as the Bishop, and was holding the King’s hand in her own, her body turned away from the soldiers. On the other side, Gio looked convincingly like his sister with her chin angled upward, an aura of both superiority and disgust as he looked over the masses on the floor. In the throne, with his head lying angled and limp upon his left shoulder, sat the dead king.

His chin was unable to reach his shoulder, as the arrow that had slain him still jutted from his neck, making it so that his face looked out into the room instead of down at the ground. A chill ran down Ambrose’s spine as he saw in the shifting torches a glimpse of the King’s eyes, still half open and absent of any shine. Blood was matted on his unkempt beard and tunic, the latter being especially dosed and dirtied, and his hands were a dark red of dried blood from attempting to stop the loss from his neck. Not the slightest effort had been taken to respect the King, and while Ambrose had loathed yet expected it from the soldiers, he found it surprising that Eleanor had not taken any effort of her own. She only stood there, frozen in her grief and not looking his way.

A few more paces and he would be ascending the steps to join them. Ambrose had expected to feel a newfound relief by now, a weightlessness from the burdens he had bore and buried on this day. As abruptly as it had started, his outlier of an adventure should have been already concluded, with this setting being a boring formality for the Queen to take care of. But each step he had taken inside this castle had only revealed more questions: Why were the soldiers left here to loiter? Why was the age gap in the soldiers so painfully evident? Where did that diamond take me? Who was it that saw me? Why was my name etched under Whitewood?

Ambrose took the first of three steps to the landing that the throne sat upon. Like a dog as their owner nears the door, Ambrose found an all too familiar scent rouse his senses. It was certainly the smell of alcohol, more specifically wine, and the closer he came the throne the more pungent it became. The duo waiting for him did not acknowledge him as he joined their ranks, finding his spot next to Eleanor. Another look to the King revealed both why his tunic was so stained, and the origin of the smell; someone had poured wine over the dead king. His back to the soldiers, Ambrose placed a comically large hand upon the shoulder of the priest.

“He deserved far better than this Eleanor,” Ambrose started, his voice hushed, “We will see to it that he has the respect he deserves. I am...just so sorry you had to see him this way.”

Eleanor raised the hood on the priest’s robe, and turning to Ambrose she presented her own appearance to him. A quick glance down at his figure revealed that he was still Sebastian.

“Don’t fret, I will change back before we officially begin here,” Eleanor started, before turning and walking past the throne. Ambrose followed, and there they both spoke in hushed volume, “I needed you to let you see me, for I want you to know the truth. I wept many tears this morning, alone and silently in the confines of that carriage. Yet still, it was not as many as I expected. And though not a day has passed by, I think the tears have run dry. Is that… wrong of me?” Eleanor looked back at him with little emotion on her face, only expectantly and waiting for his reply.

Ambrose wasn’t sure how to reply. He found himself stealing glances past Eleanor, looking at the disheveled King and more specifically at the arrow still lodged near his Adams apple. No words found him, even with Eleanor’s eyes burning and begging for them.

Eleanor sighed, “I thought you of all people would understand. Did you not lose your father?”

“My father upped and left on me, your highness,” Ambrose started, his voice between confusion and pleading, “This is so far different, I was saddened and confused, alone, and still all those things to this day. Part of me will always be angry as well, as that is what the confusion has soured into. But I had great lasting images of my old man, and our finest may have been the day before he left. But this…” Ambrose motioned with his arm at the King, shaking his head, “This isn’t how it should have ended for him! Your father didn’t deserve this, no one does!”

“And so I should be crying, right?” What you see before you - the discarded, fouled carcass belonging to my dear father - will be imprinted in my nightmares for countless nights to come. And yet I can not cry for him anymore, I’ve tried and tried again, yet nothing. Please Ambrose, what is that I should feel?”

“You should be irate, of course! No King or Queen of Runswick should be allowed to be so disrespected, and this example needs to stop here. A swift trial should do that, right? Order them to the cells, wait for Silver Acre to come fully support us, and -”

“Stop.” Eleanor said, all inflection gone from her tone, replaced only with cold command, “I asked for your specific council on a subject, and I thank you for your guidance. It has affirmed what I feel. But I did not ask for your guidance in my judgment. That is my duty, and today mine alone.” Eleanor stepped back from him then, and with both hands reached back to draw the priest's hood back over her head. Although his eyes never left her, he did not see anything in her appearance altered, and yet now the heavy-lidded eyes of the priest peered back at him underneath the hood. Eleanor turned, returning to where the throne was.

Ambrose found himself stuck where he stood, watching as the Queen he had saved dismissed him. Eleanor did not stop next to the throne, favoring the place directly in front of it. This brought about a shuffling from the hundreds of soldiers lined within the room, their backs straightening and blank eyes trained on every movement the priest made from here on. When she stopped, Eleanor looked to her right, as if she had looked over her shoulder but did not make the full effort. Ambrose caught the meaning, sensing she was waiting for him to join before starting.

His feet moved slowly once again, and his gaze went towards Gio, who was staring back at him and lifting the fine lines that were his sister's eyebrows rapidly. Ambrose was not catching his meaning in the slightest, and Gio could sense that, so he tried mocking a long whistle. Ambrose pouted with his bottom lip, shrugging his shoulders as he fell in line on the other side of the throne. Gio feigned annoyance, rolling the eyes of his sister before putting his fist to his throat. Sticking out the thumb, Gio cut across his neck slowly.

Ambrose’s mouth went agape, but he was too late. Eleanor began speaking to the patient crowd of soldiers before her, the endless rows of blank eyes entranced to every word.

“Soldiers of High Hillford, defenders of the faith and swords to His divinity, today is a momentous victory. And the credit goes to you.” The practiced command of countless sermons made Eleanor’s words carry effortlessly from the priest's mouth, “Traversing a great distance, the courage you have all shown will not only be remembered, but will be rewarded in full now!” From the folds of the priest’s robe, Eleanor brought out the golden chalice.

Ambrose could feel the room stirred as the item was brought forth. Mouths hung, salivating at the very presence like a starved dog. The eyes focused on Paulo now favored the item, watching it carefully as Eleanor brought it above her head. Some soldiers in the front seemed overwhelmed, on the verge of overjoyed tears.

“For your efforts, you all shall be blessed!” Eleanor declared, her voice rising steadily, and once again the crowd moved and fidgeted in their spots, excitement peaking, “Is that not what you feel you deserve? Through trials and tribulations, you have successfully brought the end of peace! On the outskirts of this city, before the sun had risen, it was you who had cut down the savage farmer standing in your way! You, who had taken the lives of both green soldiers and borrowed allies in the middle of the night! You, who had paraded the streets, marching down on the eyes of the weak and helpless! Citizens, armed with household items, could not stop your conquest, His conquest! And on the brink of victory, in the final desperate stand by this helpless country, it was you who struck down the King in the early hours of the morning! This fool of a King!” Eleanor took a hand off the chalice over her head, sweeping it to present the King behind her.

Presently, the only one affected by the patronizing seemed to be Ambrose. The crowd seemed cautious to even breathe, yet their palpable eagerness for their blessing did not waver as long as the chalice remained within view. It was not caution that altered Ambrose’s breathing, but rather a sort of anxious choking as he did not know where Eleanor was heading.

“Who was King Whitewood?” Eleanor continued, “Was he the ruler of a peaceful land, truly? Or was he just another in a long line of idle hands, resting on a throne propped by good fortune? Many men and women have sat on this throne, yet none have ended their reign such as he. Where he sits now is far from the fate of the Whitewood, astray due to his own indecisiveness. But it could have happened to any of their lines, I suppose. Well, until now.

“For you, the brave soldiers of High Hillford, have succeeded in capturing his sole daughter! The owner of the true silk, robbed now of any everlasting peace. Not afforded to her was a time of grief, for you have locked her in a cell and towed her from her very own city. And did your efforts in smearing the Whitewood legacy stop there? Walking the halls, I see you have had your spoils, and why not! It is yours to take, yes? You have taken lives, innocence, security and leadership away from the city, but you did not wonder if you should stop there. For unlike the King, you are decisive! You did not back down from your purpose, from your fate as soldiers, and now you reap what you sow!”

Eleanor allowed a pause, breathing heavily as she did. Still, the room did not move.

“And you want more, yes!” Eleanor said, and for the first time, the voice of Paulo broke its formality. His voice had cracked, allowing a hint of Eleanor’s real voice through, and it continued as she went, “For what else could you want! You, who feel deserving of blessings! Take His gift, close your eyes, and look up to Him now! Embrace the gift of everlasting life!”

If any of the soldiers had been aware of the jabs the priest had given, they did not care anymore. This was what they had waited for, and they let the trio watching them know immediately. Air and life returned to the room at the mention of the eternal gift, and all the soldiers at once straightened themselves as best they could on their knees, raising their chins to look to the ceiling, their blank eyes shutting as they did. Rushed whispers immediately filled the hall.

For countless nights, he would be thankful that he was only privy to a few fleeting details in the darkened hall. Ambrose saw as soldiers muttered and whispered words in prayer. He saw a tear rolling down an older soldier's face in the front row. A pair of men behind him were shoulder-to-shoulder, their lips in sync in prayer. A few soldiers cupped their hands in front of them, raising them as high as they could as their necks craned forward. He saw the prominent adam’s apple of another man, bobbing up and down as he spoke. Ambrose would go on to wonder if he too had been too idle in that moment, watching yet not truly observing before the deed was done.

“Giovani, do it.” Eleanor said, speaking in her own voice.

Ambrose looked to Giovani, now returned to his own self. In budding horror, he watched as the man reached his right hand over his left shoulder, before sweeping it in a long slice through the air. Faint and far away, was the first hiss of his dagger.

A cascading symphony of thuds began. Giovanni's dagger had emerged from the left wall, moving with blinding speed as it cut across the exposed necks of the soldiers there in the back row. One by one, they fell to the ground or on the feet of the person in front of them. Some sounds were made, choking and gurgling, but many had died instantly as the ebony dagger found the right wall, and sunk into the shadow there.

But that was only the first row.

His eyes screaming with elation, and the corners of Giovanni’s mouth twitched as he focused on his slaughter. To Ambrose, the man had gone fully berserk. As if slapping the air in front of him, he brought his hand from his right side back to his left side, and the dagger hissed a bit louder than before as it cut down the members of the second farthest row. He followed this with another sweep, then another. If he had a brush, he would have been the most animated painter to ever touch a canvas. Presently he looked like a man enjoying his bout with a fly that wouldn’t escape his vision. But Ambrose also saw the same crazy expression that Gio’s sister had, and it was easy to imagine a whip in his hand at this very moment.

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“Stop it Gio! Not like this!” Ambrose yelled, his own voice returned. This drew a look of outrage and ire from Eleanor, whose eyes burned in his direction. But Giovanni was somewhere else, busy at work as he swept his arm again through the air in front of him.

Hiss. Hiss.

The dagger had made its way through half the crowd, and yet no soldier appeared concerned. Still, the youthful or aged faces beamed as they waited for what they thought was everlasting life. If they had looked forward, they may have seen the trio in their original form, breaking the trance. But they did not dare to break away from the ceiling, waiting for the gift their priest promised, and that Giovanni was happily delivering.

Ambrose had to stop this. Plenty of resentment filled his heart for the soldiers who had forever disturbed the tranquility of his country, but part of him was now surely convinced that the true culprits were not present. Only pawns were currently being slain, the Queen deeming the pigs to be at fault for the slaughter. If only he had realized it sooner if only he had asked his coin.

Eleanor impeded the path, taking a step in front of Ambrose who had tried to step towards Giovanni. “This is my judgment, Ambrose!” Her face startled him, her jaw set hard and teeth snarling, and yet her eyes were fighting tears, “They sat there and listened to every accusation, taking the words proudly! This is what they have chosen, and High Hillford will now know that this Whitewood will not be so easily taken!”

Giovanni began laughing behind Eleanor, high and genuine laughter that chilled Ambrose. Once again, Ambrose had no bearing on the situation.

Hiss. Hiss. Hiss.

Giovanni wasn’t letting up in the slightest, his brow now glistening with sweat. He was a man in the heat of his passion, and Eleanor had only fueled his fire with every drop of affirmation.

“Stop it Gio!” Ambrose yelled over Eleanor’s shoulder, her words nothing but confused grief to his ears. He knew she would learn to regret her actions, but Gio was another case. The man was savoring every moment of it, and as his eyes went wider and his offhand joined to direct his dagger, Ambrose realized the challenge before him had changed.

Hiss. Hiss. HIss. HIss.

“My God! No please, no!”

Ambrose and Eleanor both snapped their necks to look at the crowd. Neither would learn who had been the catalyst, as Gio would later admit to blacking out. Between Eleanor yelling at him or Ambrose yelling at Gio, one of them had been able to draw the curiosity of a soldier. Then another. Before long, two-thirds of the room had been cut down where they had kneeled, and now the rest were screaming and running for their collective lives.

“Not so fast!” Giovanni declared, cutting down a soldier who had made it halfway to the door. “That’s it, I need more light!”

Giovanni shifted from facing the crowd to having them to his side, and from the wall behind them, called his dagger from a shadow just past the flame of a nearby candle. The loudest and closest slice of air came next, as Gio whirled an arm in a half circle. The dagger had passed through the fire of the wick, traveling around the room to light nearly a half dozen more candles and cast the room in a better light.

In the new light, the soldiers who had endured Gio and the Queen’s wrath to this point either hurried or stalled. Completely aware of their danger, they exploded in a collective and blood-curdling scream.

Ambrose saw with growing horror the simplicity to Gio’s strategy to start in the back of the room. It was now paying off immensely in his favor, as the cattle before him were tripping or wrenching from the rows of dead comrades obstructing their escape. One had an audible slip on a pool of blood, and Giovanni cut through this soldier's throat before they could hit the ground. Another soldier had seen it happen, and turning their head to look their way, Ambrose saw the deterred, pleading eyes on the young soldier, before Gio’s dagger whisked by. The soldier dropped to the floor, that expression stuck on his face and Ambrose’s mind.

With less shadow, Gio needed to be precise with the ebony dagger. He could not afford now to hit a bit of light, which would cause his weapon to bounce from the wall and onto the floor. He had not planned to need to recuperate his dagger and thought it foolish that he had not been more persistent in his suggestion to bar the door from the outside to the Queen. Although, he assumed that without the added challenge, this wouldn’t have been so much damn fun.

Ambrose was in a daze, a nightmarish out-of-body experience as he continued to stare out at the crowd. Eleanor shared the same expression. People continued to be cut down, with the bodies taking most of the floor before them. Some on the ground convulsed before dying, a few even had the stamina to press hands to their throats. But they all died. None of those who had the gift to realize what was going on had made it past the halfway point between the throne and the door. He would go on to wonder if that had been a gift at all, or if dying in blissful waiting would have been preferred.

“God, God, God?!” Ambrose’s attention turned to a soldier in the first row, a female of similar youth. Had he not heard them before? The only sounds that seemed loud in the room now were the screams this soldier cried to the ceiling as she begged her God for mercy, and the sound of Giovanni’s knife splitting the air. But now her screams, shrill and deafening, entered his awareness.

Hiss. Hiss. Hiss. Hiss. Hiss.

“It’s...almost over,” Eleanor said this, yet Ambrose did not acknowledge her. She was right, however. There were maybe three dozen soldiers left. They ran, cowered, pleaded, and died. But Ambrose couldn’t stop looking at this one soldier. She appeared to still be in the same kneeling position, and through wet eyes only yelled for her God. To Ambrose, her tone sounded as if she had been expecting him. As if he had been there before, yet no God showed up today for any of them.

How incredibly fast Gio worked, and so unnerving was the strength of the true ebony dagger. Nearly two thousand soldiers had entered alive, and in mere minutes they had nearly all been slaughtered with such ease. It was terrifying and alarming to see Gio at the height of his power. Ambrose’s eyes did not leave the still screaming girl, yet his right hand had found a new interest. He had been turning his coin over between his fingers, for how long he did not know, but now aware of this he stopped.

The coin, like him, may be even more insignificant than he had previously considered. He had seen the power of those far greater than him on display. Sebastian Willcotts, his iron greatsword as large as an average person and able to make a near identical copy of himself; Veronica Visconti, her leather whip equally terrifying in her hands and remotely as a persistent snake hungry for its prey; Eleanor Whitewood, equipped with the true silk dress that morphed at her whim and could send both strong enemies or an entire mass of people into a helpless, mind-bending trance; and Giovanni, with his dagger of true ebony able to cut down an entire army with no more than some shadows, enclosed space and the flicks of his wrist.

And what was Ambrose’s power? Was he truly lucky? He held no belief that he was lucky to be standing where he was now, to be privy to a scene that would haunt him for the rest of his days. Had his coin provided answers to his questions? It had been correct after all, as they were going to secure their city. But too vague was that response, like so many other responses.

“Stop Gio!” Eleanor said, and on command, Giovanni paused with his hand still outstretched and ready to attack. It would have been the last one, Ambrose now realized, with his eyes still trained on the girl who continued to weep and plead to her God.

“Mercy! Please mercy! Please, God, please!” The soldier continued to stare up, but her screaming soon subsided in the growing quiet of the room. No more did Gio’s dagger slice through the air, or bodies hit the floor.

Eleanor was panting as if it was her and not Gio who had exhibited so much effort during the killings. She still faced Ambrose and did not allow a chance to see the room as she turned with her head bowed towards Gio. She took a few unsteady steps towards the executioner she had empowered, before reaching out her hand.

“Allow me to borrow your dagger, Gio.” Her voice and hand both shook, yet Gio didn’t seem to care about this. Ambrose saw as the man he may have mistaken to be a friend grow even more excited, both his grin and mustache curving at the corner. He reached his hand back out in front of him, and at this Ambrose turned to the lone soldier left, his heart plummeting to his stomach as he did. But Gio did not cut her down, and instead, the dagger whirled from his own shadow underneath him, and he caught it in his hand. Bowing his head, he presented the ebony knife to the Queen in both hands, palms open.

“It is yours to command, forever, your grace.” Giovanni said.

Eleanor reached out, cautiously at first as if the dagger may jump at her, before her hand moved swiftly to snatch it. She looked at it, inspecting it possibly for blood before her arm fell limply to the side of her hip. In a sort of daze, she turned without speaking to the soldier in the crowd, and began walking towards her.

Before he turned his attention, Gio looked back at him expectantly. No emotion was expressed by Ambrose, and that was fine with Gio. The wildness in his eyes had faded, but the satisfaction looked almost euphoric as he straightened his posture, and turned to watch the Queen.

Ambrose did too. He watched as Eleanor stepped down one step, then another, before stepping onto the main floor of the hall. The soldier had finally realized the status of the room, and with the killing halted she finally allowed her tear-filled eyes to break away from the ceiling. If she breathed, Ambrose could not tell, as she seemed to only stare in amazement as Eleanor approached her.

“Are...are you...did God send you?” The soldier said, her voice rasping and strained from her relentless screaming.

Eleanor stopped directly in front of the kneeling girl, “I’m afraid not.” Eleanor said, sounding distant, “Tell me, are you a soldier of High Hillford.”

The soldier looked up to her, her arms limp to either side of her body, “I… I am. I proudly am.”

“Did you kill my father?” It was a question, and yet Eleanor sounded as if she was reciting a line of policy.

“No! No! I...we don’t know who was responsible! You must've seen, that we have no archers in our company! All of them were left in High Hillford!”

All of them. The words repeated themselves over in Ambrose’s head. High Hillford did have archers, and did have more of an army. And yet, they were on reserve. Unlike the youthful and the aged that were not dead in the hall.

Eleanor caught it too, “High Hillford...has archers? How many?”

The soldier’s eyes widened, “What do you mean, how many? All thousands train specifically for archery, thousands more in the way of the sword, a fraction handle spears, and the rest-”

“Will they come for me, now that you have failed?” Eleanor said, her voice more alive now, and her grip tightening around the knife that was still gripped by her waist.

“Whitewood...don’t you realize? We—He, He needs you! High Hillford is only trying to save your people! We’ll be safe from it, but here your people will be in its path! And the bloodshed...at the hands of one of His original items...you’ve surely accelerated it. Please, you must pray with me! May God have mercy on this land, on its people, on your-”

Eleanor seized the girl by her cheeks with her offhand, bringing her face down to the level of the soldiers, “I want you to tell your God what I have done today. Let him know what happens when you try to force the will of Queen Whitewood. Remind him of my place.” Pulling the girl's head slightly up, Eleanor cut across the soldier's exposed jugular.

The blood was immediate, and it sprayed upon her, staining her dress. She only stood there, taking it as it bloodied her legs, and when she let go and allowed the soldier to drop to her feet, the blood began to pool by her feet. Seeing the blood glisten the floor, she became immediately aware of the blood to her right, and then to her left. Blood was shimmering everywhere on the hall's floor, and it would take a great effort from many of her staff to rid the hall of both the stains and the stench. But at the moment, she did not care. Her fingers went limp then, and dropping the dagger from them resulted in no noise as her shadow claimed it. She was tired, and had a city to return to.

Ambrose’s agony was cemented then. Equal to his concern for the Queen, was the words of the soldier dying at her feet. To him, there was no questioning the honesty in her answers. Eleanor had a great role to play, and he was increasingly afraid that he had a part to play as well. And if today was the norm, any intention of his own would be yet another great failure.

Eleanor began walking, and as she did her dress grew longer, swishing at her ankles, and then turned to a dark red. All Ambrose could do was watch as she went. Each step had an audible splash, as she traversed through the forming lake from the many puddles of blood. Her steps slow, and deliberate, and she did not turn to face them as she went.

Between the two, forced to watch on, still sat her father. The King had never ceased from his gaze, as if he had the choice. He sat silently as the hall came to join him in eternity, with the innocence of his daughter joining in their demise as well.

Ambrose was still staring at the Queen himself, hoping she would not leave him like this. And how could she? She was in the center of death, wading through blood and the stench of death that was becoming stronger with every passing second. If she broke down now, if she turned with tears filling her eyes, he would run to her then. But his imagination was selfish, ludicrous and-

Eleanor did stop, abruptly and with a surprised flinch that had her take a step back. Ambrose saw it then, out of the corner of his eye, and so did Gio.

“Queen!” Ambrose said as he jumped the few stairs and darted towards Eleanor.

“What?” Gio said next to him, “Surely I couldn’t have missed!” As he spoke, Gio’s dagger emerged from the wall. A flick of the wrist later, the blade was through the air again.

His-

What happened next, Ambrose saw clearly, and yet he didn’t believe his eyes. He had made it in front of Eleanor, who stood in frozen horror at the unnatural sight. Furthest from the throne, in the last line of soldiers that had been the first to be slain by Gio, were the soldiers from the King’s chambers. From that group, a single soldier defied death, and was slowly continuing to rise. What hadn’t been slow, was both Gio’s dagger and the arm of this soldier. Raising it in what seemed to be anticipation, Gio’s dagger did not find the person’s jugular a second time, and instead found itself lodged in the soldiers forearm. What truly gripped Ambrose was not the sight, but who it was happening to. The one who was miraculously sitting up, despite the blood still running from his neck, was the man known as Reginald. And between Reginald’s legs, covered in a bedsheet, sat the Whitewood’s diamond.

“It’s got my dagger!” Gio came running up to join Eleanor and Ambrose.

“I see that!” Ambrose said, “But how did—”

Crack-crack-crack.

Reginald’s mouth was opening, widening and then opening even more. As it did, jaw bones broke loudly in the room, a disgusting and disturbing noise that Ambrose and Eleanor both turned away from. It was the kind of curdling sight that makes one reach to the same area on their own body, as if it was happening to them as well. Only Gio looked on, even as blood began gushing from both corners inside the soldier's mouth, and then outside on either overstretched cheek.

The snapping of small bones finally ceased. Ambrose and Eleanor both apprehensively turned their attention back, and now the three of them stood anxiously as the soldier stared back at them. Without pupils in his eyes, they did not know which one he looked at. Like the priest that had followed the soldiers, Reginald’s jaw was far too open to be humanly possible.

“My, oh my. I would have never bet on this outcome, not from a Whitewood. What an erratic joy this has all become.” The soldier startled all three of them, speaking loudly and clearly without the need to move tongues or cheeks. Even more surprising, was the female voice that was produced.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no.” Gio spoke under his breath, a tone never before heard by Ambrose out of the man's mouth. Ambrose could only categorize it as fear.

Next to him, Eleanor was shaking. It couldn’t be confirmed, but it appeared that the soldier’s attention did fall to her.

“Hey!” Ambrose said, the tension palpable in the room, “Who are you? What do you want?”

Ambrose felt more than he could see the shift in the soldier's gaze, marked predominantly by how much farther he could see down the esophagus of the soldier. But if it was about to reply, it lost interest in favor for what lay between its legs. Using the arm with Gio’s dagger still lodged, only the shine of the black handle visible, the soldier slowly reached there.

“She’s done it, Ambrose. Good God, that woman’s plot worked perfectly! That’s Sebastian’s mother, Ursula Willcotts, and if she can speak through that man…she must hold the Chalice. The power of the true gold, and all those who have given their blood to it, is hers.”

“The true gold?” Ambrose said, the words leaving his lips with a foreboding aftertaste.

The dead soldier stripped the bed sheet from between his legs, tossing it aside and revealing a brilliant and bright light. The flames in the room became irrelevant, and any darkness was immediately repelled. Gio was forced to turn away, but Ambrose and Eleanor only needed to adjust their eyes to the light they had already seen before. With dead eyes, the light made no effect on the soldier, and immediately began cackling in wild delight.

“Hey!” Eleanor cried out, her voice trembling, “What’s that doing here? Who brought that down?”

“Say it’s not so! You Whitewoods are more pathetic than I ever could imagine!” Ursula spoke with the reverence one may have for the village idiot, breaking for spurts of rapturous laughter, “I thought myself to be overly cautious when I gave Reginald the responsibility to seek the mysterious Whitewood heirloom, not wanting to leave that stone unturned. And my preparedness was correct! You do have a diamond! Oh, how foolish that Paulo was to believe he was the center of this world. He should be thrilled with his demotion, for how ill it was for him to lead. Oh, but he is so much more intelligent than the lot of you! I see it plainly, you still don’t understand!

“Haven’t you touched this, your highness? Haven’t you seen what you are connected to? Of course you have, and yet you and your late father still could not understand. What an embarrassment that is, and still not as embarrassing as your defense. Do you feel a victor yet, Queen Whitewood? You’ve killed all your enemies! Granted, I am quite impressed. Never would I have wagered you to carry such a firm fist, but look at this place! You’ve managed to kill every one of my newest recruits, along with my oldest and wariest soldiers. Brava! And surely you did not use one of the original materials for the work, did you?”

Ursula brought the arm of the soldier to her eye level, where the dagger protruded from her arm. Grabbing it with the other hand, she wrenched the blade free, before tossing it in their direction. The dagger had no shadow to fall to, with the diamond illuminating everything.

Ambrose looked to Gio as the blade slid on the floor, only to find the man staring at the ground. He looked utterly defeated. Turning to Eleanor, she remained focused on the diamond, her chin angled up yet her arms betraying her implied confidence as they shook to either side.

“Just as I thought, how else would it have been done? You are quite the terrible traitor, Giovanni, for Runswick will soon pay the price of your large exhibition. It may not be today, nor be in the coming week, but you will see a change for the worse. And Queen, when that time comes there will be two options; either you will die with your city, or you shall beg to fulfill the fate this world has for you. And only I can help you do that. Should the former happen… Well, may God have mercy on the mainland. May it be a bit less destroyed than before, so that it is easier to clean up. Good luck, you fools.”

With that, the soldier known as Reginald fell to his side, the diamond still clenched in his lap. It’s light was still bright, casting every detail of the horrors in the room for each of them to see clearly.

Eleanor was the first to act. Breaking into hysterics, the Queen ran towards the door, tears and gasps for air drowned out by wet footfalls as her feet found blood anywhere she stepped. She did not stop at the door, instead bursting through it and turning to the left. As the doors slowly shut behind, Ambrose could still make out her steps, still wet and trailing with blood.

Gio knelt, and then sat on the ground. His gaze was directed at his dagger, but sitting in the blood of the floor Ambrose did not see any life to the man’s usually animated eyes. He seemed to be long in thought, lost somewhere far away from the death of the room at his hands.

Ambrose took a step forward, then another. The blood that stained his boots, calfs and kicked up onto the back of his pants would later haunt him as he tried to sleep. Many sleepless nights were in store for him, with any idea of celebration now void. And yet, he took another step forward in the direction of Reginald, in the direction of the diamond.

He had thought it was over. He had thought himself less than those around him, insignificant and powerless. He probably was, much more likely than not. But it was him, and him alone, that took these steps. Not at the direction of coin, nor at the command of someone greater than himself. There would be plenty of doubt along the way, for he already felt an imposter, but not now.

He was going to figure out his fate. For not only the sake of everyone, but for the sake of himself.

Or so help them all.