“Wait a second...” A spark of inspiration burst in Farron's eyes. He was 'technically' blackguard – having trained and shown some talent with a sword. Had to have, or Tiber would've never allowed him to come, and considering his young age it was an impressive achievement. Despite that, Tyr was irked by the fact that Lina had opted to bring him along with the rest after all. That wasn't the plan, he wasn't supposed to be in Amistad but he refused to leave, and their only option was to get him ready and make what use of him they could. With the blood, he'd surpass trained men very soon, giving him the capability to outrun them if he needed to – sending him elsewhere wasn't bound to work out in Tyr's favor. “If the shitty old man is going to be king of Amistad and its periphery territory, doesn't that mean I'll be a prince?”

Old man...?

“...Why would you be a prince in that case?” Brenn turned toward the young boy. He had a decent hand for light magic and had been showing up at the shrine to Tormund begging to be trained.

Evidently, the followers of the lord of storms decided it'd be funny to send him to the house of light. And Brenn, as the youngest official knight paladin in the city, it was his duty to either approve or deny the boy. He hadn't sponsored him, because Farron was too old to be properly squired, and the young man didn't want to be a paladin.

Brenn did aid in his training however, many of the faith militant took contracts in schooling this or that noble lad so it wasn't out of the ordinary. He'd be squired by someone else, if he was at all, Tyr had an apparent disinterest in following protocol and just knighted whoever he wanted to, despite having no real qualifications to do so.

The dawnguard, what the blackguard had been, were defunct. They could keep their spurs as a legion veteran might keep their uniforms, but an unofficial chapter couldn't name and title new members. Technically speaking, all of them were hedge knights with only the barest minimum of association with knighthood especially after their 'commander' had been exiled.

“Because he's my father...?” Farron's face screwed up as if to accentuate how 'obvious' this was. Sigi spit out the wine she'd been drinking on their ride back 'home', Micah paled, using his fingers to do some math with a confused expression, Magnus burst into laughter, and Astrid looked sick to her stomach, pale as a ghost and wide eyed. “Why are you looking at me like that? I was born in wedlock, so even if I'm adopted, I should fall into the succession – right?”

“Oh, jeez.” Micah sighed, the numbers hadn't added up but that certainly did. “That makes sense.”

“He adopted you?” Brenn asked, thinking the development a bit strange. Tyr certainly enjoyed the company of children but he wasn't exactly the glowing, sturdy image of a father figure. More like that uncle everyone saw a few times a year at best and enjoyed the visits without necessarily wishing for more.

“Of course. So I would be a prince, and Henny would be a princess. Right?” Farron must've meant Henrietta, she and mother Mary both came to the chapel every week with the other children to give alms and pass out bread. Amistad wasn't a poor or starving city, there was no homeless, but it was symbolic and people often came for the free food. To enjoy a meal alongside good company, even if strangers, building ties in the community was what Vestia's pillar was all about.

The other confused and anxious companions of Tyr relaxed when Farron finished speaking, taking deep breaths of relief.

The only one not surprised was Alex. “Adoption in Haran is different, you are more of a ward than a son, though I am sure Tyr would be pleased to hear you call him father. Legal adoption in a polygamous bonding of houses is very complicated and would require the agreement of all our parents before it's made official. Until we are thirty, or our parents pass, it is their right to make that decision – not ours. In any event, Tyr is not a king and won't be. He can call himself a king, but only kings named and crowned by the papacy can officially bear the title. Oresund is the only exception I am aware of, though I'm sure things are different on the southern continent as well. It's his crown, however, things get a bit more complicated since he is about to be the lord of all law in the state. None of us could say for sure, but you'll most certainly bear a similar authority to a regional marquis, perhaps a count. Amistad is small and it's population isn't that impressive compared to some other places, I wouldn't expect too much out of it, but you will be officially recognized nobility if it all goes well. In the successor states, Tyr would be a marcher lord and you'd be his heir apparent until he bears a biological child.”

“A count!” Farron didn't seem disappointed in the slightest, puffing out his chest. He certainly looked the part of a noble, what with the obvious expense that had gone into his battle gear. Simple, not ostentatious as many highborn would have it, but there was refinement in simplicity. Gideon was a imperial count and never ran about with jewels and gold threads, but anyone who saw him would feel the authority. “I wish my grandfather could see this. He would be proud.” His face became downcast at that, a drop of sorrow souring his normally enthusiastic face. Until Tiber slapped him painfully on the back, that is.

“Head up...?” Tiber said. He'd remained quiet for the entirety of their unnecessary jaunt through the wilderness while Tyr 'did something' – his words. Sending them on some sort of patrol, or something like that.

“Eyes forward. Heart clear. Hands steady.” Farron smiled thinly, such a complex range of emotions for such a young man. Barely sixteen now. “I wonder if he's proud of me. He deserved a better and more restful end than he got.”

“He is.” Tiber replied with absolute confidence. The others hushed themselves as master and student communicated with one another. Emotional discipline and open communication were two very important aspects of being good at... Well, anything. It was a part of growing up, and many of them had never had a master like Tiberius Scarr. There might not be a better master in the wider world, here was a man that oozed experience and wisdom. A bit dark, truth be told, a monster in his own right – but killing with a conscience was possible.

“I know that, because I am. And I am a very hard man to please, ask Tyr next time you see him.” Tiber joked. “And don't worry, my old man was a real piece of shit too, kid.”

Farron laughed, and the rest of them did the same. In the distance, the crowing calls of birds fleeing the forest was followed by a series of bloodcurdling screams, but nobody stopped. Their ears were deaf to the terror those responsible for the howls must've been feelings.

–

“Just give me the damn crown.” Tyr tore the circlet from the hands of the small man that held it. Amistad had never had a king, not at any point, and the crown was little more than a golden paperweight. Well and freshly wrought, surely, so he refrained from destroying it, though he wanted to. The old man looked about to faint at any moment, a bureaucrat by the turn of his robes, and Tyr felt a bit of pity for him – leaning over to whisper in his ear. “You're doing a great job, I've looked over your file and I have a feeling you're going to get that promotion you've been waiting for. Keep it up.”

“Really?” The man's shaking stopped almost immediately, looking up at Tyr as if the man were carved from mithril. Something more majestic than the perpetually scowling 'angel' in front of him, a man of true duality. A lie, of course, Tyr had no idea who the bastard was but he had a feeling he should behave a bit more... Regal? At least for the time being, and he'd always had a soft spot for those in the service industry. “Thank you! Oh thank you my king!”

Damn, already...?

The clerk was hastened off by Tyr's companions. Brenn stood at his side, the blackguard at the back, and his wives – all of them – Kirk included... Well, husband and wives, to be precise. Kind of confusing given the hermaphroditic capabilities of the crablike maxxid, but Kirk insisted on masculine pronouns and it seemed like an easy ask. It wasn't that hard to simply remember how someone wanted to be referred to.

There was a room full of people to address, and with that came a level of responsibility. Thus, he acted very much not like a king, nails in his skull and perpetually frowning.

“This shit is boring.” Tyr called out. Opting not to seat himself in the throne or wait for the scepter bearers to wave their stick around and kiss his boots. “Autocratic military rule, no hereditary succession, upon my death or abdication, you return to a democratic council. Anyone who defies me or rebels will be violently abused without quarter, you will be offered no mercy if I sniff out a plot or betrayal. You are my people now, and therefore I will give my life to protect each and every one of you. When Baccia comes, and I mean when, not if, you will have the full support of my combined forces. We will wait for them, break them, and consensually take their womenfolk via a clever strategy of looking handsome and having lots of money. At which time I will lead the greatest crusade of the modern era to purge their filth from our lands and create the largest successor state known to mankind. Conquering them, naturally, I will kick the shit out of Baccia and the Brotherhood alike, liberating Amateus and the periphery annexations. I will never lie to you, I will not cheat nor steal from you, but it will not be easy at any point. We who are about a higher purpose, I'm really not that romantic but it's going to be really glorious – people will clap for us and... I'm sure you get the gist of what I'm saying.”

As expected, the room was completely silent. Tyr couldn't 'see' Alex, but he could feel her – and all the others – mentally shaking their heads at his crudeness. To the observers, they'd appear far more regal than he did. All dressed up, straight backed and imperious. Compared to Tyr who was wearing his classic linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up and hair cut short again. Perhaps he should practice growing breasts, so as to woo them with androgynous charm and very confusing erections.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Huh...?

“In continuance of that guarantee, I know that many of you have doubts. How is this even possible? I know you're asking yourselves that. Some of you are happier about this change than I would have expected, for various reasons, but many more are anxious – even furious that your so-called freedom has been ripped away from you. Thus, I'll allow any and all individuals, with a guarantee of no retaliation, to step forward and voice their concerns.”

Quite literally, Tyr had just marched into the 'forum' palace or whatever they actually called it, the primary council chamber, and insisted he was the king. People hadn't tried to stop him at all, either... Which was kind of odd, wasn't it? They'd even shown up to his coronation.

Well within expectations, half the room rose from their seats and started shouting at the top of their lungs, all at once. Enough to the point where Tyr could feel the building migraine and began to hate them for it. Every second that passed, his expression grew colder. “Kael Emberwind, step forward. I hear your voice among the crowd.” He didn't raise his voice because he didn't need to, with his presence so firmly rooted into the will of the world, if he wanted someone to hear something – they did. No matter how much noise they made, he was so close. Just a little further and the worst adventure of all time would finally be over.

Kael stepped forward, crossing the hall and approaching him boldly with head held high. A proud and able man, someone Tyr trusted inherently to behave within expectations. Armed and armored, as Tyr had taken no precaution against such a thing, it was a clear sign of disrespect regardless. That's why the blackguard were behind him, Amistad was full of lions and tigers. Most of them hidden away, unlike Kael or Lernin who existed as public figures.

Tyr was not a walking apotheosis, he could be beaten.

It was important Tyr ensured the others were safe, he was quite confident he could wipe the floor with Kael now having already beaten him so long ago, though. In terms of relative power, Tyr had grown so much, whereas Kael had barely changed.

“Amistad has never had a king.” Kael stated bluntly. “You cannot simply slaughter the council and claim ownership of the city, that is not how it works. We will never allow it, and while I hold no disdain for you personally, I will not stand for a usurper seated on a false throne. Step down, or we'll stuff you in a deuritium box and cast you into the sea.”

“Uh...” Tyr raised an eyebrow. “No thanks.”

“Then I challenge you to single combat, in the old ways that your paternal house claims to follow. With the understanding that your friends, companions, and...” He looked toward the blackguard with a mixed expression, well aware that the vast majority of them were now 'undead'. “Your men will also be given safe passage from this place.”

“Tell him!”

“Get the fuck out, one eye!”

“Nobody wants you here, bastard!”

“Shit, I'm so horny!”

“Bro, what?”

“Alright.” Tyr nodded in acceptance. All those in attendance were mages, and most were accomplished senior spellcasters. Somewhat surprisingly, more than five of the twenty one archmages left alive and in Amistad had deigned to attend. “Please raise your hand if you support this notion that I am not worthy of holding sovereignty over this state.”

Not a single hand was raised, but another in the rear rose to address him. Professor Wilhelm. Tyr thought he'd have gotten at least one hand in denial of him, but it was what it was. “It's not that you are unworthy. We know you are primus, and we acknowledge that, but Amistad is a free state – the problem lay not in your qualifications, but the fact that it is inappropriate. We refuse to be conquered as our sister nation of Amateus was.”

And yet most of them will run when the swords come, these people...

“Thank you, professor Wilhelm.” Tyr bowed with a twitching smile. He hated this, if only these dull people realized how little interest he had in ruling. If they didn't accept him, Octavian was going to make him leave – by force – the accords allowed for it since there was proof he was in the midst of awakening. His diplomatic immunity was rapidly fading and his idiotic plan to become a Lyran lictor had backfired in his face even worse. Completely failing to get the churches off his back and doing the exact opposite, Alexandros was a snake. “Let me rephrase, then.” He cleared his throat. “Please raise a hand if you, for whatever reason, do not want me to be king of this nation. No retaliation, I swear it on the house of my mother. I say that because I quite like my mother, and her house, the Faeron's aren't very functional, but the Ebonfists... Uh, anyways...”

Near unanimous were the raising of hands, except for Cirdan who appeared in the back and rather comically attempted to lower a few of the hands near him, including Garth's, before being beaten down and restrained. It was all well enough. Tyr killed them all, the moment his foot touched the ground the building and surrounding land was swallowed by wildfire. Everything was ash for a split second before reality set in and he found himself staring at those raised hands again. He wanted to, no..

He didn't want to, he needed to. Hastur was right. He always had been, but Tyr refused to allow him to have his way. World be damned, genocide shouldn't be a 'solution' to any problem. Let it all really and truly burn, Tyr thought, but at least they'd have chance to fight the fire if his plan came to fruition.

Men deserved very little, practically nothing at all. But they deserved the right to struggle and prove their worthiness to continue on.

“Please lower your hand if your mind changes when I swear, similarly on my mother, that I will abdicate immediately after the defeat of Baccia and the Brotherhood. I will abandon the throne and allow you to return to your previous oligarchical puppet show. Or any government you want, really, I have very little interest in ruling you. I am not like my father, I am apathetic to all things responsibility, a roguish man that would rather live in a log cabin deep in the woods than a palace of gold and silver. I ask humbly of you to allow me to do this, specifically so that I am not removed from your kingdom by the other primus'.” A few hands were lowered. Some lowered before shooting up again nervously, but it was still at least a 9/10 split.

Easily, maybe worse.

Mankind and their 'freedoms', never truly realizing that you were either suffering under a whip, economic system, or primal need. Everyone, and everything, was a slave to something. Freedom did not exist, it was the antithesis of existence, not even the dead were 'free'. Tyr could see it all. Thoughts, money, clothes, food, wants and needs. Dominating every moment of their lives until there was nothing left, and it just kept going on and on and on. Freedom was nothing. Tyr was freedom, and they bit his hand and denied him while claiming they wanted what he offered.

“You do know.” Tyr continued, a familiar and not unfriendly gaze resting on Kael. “If you do not accept me, and I'll allow you to do that for now, I will be expelled from here by means of the treaty between Haran and Varia. As a son of Jartor I will not be welcome here after my awakening. You cannot defeat Hastur without me, there is nobody in this country who could equal me. I am asking nicely, but it will happen whether you allow me to or not. I will conquer you, preferably as gently as I can, because I have to.”

“You got lucky back in the arena with that sucker punch of yours.” Kael laughed, and some of the crowd deigned to join him in that expression of mocking joy. “Don't think that you--”

He had no chance to get his wards up in time, Tyr seemed to slip through space itself with no sign of dimensional magic being used, plucking him off the ground and by the throat. Kael drew his dagger and the other man made no move to stop it as he rained down frantic stabs onto his face. It was like stabbing sandstone, cuts were made, an eye gouged out, but Tyr didn't move. Didn't even blink, eyes open as Kael repeatedly stabbed the jellied orbs. He could feel his throat being crushed, howling internally as he tried to press against the barrier restricting his magic. Some other mages rose in their seats, finding themselves equally incapable of casting, opting to rain other attacks on Tyr.

Kael had challenged him to traditional combat, once the glove was thrown the challenge would begin. These 'people' betraying the rules of the duel in the middle of their nations seat of power...

He felt a throwing axe enchanted with electricity strike his back. A poor choice considering if defending Kael was their objective, he'd be struck by it too. Tyr moved the body fat within him into a lump to restrict it, throwing it out before it could do much more damage. They tried everything, wind, earth, fire, water, frost, light enchanted artifacts. How strange. It should be well documented that he had an almost crippling weakness to magical venom and dark magic, but nobody seemed intent to listen. They were all so confident in their strength, and darkness purists were fairly rare.

'Sure, they couldn't do it, but I'm a mage of Amistad!' What drivel that was, that was exactly why humanity, as Lernin had once said, was so damned stagnant. It disgusted Tyr.

“Submit.” Tyr commanded, doing what he'd sworn never to do, breaking an oath as the spira laced his voice with the power of his aspect. Dominion, faith, bladed shackles over the heart. “Submit.” He repeated, hand still crushing Kael's throat. He could feel the pops and grinding of cartilage, but Kael had that look of defiance in him. An incredibly impressive resistance to Tyr's attempted domination, leaving the latter visibly relieved that it wasn't so universal as he'd thought. Man could always struggle, that was their gift. To try, even if they'd eventually fail.

“N-never...” Kael croaked, and Tyr nodded with a sad smile.

“Even as I do this, I am happy you did not.”

Drawing his sword and thrusting it into the man's--

“I think that's enough, young one.” A familiar voice came from behind Kael, Aska was stopped an inch from the man's jugular by the reddish skin of a single finger. Impossibly resisting the razor sharp edge of the blade and pushing down on Tyr with a domination of his own. A lesser man might have felt fear, a shaking of the knees, a stone in the gut. But all Tyr felt was relief, again, he did not want to kill Kael. Kael Emberwind was the hero Aurelius should have been, though without the title and god given might. An irritating and slothful man, but clearly one with convictions. The cream of the crop, as soiled as that cream was with all the selfishness his race was capable of.

Abaddon blew Tyr away through no apparent movement, sending him spiraling through the air and shooting clean through the rear wall of the council chamber and many hundreds of yards beyond. With him went his followers, his wives and friends. Thought not by force. The blow was to serve as a lesson, his were a kind bound to hierarchy, and he was above all men. Large or small, even a saint was a poor opponent to a spirakin so ancient as he.

“Raise your hands if you oppose my blessing of this coronation.” Abaddon addressed the crowd, ensuring that Kael was alive and well despite his pulverized larynx. There were no hands raised in the chamber. Not anymore. “And so it is done. Long live the king.”