Epilogue: The Fated Heir

“A purple panther, devouring its young.” Harold stared into the mosaic images filling the air, his hand guiding the Scythe of Crescents to cast its razor-sharp projectiles into the shape that called to him, the nightshade taking care of the rest.

“Excellent, Your Highness. You are proving most... adept at uncovering the truth.” Lord Monfroy was beside and apart from the visions, a peripheral guide through the distant past and present. So far, he’d proven true to his promises, but Harold knew better than to take him fully at his word. Even if there wasn’t a price to pay, the western lord was getting something out of this.

If he’s a fool, he’ll try to blackmail me over it. If so, Father would nail his head to the wall. More likely, this guidance was just a chance to butter the crown prince up for some favor or another.

“You promised clarity, scenes like I was standing right there. These metaphors could be anything, random movements from a drug-addled brain.” Luce had even mentioned some idiot Imperial king who’d been wholly undone by misinterpreting them. From the War of the Five Cubs, maybe? It didn’t really matter. The history was one thing, but the science was another—at least, that was what Luce said, and considering how damned smart he was, Harold felt inclined to take him at his word.

“For the uninitiated, perhaps, though only the most truly... mundane. Already, your aptitude for binding should prove... sufficient.”

I guess it’s finally proving sufficient somewhere. Harold had spent years training under Baron Beckett, honing his mastery of magic both within artifacts and without. He’d even managed to find a wyll left roaming the Forest of Darkness and slay it with his own two hands, binding its power himself and making a gift of it to Father. He’d skipped most of his classes at the College, practiced channeling energy until his hands were raw, dueled and sparred until he could surpass the Murder Twins as the Baron’s star pupil.

Father still didn’t care. Perhaps he never would.

“He was a natural,” Luce had offered in sympathy. “Maybe he doesn’t understand how hard most people have to work to get that good.” He took to science with uncanny speed too, but that didn’t stop him from cheering like a goat when they unveiled your stupid windmills.

It wasn’t even just about accomplishments, really. When Harold had broken his leg climbing the old city walls, Father had locked him away deep in the castle to recuperate, visiting not even once, not even bothering to say hello once Harold was walking again.

Meanwhile, when Luce had strained his wrist writing his thesis, King Harold the Great had left a conference in Forta three days early to make sure he was alright. And yet Luce still couldn’t seem to get it. He called himself a scientist, yet he ignored the evidence right in front of him. That, or—worse—he knew he was the favorite, and didn’t want to do anything to change it.

“Your obsession with the literal is a... limitation. The best seers know to take in emotion, rather than strictly words, to better... understand the greater truth. But the visions are a tool that you command. If you want scenes instead of merely truths, reach out to find them,” Monfroy said softly. “Try again.”

Next time I’ll try buying my nightshade from someone who doesn’t pretend to teach me a lesson before I can use it. Still, he was already here. No reason not to put in the effort. Sparring with the Baron had instilled enough humility for that, at least.

Feeling his hand move into place, Harold conjured the mosaic once more, crescent shapes slotting together as their color shifted, forming a verdant green forest immediately recognizable as the royal hunting grounds.

Two figures were riding through it, an older man on an ostentatious black stallion and a younger atop a pale mare following a short distance behind them. Finally, clarity. Assuming the visuals were accurate, these were his ancestors: Harold the First and Harold the Second, probably not too long before the ascension of the latter, given the former’s withered look.

The younger Harold raised his bow, aiming it directly at his father, then drew an arrow back.

Or right at the exact moment of ascension, as the case may be. Harold the First, famously, had perished in a hunting accident. After all his great accomplishments, some stupid twist of fate had snuffed him out without dignity or ceremony. Harold knew that because everyone knew that, and seeing a fancy mosaic of it while tripping on nightshade didn’t really mean anything.

Cracking the slightest smile, the mosaic prince let the arrow fly, watching as it landed in his father’s back. A moment later, a rolling fog of darkness emerged from the woods, thickening until it blotted out every crescent shard, clouding out any hint of a vision.

Harold slashed the Scythe downward in frustration, the hovering arrangement of crescent lights falling apart. “You promised me that this would uncover deep secrets. My father’s secrets. Not common knowledge. You’re wasting my time.”

“I promised that this nightshade was... capable of it. And that I would... assist you, in uncovering what you have every right to know.” Monfroy didn’t look particularly put off by the accusation. “But to properly... guide you through our nation’s storied past, I need to know what you saw.”

“The royal hunting accident,” Harold answered. “And I couldn’t even see much of that! A dark fog started rolling in the second the old king died.”

“Good,” Monfroy said inexplicably, clasping his hands together in the corner of Harold’s vision. “Darkness is potent, but its usage leaves traces, always. Khali was sealed away into Nocturne, yet scraps of her skin still remain, and maintain the power they draw from her. Try looking for your father directly, instead of merely into the past.”

Like I wasn’t trying that before. Still, Harold began gesturing again, feeling some recessed part of his mind guide his hand into position. This time, he focused on the details of his father that stood out from the other Grimoires: his relationship with Aunt Lizzie, his betrayal by Robin Verrou, the unexpected ascension after the Foxtrap—anything that had a better chance of shedding light on what Harold was not supposed to know.

“Our father is dead,” the crescent shards chimed, though Monfroy didn’t react to the sound. They were beginning to take the shape of an immaculate looking woman in a crisp navy officer’s uniform, black hair pinned up without a single stray strand despite the hat in her hand. “Doesn’t that bother you, Harry?”

Oh, that’s Aunt Lizzie. Quickly reorienting his mind, Harold focused on the conversation, continuing to arrange the crescent shards into the pattern of the scene—set in the royal apartments of the palace, by the look of it.

“There’s something important I need to tell you, Lizzie. It’s not an easy thing to hear.” Father looked the same as ever, done up in his usual purple cloak, though his hair was shorter than Harold had seen him keep it in almost twenty years. “You distinguished yourself at command, and you’ve proven your loyalty a hundred times over. Not just to Avalon, but to the Crown.”

“That hasn’t changed,” she assured him as a dark fog began to roll into the room, out of place with the finery and unremarked upon by the royal siblings. “I know you can’t fill Father’s shoes. I don’t expect you to. You’re still the King of Avalon. I’ll protect you and your sons with my life.” And what a great job you did. I think I saw you maybe once a month for my whole life.

“It warms my heart to hear that. But it’s interesting to hear you say it.” Father began pacing the room, turning his back towards his sister. “Because...” He opened his mouth, but the fog had already risen high enough to drown out his words. Moments later, it had completely consumed the mosaic once more.

“Did you see the... improvements you sought?” Monfroy’s raspy voice jolted Harold out of the dark vision, prompting him to stop uselessly conjuring darkened shards.

“It was promising, until the fog came back.” Harold paused, feeling clarity slowly seep back in as the heightened reality of the past faded away. “Is there a way to clear it? Or see past it?”

“Perhaps...” Monfroy let out the slightest chuckle, high enough pitched to be totally at odds with everything else he’d said. “It seems your father has things in his past that he’d sooner keep hidden. But whatever darkness he employed to... conjure his smokescreen, it is a magic like any other. If King Harold’s magic were to be disrupted...”

With Leputian Cordial, perhaps? Harold smiled as he figured out Monfroy’s ploy—goad the prince into weakening the king, in whatever form that took. If Harold were fool enough to fully trust him as an ally, he’d explain his plan, tell or hint at the moment Father would be incapacitated magically. And allow Monfroy to make whatever move he had planned.

Easy enough to disrupt, so long as I’m sufficiently unpredictable. It was only a question of timing.

He bid Lord Monfroy farewell, already calling on his servants to bring Klein to see him as soon as they returned to the palace. All it would take was a few drops in Father’s tea to knock out whatever dark magic was blocking the visions for a few hours and leave him none the wiser.

A breach of trust, perhaps, but Father had little for Harold anyway, and blotting out his own past was hardly engendering any more. If he had nothing to hide, it wouldn’t matter anyway.

≋

And what a secret he was hiding. No greater monster existed in all the world, enabled by the entire apparatus of the Avaline state and his loyal family.

Klein’s Leputian concoction had cut through the darkness alright, and Harold the Wise seemed none the wiser that his deepest secrets had been breached with a few drops of cordial in his tea, probably because Harold had given it to Luce to serve to him.

Just as well. Aunt Lizzie went along with his every word when she heard the truth, and I can’t imagine Luce would be any different. The infuriating thing was that he was still so fucking guileless, actually believing Father’s lies about a better world, wiling his hours away at the Tower pretending that he could just tinker his way into victory.

And the worst part is, he might be partially right. At least Luce was doing something, showered with resources and praise from the King and all his loyalists. However boring it sounded when Luce tried to go into detail, his thesis on energy from Nocturne was apparently groundbreaking enough that it alone would put him in the history books. He’d at least be remembered by other bookish nerds after he was gone, if nothing else.

Harold took a breath, staring down the heavy metal doors to the Grimoire Archives, nestled deep in the back of a seaside cave down the cliff from the palace. While he’d still had Klein’s cordial on loan, he’d knocked out what he could of Father’s magical defenses, but the doors had remained shut, with no quiet way in.

Fortunately, breaking in was easy for the heir to the archives. That was probably why Father had never told him where it was, and forbidden him from ever going near it. That arrogant bastard probably thought that was enough.

But he doesn’t know me. I am not going to die without accomplishments to my name.

Pulling out his knife, Harold pierced the tip of his thumb and pressed it against the door, spilling Grimoire royal blood to prove his right to enter.

The sound of waves crashing on the royal beach was soon joined by the creaking of massive metal doors sliding open, followed immediately by a whistled shriek as an arrow flew directly towards Harold’s head, curving down to follow him as he ducked.

Not yet, he thought, deflecting it with a rain of crescent shards from his Scythe, reflecting the orange dawn light deeper into the cave.

Harold was doomed, but before he went out, he’d make his mark on the world, no matter the cost.

There were other traps, each more comically villainous than the last, from the floor dropping out over a massive spiked pit to a rain of fire falling from the ceiling, but the most difficult obstacle was nothing more than a wall of stone and metal, over ten feet thick. Father got through with a Cloak of Nocturne, Harold was reasonably sure, slipping out this reality just enough that the solid rock couldn’t stop him, for long enough that few to none would be capable of replicating the feat.

Harold wasn’t, at least. He’d ‘borrowed’ a Cloak from the palace long enough to test his limits, and the call of the void had proven too strong to resist for as long as it would take to make it inside. How Father could resist Nocturne’s lure was its own question, but not a particularly important one when there was another solution, albeit a borrowed one.

I’m lucky to have friends like Klein and Clarine. Without the former, Harold never would have learned the truth. Without the latter...

One swing of Sieglinde carved a slice a foot deep into the rock, the blade remaining untarnished. It was fabled to be capable of rending apart the very heavens themselves; a bit of stone was no match for the sacred twin sword of light, wielded by a man with boundless patience and nothing to lose.

It took almost an hour, more because he wanted to be sure the tunnel wouldn’t collapse on him than because Sieglinde had any great difficulty with the task, but Harold made it inside.

And the Grimoire Archives were everything he could have hoped for. So many hostile sages and—especially—binders had been defeated over the past century, and whenever their artifacts were too dangerous to be kept or given as gifts to loyal followers, they’d end up here.

Everything Father himself thinks is dangerous to him, right at my fingertips. Harold recognized many of them from the old stories, though the unknown artifacts far exceeded those in number, and were far riskier in their unpredictability.

Whenever Father next returned here, the break-in would be impossible to conceal, so Harold wasted no effort trying to leave things undisturbed, and freely filled his bag with anything that seemed like it might be useful.

As he made his way towards the back, he slid a cursed portrait of Alice Grimoire, first queen of a united Avalon—his great-great-grandmother—into his sack, pulled out a container of Berserk Powder from a chest, and freely grabbed a dark dagger from the wall. None of them were the reason he’d come here, but all of them might help in a pinch, if needed.

There was also a massive amount of completely useless stuff that Harold largely walked right on by, like the pocketwatch that would freeze you in time until Terramonde awoke, or the quill whose drawings could come to life, always murderously hostile to their creator. One shelf even had a black sack with its mouth stitched closed, a tag tied around it reading “Do not open unless you want to end the world,” recognizably written in Father’s handwriting. The sack was mostly opaque, but Harold could see the hint of a round ball flashing in different colors within it, apparently enough to doom Terramonde.

That sort of thing was what these Archives were for, more or less, so even if they weren’t useful, they weren’t unexpected either. Much stranger was the thin rectangular white and grey brick roughly the size of his hand, a cracked pane of glass on the top and a heavily dirtied circle embossed on the bottom, as if it was a target of some kind. A torn tangle of white and silver string was balled up next to it.

Perhaps a lesser-known spirit of Masonry, whose power is too dangerous because of... the risk of houses falling down? Harold shook his head, moving on. Not every mystery was meant to be solved.

Past the strange brick was a mangled pile of burned papers and what looked like melted black wax. Most of them were half an inch thick and square, a bit larger than a dinner plate, with the black material fused into the thin envelope where it was burned. Some had writing on them, though it was mostly illegible beneath the scorch marks. They’d clearly been stacked neatly in a tower and then allowed to fall over without any further clean up.

It wasn’t what he was here for, but Harold took a moment to rifle through, trying to see if any of the remaining readable text had any insights. A few of them had art that looked somewhat eye-catching, like the bottom half of a stained glass window, a heraldic king facing upside-down to the right, with similarly inverted Ks and diamonds in the window next to his head. More than two-thirds of the paper was burned though, so it was hard to get more out of it than that, unless the “LAN P” still barely readable at the top carried some significance.

More intact was a different paper with a purple ocean, reflecting dawn light, with four long-haired men’s heads hovering at the bottom in a white cloud. On top was an “F”, just under it in smaller print something that looked like it said “Making Waves”, though the letters between the ‘M’ and ‘i’ were pretty thoroughly burned out.

Harold slipped them both into his bag, since he had the space to spare, along with a third one that looked more like a red tapestry with gold lettering, only the top left corner unburned. The word ‘LIVING’ had caught his eye, though what the ‘JETHRO’ lettering above it meant, Harold hadn’t the slightest idea.

There was another one that was almost entirely unburned, illustrating a peeling wall with a painting hanging on it, a hunched over man with a bundle of sticks on his back in the frame, but he left that one on the floor. Whatever burden the painted man was carrying, Harold wanted no part of it.

Especially since all of these could be cursed too. If they’re in here at all, it’s more likely than not.

In any case, the real prize was on the very back wall, hanging unostentatiously on a nail: the Crown of Cold Steel. Twisted metal thorns wrapped around in a wreath, creating an elegant crown not too different in style from those worn by the ancient Kings of Cambria, at least if the portraits in the palace were any indication. There were other artifacts in here that were more potent, more dangerous, but none that would be nearly as useful.

Used right, it would be absolutely ruinous to Father and everything he’d ever tried to build.

And I already have the perfect plan.

With his newly-won artifacts in hand, Harold carefully made his way back to the palace, taking care to seal the door to the Archives behind him, leaving it looking undisturbed from the outside. All it took from there was a surreptitious climb up the cliffs, avoiding the sightlines of the path down to the beach, then slipping inside the palace from a lesser used side door. Harold already had a hiding spot picked out—an empty barrel way at the back of the cellars, unlikely to be tapped in the next century and certainly not in the next few months—so it wasn’t even four hours from leaving the Archives before he was slouched over in the Royal Dining Hall, enjoying an extremely well-earned glass of Château de la Jaubertie, the Year 81 vintage.

All it would take was a spark. Father was already set to leave, visiting his Territories as King Harold and then slipping away to infiltrate Guerron as Magnifico. If war broke out while he was stuck behind enemy lines, he’d suddenly find himself a captive too valuable to set free and too unimportant to execute...

Harold grinned, imagining his success, but there was still so much more work to be done. The Imperials didn’t have the slightest chance of holding Father on their own, which meant that a more personal touch was needed. The Crown of Cold Steel would do far more than a few drops of Cordial, and Father would have no way to remove it once placed on his head.

I just need to get the timing right. And to set off that spark.

“Oh, Harold! I didn’t think I’d run into you here. How are you doing?”

“Never been better,” he answered, and it wasn’t even a lie. “Say, you were always talking about that spirit history stuff, you might know. How effective is Berserk Powder, really? Because it seems like it doesn’t last long enough to meaningfully sow discord.”

Luce bristled. “I was a kid! I don’t know why you’re even asking me; I can barely remember. And those old theories were beyond poorly researched.”

No need to be embarrassed, Luce. Though Harold suspected he was cringing more at the breathless coffeeshop theorizing he’d spent so much of his time on than the history itself. “So you don’t know? What about the Dagger of Gemel? Do the doppelgangers always go murderously crazy?”

“I didn’t say I don’t know, I just...” Luce sighed. “The thing with Berserk Powder is that even a few minutes is enough to totally disrupt enemy formations if you can hit an officer with it. It’s for winning battles, not palace intrigue. And if you don’t have a good delivery method like the Crescent Fan, it’s nothing more than a risk to yourself.”

Not as useful as I’d hoped, then, but I could borrow the Fan from Clarine, and a few minutes for the right Great Councilors still might be enough to disrupt what I need to in a pinch. “And the Dagger?”

“There’s actually some debate about that, but when I look at the evidence, I think the answer is completely clear.” Luce perked up at the chance to dive into academic minutiae. “The best two examples we have are Mordred Jibades and the Serene Sisters. I know Ophelia the Dreaded is the one in all the plays, but we’re pretty sure she never really existed.”

That’s a shame... Last year’s performance of The High Queen and the Low had been that rare combination of moving and entertaining, for all of Luce’s inane grumbles about the historical inaccuracies. He was probably right about this too, since it meant sucking all the fun out of things, a Luce Grimoire specialty. “Who made her up?”

“Someone close to the Shining Prince, we think, trying to make a propagandistic point about Oxton’s purported claim to Cambria. There was a Cambrian Queen by that name during the Landfall period, but she was six years old, a puppet for her regency council who was dead before her thirteenth birthday. It’s a fabrication that outlived its original context and purpose, rattling around in the public consciousness without end.”

“Until superior scholars such as yourself slay those vile lies.” Harold scoffed, then took a sip of his wine. “So, what about... who was it again? Mordred and his sisters?”

Luce sighed, taking Harold’s offer of a matching glass without a smile. “Lady Serena Colburn inherited the Dagger of Gemel from her family, who’d first bound the spirit. She sliced herself with it, cleaving her shadow from herself and granting it its own form in her image. The shadow had all her thoughts, her experiences, emotions, memories... and ambitions. Once her shadow was replenished, Serena split herself again, then again, until she had eight shadows, each claiming to be a new Colburn sibling. They wormed their way into marriages and wardships and apprenticeships with all of Forta’s prominent families, then coordinated with each other to play the houses against each other, propping each other up from afar. Until one day, the alliance collapsed, and with it, Forta fell into a series of civil wars that lasted two decades. They all turned on each other, and on Lady Serena most of all.”

“Oh, I think I did hear something about this! They tied her to the Fortan Flame and burned her alive, right?” Doesn’t exactly paint the picture of a useful score. “I suppose it was just a matter of time before the shadows snapped.”

“Or human nature,” Luce countered. “These shadows each lived with these families for years, growing closer to their members, invested in their success. And more distant from each other, and the schemer that had created them to do her bidding. There’s no evidence that the change in paradigm stemmed from any inherent properties of Gemel.”

“Not in that example, but what about the other guy?” Although all I asked for was an answer about whether the doppelgangers go murderously crazy or not. But expecting a succinct answer from Luce was like expecting love from Father, and it wasn’t like Harold needed to be anywhere urgently.

“Mordred Jibades. Even older, back during the Grimoire settlements in Giton, Jibades was the Grimoire’s appointed General, charged with the city’s defense in times when Khali’s power was unsuitable. He entered into a compact with Gemel, and used the spirit’s power to divide and multiply on his loyal shadowcat—basically the continental version of a wyll. Eventually his army grew large enough to conquer distant lands in the Grimoire’s name, even reaching as far south as Pointe Gaspard. Then, when the Grimoire felt threatened by Jibades’ power and ordered him to return home, the General marched on Giton and ousted him, becoming the new Grimoire himself.”

“Wait, like he married into the family? Is he one of our ancestors?”

“No, Grimoire was just a title until Pelleas the Founder made it his surname and chose his own daughter as successor. We’re not related to Jibades either, or at least no more than anyone else with ancestors in Giton.” Luce paused, probably considering the genealogy far more closely than he needed to. “Anyway, the point is that once Jibades was being squeezed between Plagette, Serpichon, and the High Kingdom, he sliced more shadowcats than he could direct alone, so he made a terrible mistake and used Gemel’s power on himself. Purportedly, it was only two years before the two Grimoires were going to war against each other. They both ended up mauled by each other’s beasts, if I’m not mistaken.”

Ok, so another stunning failure for the Dagger of Gemel. Harold was feeling pretty lucky he’d known to grab the Crown, or the entire expedition might have been a waste. “The shadow couldn’t even make it two years before turning on its master, wow.”

“Or the ‘master’ couldn’t even make it two years before he felt so threatened by his shadow that he made the same mistake as the Grimoire before him. Admittedly, with that one, the evidence is more scarce. As far as we know, they really did just snap and turn on each other. But that doesn’t say anything about a shadow’s nature, nor is there any evidence that Gemel’s power is inherently corrosive to the minds it touches. Given what we know, I feel comfortable assuming that Jibades just wasn’t willing to share with himself.”

So maybe if I use this, I won’t end up inside a shadowcat’s stomach, but the scholars aren’t really sure. Brilliant. Thank you, Luce. “Thank you, Luce,” Harold managed to say with sincerity, since it was still better to know how useless it was before he tried to use it, even if the news itself wasn’t great.

Honestly, if I can cut Father with it, he’s definitely the type to turn on himself. But the flipside of that was two versions of Father running around, when one was already far more than belonged in the world.

“My pleasure! It’s nice to see you taking an interest in history, for once. If you’d like, I can lend some good books on the subject for your trip to the Territories.”

“My what?”

Luce’s face fell. “You... didn’t know? Father just told me that I’ll be left in charge until midsummer once you leave. I assumed he’d told you first.”

Father wants me with him? “Impossible.”

“Maybe he wants to make sure there’s royalty for the guards to protect once ‘Magnifico’ gets involved?”

Then he’d just find some other seat-filler like he always does. Honestly, with how much time he spent away, it was a wonder how the people of Avalon felt they had any king at all. He was strong, clever, respected, and imposing, but cruel and ruthless beyond all reckoning.

And I’m the only one who knows it, the only one with a chance to stop him, and tear apart his plans at the seams. Harold was already forming a plan, acquiring the resources and crafting a false identity of his own to ensure that Magnifico would never leave Guerron.

But if he drags me down south, I won’t be able to set any of my plans into motion. And delaying the trip wouldn’t help either, since Harold needed to be in Guerron when the spark went off, ready to ensure that the king was trapped. He’d planned to fake a yachting expedition with a crew loyal enough to say he was there the whole time, and was already vetting the staff for the job.

This could spoil everything. Was that why Father was doing it, or did ruining Harold’s life just come naturally to him without even a thought? Does he know, somehow? Alerted when the Archives were breached? But then why tell Luce instead of apprehending Harold right away?

There was only one way to know, odious as it was.

Harold pushed open the doors to the throne room, barging in without announcement on Father slouched on the throne, perfectly matching the pose of the portrait above him. Aunt Lizzie of all people was standing next to him, though they cut their conversation short before Harold could hear any details.

“What are you doing here?” Father barked, Lizzie matching his judgemental stare. “I don’t have time to waste on more of your shenanigans.”

Say my name, Father. Or are you too afraid to? Too guilty?

Probably not. King Harold was shameless, Magnifico even more so.

“Luce just told me you want to take me to the Territories with you.” Play the fop, don’t let him catch on. The role was a difficult one, now, but crucial to surviving any interaction with Father. “I have appointments in Cambria I must keep to, so respectfully, I’m afraid I must stay.”

“Appointments?” Father laughed. “You?”

Harold bristled, unable to entirely tame his reaction. “Yes! There’s the Birth of Spring, Lord Monfroy’s party, my—”

“That withered old vampire only throws parties to suck the joy out of everyone that goes. And there’ll be another Spring this year anyway—next year, I mean.” Father scoffed softly, seemingly at his own error, but almost certainly just some inside joke with himself. “I need you with me.”

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

“Why?” It couldn’t be because you expect me to do anything useful for you.

“Lizzie, would you mind giving us the room?” Father asked his accomplice, who departed without another word. And good riddance. “I’m surprised you’re smart enough to see that I have no use for you there, but since you made it there on your own, I suppose I can take you the rest of the way.”

“To Malin?”

“No, rhetorically.” Father rolled his eyes. “I can’t have you hanging around here as a challenge to Luce’s authority. He needs to learn to rule in his own right for a while, to be prepared for any moments when the king is unable to.”

“When the king is pretending to be a bard in order to ram a city into submission, for example?”

Father frowned. “I’m the best there is. Delegation would risk botching the task. And Guerron needs to come to heel—their Duke plays the compliant old man, but he’s been making alliances down south, preparing to lead his wards to war for Malin. I’m simply heading off the problem beforehand, avoiding a war in five years by cutting the enemy down to size now.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Why am I even explaining this to you? Just get your things packed. We’ll leave in three days.”

Three days? Not nearly enough time to get things in place without arousing suspicion. Not even close.

Especially if Luce is your chosen agent, just like Lizzie was.

“Why are you still here? Go!” Father waved him off, then called for Lizzie to return, so Harold stormed out, already trying to think of a way out of it.

Pretend to be sick? Father would take him anyway, he wanted him under his thumb and out of Luce’s way; Harold’s own well-being wasn’t important. Escape once we’ve left? Except that Father would notice, probably put his guards on him in Malin to ensure he couldn’t do anything. He’d never cared that much before, but this entire trip was upending that status quo.

All so fucking Luce could get his sea legs as a ruler, grooming the younger brother instead of the fucking heir.

“Oh, Harold.” Luce only narrowly avoided bumping into him in the hallway, clearly surprised to see him here. “Were you seeing Father?”

“I just wanted to confirm,” Harold answered. Confirm the extent to which he fucked up my plans. “It seems he wants you to be running things here in our absence. My even being here could get in the way of that.”

“No,” Luce flatly denied. “Father’s not like that. I’m sure he just wants you to see the Territories. Maybe he’ll have you tag along for Magnifico’s expedition too, since he apparently thinks it’s the duty of a king. I’m just the only one left behind, and I’m sure I’ll be leaning heavily on Aunt Lizzie.”

Did Father tell him? Aunt Lizzie had been invited into rulership in much the same way, and that invitation had been paired with revelation. Looking at things now, it was blindingly obvious that Father had the same arrangement in mind for Luce that he had with her.

But not if I stop it.

If he could find some way to return early from Malin and keep his plans for Father on track, he’d be the Crown Prince of Avalon, with the king absent. Luce would have to do whatever he said. And if I fake a letter from Father, I can probably get him pushed out of the way with a smile on his face.

And with that, Father’s precious prince wouldn’t be an issue anymore.

“You said the Dagger of Gemel is safe, right?”

“What?” Luce blinked, bewildered by the sudden change of topic. “I said there’s no evidence the shadows are magically induced to be hostile. That doesn’t make it safe; it’s locked up in the Archives for good reason.”

No it’s not. Harold couldn’t help but smile. And it’s not so useless after all. “But its users only turned on each other because of their nature. They both wanted the same things, and only one of them could have them.” And I have no desire to play my part in Father’s schemes. Neither me nor the double will want the throne.

“I suppose...” Luce looked towards the throne room, then back to Harold. “You have nothing to worry about with Father, or with me. We’re family, Harold, and we’re on your side. Don’t do anything rash. I’ll see you when you get back.”

Well, if that doesn’t just cement that they’re all part of the same plot, cheerfully awaiting my doom. Not that any of them expected him to know... That knowledge was the only thing letting him plan for the future, a split in the road between the path to victory and the path towards his fated doom.

“You will,” Harold assured Luce, barely restraining the pain and rage from his voice.

Resolved, Harold returned to his cache and retrieved the Dagger of Gemel, a glistening black blade slightly longer than his hand that absolutely refused to catch the light, even once Harold took it out into the sun.

By the time he found a secluded spot on the beach, Harold had to wipe his eyes, mourning the brother he thought he’d known. He took a deep breath, then slashed at his own face, carving away his own shadow as blood and darkness began to drip from his face down into the sand. Harold saw his shadow stretch and bend, swirling in a vortex around the spot where his blood dripped onto the beach, but collapsed head-first into the sand before he could properly see what happened.

When his eyes opened, a perfect mirror of himself was sitting against the cliffs, looking puzzled at the Harold lying on the sand. It was eerie, seeing his own features outside of a reflection, especially since his clothes had also been perfectly replicated. Apparently Gemel cared more about decency than Harold would have thought, or perhaps just the ones who’d bound him.

Either way, Harold felt drained, like the life had been sucked out of him. Even pulling himself to a sitting position was a challenge, his breaths shallow. Which I guess explains why Serena Colburn stopped at eight. Presumably, hopefully, his energy would replenish over time so long as Harold left it there, but the uncertainty bothered him.

Worse, looking at himself from this angle, without the obfuscation of a mirror, it was impossible to deny how closely his appearance resembled Father’s.

“Are you the shadow?” the other Harold asked.

“Are you?” Harold narrowed his eyes, attempting to spot any kind of telling difference, but none showed itself.

They stared at each other for a moment, trying to decide how to handle this problem. Either he’s a particularly clever shadow, or it worked exactly as Luce said... And now we don’t even know who the original is.

Perhaps only one of them was doomed, but Harold felt certain that Father’s curse would come for them both in one way or another. Without any way to tell who the original was, it didn’t even really matter.

“We’re both Harold,” Harold assured his counterpart. “We both want the same thing, right?”

“Father captured,” the other Harold agreed, hands grabbing the rocks behind him. “All his plans in ruins.”

Harold smiled. “Then it doesn’t matter. One of us will play the prince, the other the saboteur. Once Father’s captured, we’ll reunite.”

“And you’ll be prince?” the other Harold asked, hopeful.

“Or you,” Harold tried to deflect. This could turn into the opposite version of Jibades’ problem if we let it go on too long, though. Then he had an idea. “You’re standing closer to the palace, while I’m closer to the sea. So you should be Prince Harold, and I’ll be—”

“The spy.” The other Harold sighed, clearly disappointed. But after a moment, he nodded his head in acceptance. “So if I’m Harold, who does that make you?”

“Exactly what you’d think,” Jethro answered. Finally, a chance at really living.

≋

The plan was still the plan, now there were just twice as many hands to prepare it with. After spending so much time on it, Harold—or Jethro now, in the company of himself—felt increasingly sure that using the Dagger would have been a good idea even without Father’s impositions. He would have struggled mightily to keep up appearances with his training and appointments while also creeping into Mourningside in a hooded cloak to commission a bomb.

“I want something showy, a fire you could see from Pantera Isle. But it needs to be potent too! If it can’t sink a royal-class ship on its own, it won’t be enough for what I have planned.” Harold leaned comfortably against the wall, flashing Rebecca his warmest smile. “If you want, I can be sure to tell everyone that you built it.”

She frowned, her eyebrows looking exactly the same as when the Baron did it. “I don’t think building petty distractions for a prince’s party is really going to improve my career prospects, thanks. I need something concrete.”

“Money’s no issue, of course. And I could invite you to the party?” Though I’ll need to have you build two if we do it that way. Still, that ought to have been enough. Most girls would jump at the chance to accompany him to an event like that.

“No need. I already have plans.”

Damn it, why aren’t you responding to this? According to the Baron and a few discreet people at the College, Rebecca was the best there was when it came to students making bombs, and anyone higher placed risked having the awareness to notice what their work would be used for, and potentially social capital to do something about that knowledge. The youngest Williams was right in the sweet spot of ability and ignorance. So Harold didn’t let his frustration show, keeping his smile bright. “Name your price.”

“I want a job in the Tower when I graduate.”

What? “Don’t be absurd. I couldn’t—”

“Your brother is the Overseer. Just put in a word with him. Make it clear that you owe me.”

Tricking Luce into hiring the bombmaker who’s going to bring down his precious Father? Well, that certainly had an appeal to it, didn’t it? And the other Harold could easily make Luce do it when next he saw him. “Deal. Bring it to my ship when it’s ready and I’ll make sure Luce knows what to do.”

Huh, I made it through that whole conversation without technically telling a lie. Perhaps the spirits don’t have it so bad after all. Harold had tried speaking only truth for a few weeks back when he’d first begun learning binding—an exercise from the Baron to better understand spiritual power—and then again when he’d seen the truth at the heart of the world. The latter attempt had stemmed from delusion, the hope to escape his fate by becoming a spirit, and practicing their rules accordingly. In any case, both had ended in failure, and there was no reason to expect this particular streak to be any different.

My entire existence is a lie, anyway.

Preparations for the ‘spark’ of his plan secure, Harold walked brightly towards the next component, conveniently in the same neighborhood as the College.

This early in the day, Lunacy was pretty quiet, a far cry from the rowdy hoards of College students that kept it humming from dusk to dawn, but it was still open, and Roselyn was working, which was all Harold needed.

“Well, if it isn’t the Prince of Pantera, darkening my doorstep again.” Dressed head to toe in black, Roselyn had been an amusing diversion a few years past, now a window into a far more important opportunity. “Finally got tired of lazing around the palace watching your dad sell the world out to the Harpies?”

Exhausting as ever, I see. “I was hoping I could get your help with something. An introduction.”

She raised an eyebrow, leaning over the bar. “When they said that royals always have connections, I don’t think this is what they meant.”

They have connections, but not to the kind of people I need for this. “Just give this note to your new girlfriend, please? I have information she’ll want to buy. And don’t put my name to it. Say it’s from a spy called Jethro.”

Narrowing her eyes skeptically, Roselyn stared Harold down, daring him to explain.

Fine. “I know what she does for a living and I don’t care. That’s why I’m coming to you with all the cloak and dagger. There’s money in it for her too.”

“How did you even hear about that?” Roselyn scoffed in disbelief, then grabbed the note from his hands. “Whatever. This better not be an investigation, or I’ll bury you under the palace myself. I actually like this girl.”

“Don’t worry, this is strictly for our mutual benefit,” Harold assured her. The only one who loses is Luce.

≋

“Don’t worry, this is strictly for our mutual benefit,” the other Harold tried to assure him, his voice an eerie echo of his own. Or is mine merely an echo of his? One of them was a shadow doppelganger, perhaps destined for their heart to twist towards cruel hostility to the original Harold. Even if Luce’s assurances were correct, there was still the risk of being driven apart by human nature alone.

Especially now that Father was trapped, the Crown of Cold Steel irrevocably placed on his head. We got what we wanted. Everything went even better than we could have planned. But where does that leave us now? The days of writing letters to Gary and sneaking around Guerron were behind him, whatever came next.

“I don’t see how invading the Arboreum benefits anyone but the Harpies plundering the new Territory.” Harold paced the deck of the ship—an icebreaker rather than the royal-class yacht he was more familiar with, but that made sense with the waters so choked with ice. Fortunately, the Gauntlet of Eulus had no such limitations, and Harold had been able to fly up to meet his counterpart with little issue, even under dark skies.

“Everyone benefits from the plunder, Jethro.” Other-Harold gestured towards the darkened sky. “In case you haven’t noticed, this year’s crops aren’t doing so great. But the Imperials made deals with spirits to weather the damage, and once we prevail, we can claim their harvest for our own.”

“Steal it, you mean.” Since when do you even care? The other Harold’s role in the plan was largely limited to diverting suspicion by going about his business, then making sure things went smoothly once Father and Luce were out of the way. That was part of what made Jethro’s job so much better, getting to handle things personally, to slip the crown on Father himself and see the rage and shock wipe the smug smile off his face.

But ruling was never something I wanted, and it’s baffling to see you reach for it. Being King was one thing—the power, the admiration, the respect... But actually sitting down at a table and administrating was a different thing altogether. Before he’d learned the truth, Harold had expected to let Luce and Aunt Lizzie handle most of the day-to-day duties in the hopes that his life didn’t become a total bore the moment he was king. Afterwards, cold rage directed all of his ambitions.

“What more can I do? The existing Territories are already stretched to their absolute limit, there’s famine in the western isles, and our influence in Dimanche and Charenton has been stretched to its limits. The Countess Dimanche isn’t even responding to my letters anymore.”

“Which one was Dimanche again? The Duchy?”

The other Harold shook his head ruefully, exhaling with the same beleaguered judgment that Luce was so fond of, and for no less than the same kind of mistake. “It’s an island to the west of Dorseille, ruled by a lineage sympathetic to Avalon’s interests. Until recently, anyway. You should go there next and convince her to change her mind, or else ensure that Dimanche’s ruler will cooperate, whomever they might be.”

“Like Father,” Jethro spat. “He was doing exactly that kind of meddling in Guerron, and it’s exactly that arrogance that allowed us to stop him.”

“This is completely different!”

“How?”

Harold’s nostrils flared. “Because this is me. Us. We’ve won! Don’t you see that? I could rule Avalon for decades before my fate comes due. What better tool to leave my mark on the world before I’m gone?”

“Growing fat sitting on a throne, I never thought I’d see the day.” Jethro shook his head ruefully, making his judgment clear. “You of all people know how important it is to handle things personally.”

“Now who sounds like Father?”

Jethro shook his head. “This is completely different! He personally handled things in an evil way to cement his power. I—We—are taking care of things personally to destroy that hold. Father’s out of the way now, but that’s just the first step. We can tear down his whole putrid project, unravel Avalon at the seams while he’s forced to watch!”

“That would be a disaster! Avalon is not Father, and it doesn’t deserve to suffer for his misdeeds. The first Harold Grimoire to bear the name had a dream, Jethro, a united world, free from the tyranny of the spirits. Then his son put an arrow in his back, and we’re still dealing with it today. How much would it fuck with Father to see us do it without him? Our names would be in the history books forever, for our deeds, undying.”

“Your name. It’s not mine anymore.”

Harold threw up his hands, bewildered. “The thought of snatching Father’s victory out from under him really doesn’t appeal to you? Surpassing him in every way as he withers into irrelevance?”

It appeals on a base level, but that’s not enough reason to completely turn our plan on its head. “We finally have a chance to put things to rights. We were going to tear down his works, not build on them.”

“A childish overreaction! This is a chance to take a step back and really think without Father’s sword hanging over our heads. To grow up, now that we have the chance. I mean honestly, ‘Jethro’? A name we don’t understand picked off of a burned envelope of melted wax?”

“We understand enough,” Jethro corrected, feeling strangely defensive about his name. “It means living. For ourselves, instead of Father’s agenda. Being his perfect prince is playing right into his schemes. You’re just in Luce’s role instead of your own.”

“And whose role are you playing, Jethro? Robin Verrou?” Harold scoffed. “Grow up. A ruler has responsibilities, but with them comes the opportunity to carve your names into the pages of history. All you’re proposing is a tantrum.”

“All you’re proposing is treading water, continuing with what was instead of what is.”

Harold blinked. “Are you serious? ‘What is’ is a country on the brink of starvation, surrounded by cultists grown fat off the people they sacrifice.”

That doesn’t make invading them a good idea. “So it’s ‘for a better world’? You should know better than to believe that drivel. And what about Luce? He survived and took command of Malin, since that’s where your lies told him to go. And apparently he has Levian’s sorceress working for him too.” An interesting person to meet, perhaps, if she really did survive her own death.

“For now, I’ll leave him to play Governor. By the time he gets back to Cambria, I’ll have my grip solidified enough as Prince Regent that he won’t be able to raise a fuss. Father’s favoritism doesn’t count for much when he’s in a cell.”

“That’s it?” Jethro scoffed. “You want him to join you, don’t you? Now that you’re all about the ‘good of Avalon’.”

“I’ve thought about it.” Harold shrugged. “It couldn’t hurt to have him behind us, could it? He’s smart enough to come up with good solutions, and he ignores the big picture enough that we’d barely even have to lie to him. Even if Father told him the truth, he doesn’t know that we know, and either way there’s nothing he can do about it.”

Will he really trust us after the trip we sent him on got him kidnapped by pirates? It seemed optimistic, though perhaps Father’s capture had prevented Luce from realizing he’d never formally been called to Malin at all.

“Now, if you’d take these notes on Dimanche and Charenton, I can start briefing you on your next mission.”

“No.” Whether Luce was right about shadow doppelgangers or not, it’s embarrassing to split apart in a shorter timeframe than even Jibades did. Though not as embarrassing as still trying to follow Father’s example even after knowing what he was.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m thinking someone needs to check on Luce, just to make sure he doesn’t cause any trouble.” Because if the rumors I’m hearing are even half true, he’s already turned most of the city against him.

“No,” Harold said, incredulous. “That is exactly the opposite of what I’m ordering.”

Jethro shrugged. “I never really thought of this as a ‘give me orders’ kind of situation. We had our plan, together, and executed it together. A plan which, by the way, I had to do so much more to make happen than you could even dream of, certainly more taxing than sitting around the palace listening to the Baron’s lectures.”

“Maybe if you did listen, you’d understand that you can’t just lash out like a child forever.” Harold pointed towards the edge of the deck. “You wanted to be the saboteur, and leave me to play the prince. You won, Jethro. That’s all there is to say.”

“I suppose it is.” You wanted it too, Harold. And I don’t understand what’s changed. The name was cursed, the identity more of a fabrication than Jethro’s was. Why would he regress like this? How could he possibly expect me to follow him in doing it? “Farewell, Prince Harold.” And goodbye forever to the man I was.

≋

Jethro—no point in trying to blur the line between him and the other doomed prince anymore—trudged slowly up the riverbanks.

How could I have been so wrong? He’d seen himself in Camille—and how could he not? She’d been cursed, doomed by fate, and broken out of the narrow confines of nobility to make her mark on the world in the time she had left. Not to mention that Malin’s every success is a counterweight to Avalon’s, a thorn in Father’s plans.

Only Camille wasn’t like him. She was just a continental Father with a prettier face, ready to follow in his footsteps as an enduring tyrant. Somehow that was a worse disappointment than his own shadow’s turn.

And that red knight came out of nowhere. How was he skilled enough to fight a binder like me, and why was he so committed to helping Camille? Jethro was sure he could have beaten him had it been one-on-one, but Camille intervention had screwed that up too.

Everything got screwed up. The Red Knight hadn’t even been decent enough to kill him, and spare him the fate that awaited.

His purpose had been trapping Father, and then helping Camille rise to smash through everything he’d built. The first was done, the second an explosive failure perhaps even greater than the other Harold’s idiotic war. What was left?

Jethro crested the riverbanks and began walking through the still forest, eerie white trees watching his every move. It seems fitting to wander the wastes, devoid of purpose. He’d tried so hard to live, and now there didn’t even seem to be any point.

“...truth at the heart of the world? And why couldn’t Maxime come?”

“While it is not beyond my power, I do not expect that I will be the one showing it to you, Ambassador. Who better to explain the truth than he who was most affected by it?” The wind was whistling through the stripped, dead trees, somehow forming words with those hollow whistles alone.

“Is it the Red Knight? I know he was working with you.” Fernan’s eyes were blazing less brightly than usual, their fierce green color looking faded enough in the dawn light to be almost blue.

“I think it might be me,” Jethro said, laughing, as he entered the clearing where Fernan and Cya were talking. “Though why I’d pour out my deepest secrets to you, I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“And so the Fated Heir arrives. Welcome.”

That’s the nicest way anyone’s ever greeted me. “My pleasure, spirit of the woods. But if you gave a reason, I didn’t hear it.”

“The truth is out there, Saboteur. The Bard’s workings cannot block it anymore. As we speak, the Terminus of the line Leclaire is witnessing it, as is the Seeker of Secrets. And soon the Mastermind of your family will hear it as well, by more mundane means.”

“Wait, ‘soon’? You mean Luce doesn’t already know?”

Fernan shrank back, the ‘what is happening’ expression remarkably plain on his face considering how different his eyes were.

“But he will,” Jethro realized. “Aunt Lizzie’s going to tell him, to set him against the Prince...” Would he listen to her, as Lizzie had listened to the king? It was impossible to be sure, but having seen Luce in these past few days—hardened by failure, his resolve stronger than it ever had been...

Luce always was Father’s favorite... Why wouldn’t the precious prince pick up Father’s plans where he left off, supporting him from afar? Then again, Luce had surprised Jethro again and again, ever since he’d escaped those pirates. Perhaps it was time to stop underestimating the Prince of Darkness.

Then he realized what Cya had said first. “And Camille’s going to find out? Fuck! It’s not like she hasn’t won enough today.” Her and the ‘Seeker of Secrets’, whoever that’s meant to be. “It’s not going to be a secret much longer then, I guess.”

“That depends on their reactions. Each has a vested interest in maintaining it, but not forever. Including the Mountain.”

Jethro followed the wind of her words as it blew past Fernan, causing his eyes to flicker. I can see why she’d want him to know, since he’s the one closest to Father, in the most immediate danger if he escapes.

And why not, if even tyrants like Leclaire are peeling back the truth? It wasn’t like Jethro had any obligation to keep his father’s secrets, even when they were also his own.

“I guess you read me right, Cya.” Jethro pulled back his sleeve to expose his master’s Gauntlet of Eulus, retrieved from the aftermath of Father’s capture. In his other hand, he pulled out the Scythe of Crescents that had already once revealed the truth.

Jethro hadn’t partaken of nightshade, and it didn’t look like Fernan had either, but that didn’t matter too much when he already knew. This, he could do from memory, for the scene was forever etched into his mind.

≋

“He’s infuriating!” Luce complained, earning a sympathetic nod from his aunt. “It’s all about his ego, making ‘his’ mark on the world in the time he has left. What a fucking joke.”

Charlotte squeezed his hand. “There are ways to ensure he’s not in power, Luce. You could stop the war yourself. If you were the only the son of the king left—”

“No.” Luce pulled his hand free. I know you’re just worried about me, but that is not an option. “He’s still my brother. We’re not even discussing that.”

Aunt Lizzie nodded, fortunately on his side in this. “It would be a poor choice for another reason as well, though I wouldn’t expect either of you to know that. Charlotte, if you wouldn’t mind giving my nephew and me the room, it’s time he learned the truth.”

Luce shook his head. “She stays. I trust her.”

“Perhaps this was a mistake.” Lizzie frowned. “But with the king captured, our options are limited. You must both swear not to tell a soul. And do not do anything rash. This is a situation where waiting is only to our advantage.”

≋

Florette pulled her head from the dark pool and its portents of Nocturnal doom, expecting the Temple to clarify, her visions over.

No such luck, apparently. The shadow Florette was still lurking menacingly, gesturing back up the stairs with the tip of her sword. Florette followed her up, warily eying her shadow doppelganger, hopefully nothing more than a quirk of the visions.

When she reached the Agada Ridge and looked out over the island, a fierce battle was raging below, the land stretching far beyond the Isle of Shadows’ shores.

The Foxtrap, Florette realized, glimpsing a muscular red-haired man in a golden crown draw his sword and spur his horse into a charge. The old Fox-King, Romain Renart. He wouldn’t survive this battle, nor would Florette’s parents.

But it’s not conjured from my own ice... Neither was the shadow Florette, come to think of it... Did it have something to do with the dark pool deep in the heart of the Temple? Or was it something about Monfroy’s special vintage of nightshade?

It doesn’t really matter. Florette reached out for her parents, trying to find wherever they were on the battlefield, but the visions refused. After a halting moment, she sank to her knees, realizing that she couldn’t even remember their faces.

All because the prick in red needed bodies to throw in the pyre of his own failure. They’d died for nothing, the war lost.

Instead, the battlefield grew closer and clearer around an armored man striding up to the Fox-King, the sounds of battle roaring into Florette’s ears. “You’re bulkier than I expected, Fox-King. Wasn’t Renart’s whole thing being clever and evasive?”

“There are many paths to victory, Harold Grimoire. Right now, you’re crying out for a sword in your gut. It doesn’t have to be any more complicated than that.” The Fox-King looked back at his motley assembly, Imperial knights and sages next to barely-trained peasants, all of them together barely matching Avalon in numbers. “We settle this like men. You and me, right now.”

“Well, that’s a fun idea!” The King of Avalon turned back to his knights. “Leave us! Keep our arena clear.”

“Sire, you mustn’t—”

“When the Fox-King dies, their cause is lost, the battle over. This is only sensible.” The king grinned, drawing a familiar shadowed sword from its dark scabbard. “And I could use a good fight. I think Fox-boy here might actually be enough of a challenge to be interesting.”

≋

Mordred warned me I’d be forsaking my humanity. It’s up to me to prove him wrong. Strained and exhausted, Camille lay down on the sand, barely managing to answer the knight before the final vision took her. “Let’s go home.”

She didn’t hear his answer, the sounds of battle filling her ears once more.

The Foxtrap, she realized, witnessing the battle north of the city that she’d only heard in the distance on that fateful day. The cannons thundered against the walls, ships bombarding the coast as Avaline machines tore through the Fox-King’s army like a quill through paper.

The duel of kings wasn’t going any better, with Lucien’s father already bleeding heavily from his helmet. He stumbled, and the King of Avalon wasted no opportunity jamming his sword through the joints of his armor, driving deep into his body where his legs met. “That should do it then,” the king panted, his voice the same as Jethro’s. “Take his sword and crown for the Archives, and—Fuck!”

Mustering what must have been the last of his strength, Lucien’s father had grabbed the other king’s arm and rammed his sword up his armpit, piercing the joint in his armor.

Camille knew what would happen next. Neither would survive, but the day would belong to Avalon, their king replaced as soon as the infected wound ended this one. And the succession had barely slowed them down at all.

≋

Fernan gazed at Jethro as he swung his scythe, though it didn’t seem to have any effect until he shot lightning from his other hand, arcing between something in the air in lines upon lines, the lattice eventually forming the image of Magnifico, slouched on a throne with a woman standing in front of him.

“There’s something important I need to tell you, Lizzie,” something seemed to chime from Jethro’s construction. “It’s not an easy thing to hear. You distinguished yourself at command, and you’ve proven your loyalty a hundred times over. Not just to Avalon, but to the Crown.”

“That hasn’t changed,” the woman assured him, her words relayed through sounds of lightning and glass. “I know you can’t fill Father’s shoes. I don’t expect you to. You’re still the King of Avalon. I’ll protect you and your sons with my life.”

“It warms my heart to hear that. But it’s interesting to hear you say it.” Magnifico began pacing the room, turning his back towards his sister. “Because his shoes are my shoes, his feet my feet. Avalon’s march won’t miss a beat from my ascension, because it’s still being led by me.”

The woman’s eyes widened, her composure lost. “F-father?”

≋

“It’s Pantera’s curse, forever undying. My mind will pass down the line for as long as it continues to exist, and I don’t have any control over it,” Jethro made the Father simulacrum say, faithfully repeating Father’s words for all that he was sure they were lies. Why keep having sons, then? Why recruit your younger children to your lies and monstrosity as you plot to kill your eldest, overwriting everything that they are with your own foul self? Self-serving lies were nothing new to Father, and playing a sweeter song for Lizzie fit right in with that.

Fernan looked suitably shocked and horrified, which was good. It meant he had a soul.

Unlike Aunt Lizzie. In Jethro’s mirage, just as she had in his own visions, she embraced the king with a hug. “You’re alive! I can’t believe it.”

“Though not without a cost.” Father, faking emotions to better manipulate his daughter, held her closer. “Poor Harry is gone now, not a trace of him left. And we can’t tell anyone.”

“We’ll grieve for him together,” Lizzie said, sickeningly. “But what about young Harold?”

What indeed, you loathsome snake?

“There’s nothing we can do, save give him the best life we can in the time he has. Pantera’s curse is just as undying as she was, inescapable. I tried to break it, but—”

Jethro dissolved the image, not wanting to parrot any more of Father’s self-gratifying deception. His empty justifications were beside the point.

“So, that was Magnifico? And so was the king on the battlefield? And...” Fernan’s eyes flared brighter as he began to comprehend the scope of the problem. “How old is he?”

“At least a century,” Jethro answered, conjuring the crescent shards for one final image. “Harold the Second killed his father in a hunting ‘accident’, which sounds too much like the man I know for me to ignore it, and it tracks with the rough time of Pantera’s death, so I’d guess that the chain started there. But there’s no way to be sure.”

“But then, as soon as Magnifico dies...”

“He wins,” Jethro answered, arcing lightning to show the king in his cell, crowned in cold steel, and cackling mad with smug triumph.