It wasn’t supposed to have gone like this. Prince Ceril was certain it was not supposed to have gone like this.

He’d seen it clearly. A Hero’s Return. Yes. That was always his fate, wasn’t it? Why else would he have been so cruelly cast aside, so wrongly overlooked? Sent so coldly into exile in the most backwater region of the entire Kingdom, and by his own Father no less?

And why? Because of some quibble? Some harmless prank against the Thirteenth Prince? Surely, there were those who might observe that brothers should treat one another kindly, and that the Thirteenth Prince was only six. But where were those clucking hand-wringers when Prince Ceril was even younger than six, and Prince Ceril was being ‘pranked’ by his older brothers?

So what, the cycle of violence was supposed to end just when it was Ceril’s turn to stop taking the violence and start giving it? That’s not how cycles work, idiots!

No, obviously he was simply being brought low so that his ascent would be all the higher. Prince Ceril knew that. He’d known that the moment he first spied those three hairless mongrels. He’d known that after they revealed their villainous nature by committing the vile sin of taking a Prince hostage. He’d even known that after they slaughtered his entire squad of Rangers.

All merely a building of suspense. Merely the System and Fate and the World weaving a masterpiece.

Admittedly, his resolve wavered somewhat as days gave way to weeks and he was still a prisoner and these kobolds were still undestroyed. It was that sneakthief Shin. The big one whose name he could never remember was strong, and a few other of the dog monsters were mildly impressive in the way monsters sometimes were, but Shin. Fucking Shin. Thought he was so smart, with his lies and his words and his threats.

But he didn’t know everything. Oh no. He didn’t know that despite being the most noble of princes from the most noble of elves, Ceril could lie, too.

And so he carefully weaved a web of his own, flawlessly thwarting the Schemer’s attempts to misuse and abuse him. It took no time at all to completely win the dumb kobolds’ trust, and even Shin the Oh-So-Smart was his best friend before the mongrel knew what was happening. And once he’d tasted the sweet wine that was Prince Friendship, there was nothing he wouldn’t do for another taste.

And so when Dummy Shin let slip his plans for a ‘Grand Alliance’, Ceril knew that his moment had come. He played his part perfectly, of course. ‘Why yes Shin, I do think the Proud Oaken Elves would agree to ally with you stinky dogs!’ ‘Why no Shin, I absolutely won’t reveal your devilry the instant you least expect it!’ A flawless plan, executed flawlessly.

Sorry, Shin. Let the knowledge that you were ever-so-briefly a Prince’s best friend comfort you as you plummet to the depths of Dog Hell.

So why, then, had the attack on the kobolds failed? Sure fine yes Ceril had forgotten about the Royal Coins; nobody’s perfect. But then Wren had made some wild accusation about Shin tricking Ceril, about some big set-up? That the kobold had played his little tune and Prince Ceril had danced right along, nothing more than a dumb puppet?

Ceril wanted to believe that was nonsense. Best friends don’t double cross each other’s double-crosses. They simply die, acknowledging both their utter trouncing and their immortal bonds of comradery with their final breath. But Shin was the worst person in the world, so the prince supposed anything was possible.

One fact was abundantly clear: Prince Ceril needed a new best friend.

Count Elmbo and Duke Margold had seemed like possible candidates at first blush. They’d held the prince at arms’ length at first, certainly, in that charming Oaken Elf sort of way. But they had been such pleasant company when Prince Ceril had made his masterstroke known. Now that things hadn’t turned out quite so nicely, though, they were back to their previous frigidity.

Well, that just meant it was time to use the Princely Charm for which Ceril was known so well. “You know, Elmbo old man,” the prince started, carelessly waving his flembas biscuit, “There are some juicy court appointments available right now. When we return to Quercus, I’d be happy to inquire after them for Margold and yourself.”

Elmbo snorted, the taller elf’s oddly plump ears wobbling with ill-humor. “Oh no, Prince Ceril. I must insist you don’t mention my name to the court.”

Ceril tittered. “Come now sir, don’t let humility get in the way of your future.”

“I am thinking of my future.” Elmbo took a joyless gulp from his wine. “I am confident that having my name linked to yours would be roughly as beneficial to me as having this wine linked with deadly poison.”

“Ha! I say, ha ha!” Ceril laughed at Elmbo’s fine wit, the other noble cringing for some unknowable reason. “Well I suppose that court life isn’t for everyone, eh old boy? I’m almost ready to agree with that sentiment myself!”

Margold huffed, the shorter elf carelessly dropping his empty wine glass to the ground. “Oh truly, Twelve? Maybe if you ask Wren nicely, he’ll take you on as his aide-de-camp.”

Ew, no. Still though…’General Prince Ceril’. Or no wait: ‘Prince General Ceril’. That had a certain panache to it. Yes, a majestic prince driven low by the jealous grasping of an indulgent court and the treacherous plots of an six year old boy, rising up from the first to the highest heights of the Ever-Growing City as the General of the–

“Trees be damned, he’s daydreaming again.” Elmbo knocked back the rest of his drink, then stood purposefully to his feet. “Alright, that’s enough of this.” He nodded towards Margold, already headed towards the pavilion exit. “Let’s collect Bittercup and get the fuck out of here. Someone paid for a Grand Gala and if she’s not around, King Glandem will have to use someone better.”

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Ceril blinked. Oh. It was time to leave? But, he was still finalizing the plan to–

Margold whistled, utterly unconcerned about whether Ceril was coming or not as he joined his colleague. “That’s a pricey ticket. Someone new, or…?”

“Nah,” Elmbo waved his hand dismissively, equally uncaring about their Ceril Status, “It’s that weirdo Dark Grist again. Must have sold an organ or something to be able to afford twenty Royal Coins.”

Holy Shit, twenty Royal Coins? Whatever that was all about, Ceril wanted to be there for that action. The two nobles winced with distaste as the prince wedged himself between them, throwing his arms around the shoulders of his two new best friends. “Well then what are we waiting for? Let’s grab her and–” Ceril stumbled when Elmbo and Margold stopped in their tracks, briefly puzzled before he realized the source of their shock.

Oh. The camp was on fire.

Oh. The camp was under attack.

Ceril’s throat went dry as he watched the mayhem unfold, strangers with axes clashing with desperate elves as figures with knives emerged from the shadows to drag the ambushed soldiers away screaming. The attackers were so caked in mud and filth and blood that they seemed more like revenants than people, nightmare creatures summoned from the minds of mortals to deliver the punishment all men know they ultimately deserve.

It was impossible to tell how many attackers there were. To Ceril’s eyes, they may as well have been infinite. And the Oaken Elves that had survived that day's battle were in no state to put up a defense. Nearly a third of them had already been cut down, the remaining few who had not already been dragged away hesitantly lowering their weapons as the wild figures demanded their surrender.

Hope flared up in Ceril’s gut. Surrender. They were taking prisoners. The prince had no idea what these savage beasts may have planned, but he did know that he’d accrued quite a bit of prisoner-experience lately. Maybe one of these insane raiders was looking for a new best friend to eventually be double crossed by?

Before Ceril could throw himself prostrate to the ground, however, one of the attackers took a step towards Elmbo and Margold and both elves began to shriek in terror. “Save us!” Elmbo squealed, quaking so hard that his fat ears smacked him in the face, “Defend us with your lives you bastards!”

Call it devotion. Call it blind obedience. Call it a poor decision made out of shock. But when Elmbo ordered them to fight, more than a few of the surrendering elves attempted to do just that. And then there were more than a few more Oaken Elves dying.

This was not how this was supposed to go, Ceril marveled, his face being shoved into the dirt by a horror who reeked of old gore. This was not how this was supposed to go at all.

——————————————————————————————————————

Wren’s left arm dangled limply at his side, a worrying numbness lancing down to his finger tips. He was battered, bruised, exhausted, and had an actual arrow sticking out of his shoulder. All he had on his side was his sword, a terrified Villager he seemed to recall had the Courtier Specialization, and a deep understanding that every fight from here on out was going to be for his life.

Bad odds. Bad position. But these strangers were burning his camp. Those were his soldiers they were trying to kill. Wren knew his duty.

The two strangers came forward as one, clearly familiar with the idea of fighting with numbers. But their movements were too straightforward, too brash. Spoke to a lack of experience in a straight on fight. That, or these two were wasting a truly spectacular bluff on a grievously wounded opponent. In that edge case, this would be a rather flattering death.

If it wasn’t, though, the night wasn’t lost yet.

The general adjusted his stance, positioning his wounded side away from his oncoming foes as he shifted the grip on his sword. Right was feinting low, then Left was coming high. Wren surged forward into Right’s phantom blow, stepping past the stranger and beyond Left’s wild swing as he repositioned himself behind both of his opponents.

Good. Not a bluff, then.

Wren’s sword darted out, Right crying out in pain as the elf’s blade came back stained red. The elf straightened, preparing to take the fight to Left, and then staggered as the third figure who had fired the arrow lept onto him from behind.

The elf roared in pain as the bastard on his back dug his fingers into his arrow wound, his sword slipping from his grip as Left abandoned the pretense of civilized fighting and tackled him full on. Then it was nothing but teeth and fists and nails, both foes savagely tearing at the parts of Wren’s body left exposed by his armor.

One of them grabbed hold of the arrow piercing Wren’s shoulder and ripped it out, the elf almost choking in agony as the cold pain in his arm exploded in a white-hot bolt of electricity. All four sets of his foes’ fingers immediately scrabbled for his open wound, single-mindedly focused on their opponent’s most glaring weakness. Wren desperately attempted to swat away their burrowing claws, wildly flailing out with his good arm.

He couldn’t drive them away from their target, but his hand did manage to find the newly freed arrow.

The back-jumper gurgled in surprise as the arrowhead plunged in and out of his throat, shooting upright as he clutched at the spurting wound. Left immediately pulled away from his assault, reaching out for his partner as Wren quickly stabbed a trio of punctures into his gut. The elf staggered to his feet, blood dripping into his eyes and his arm nearly gloved with crimson as he woozily scanned the ground for his sword.

Instead he found Right, one hand clutching the wound at her side as the other held a knife to Bittercup’s throat. “You,” the wild figure growled, “Enough from you.”

Bittercup’s eyes went wide as the blade pressed more insistently against her neck, a small whimper of fright escaping the Lady’s lips. What else was there Wren could do? He let the arrow slip from his fingers, more weary than he’d even been in his whole life as two more strangers appeared to take him in hand.

Wren was too tired to bother clinging to dignity as his captors pushed him onward, stripping his armor from his blood and sweat-drenched body as they manhandled him back into the camp. The fighting there already seemed done, bodies strewning the ground as more of the strangers corralled the surviving elves into a line and on their knees.

Execution line. Couldn’t be anything else. Wren’s exhaustion vanished as his mind began to race. He just needed to get himself as close to the start of the line as possible. If he attacked the headsman, maybe some of the other soldiers could make a break for it.

As one of the strangers stepped forward to add him to the line, however, one of his captors veered the general off into another direction. “This one’s a boss. He goes up.”

The other stranger didn’t argue, and Wren found himself and Bittercup being shunted away from the soldiers and towards the pavilion the elf had stormed out of not half an hour ago. To his deep displeasure, the two nobles and Prince Ceril had survived the attack. And here Wren was with only one arm. How was he supposed to strangle a noble with just one arm?

He’d just have to improvise when the time came. Until then he would have to contend with whoever it was they’d all been brought here to meet.

The man was the very picture of wildness, his scorn for the elegant trappings of the officer’s tent radiating off him in almost visible waves as he crouched in a coiled squat. He was dressed in an odd mish-mash of armor that Wren slowly realized must have come from a panoply of foes; at a glance, Wren recognized a pauldron of human make, a thick gut-belt in the Beastman style, and a leaf-emblazoned gorget that could have only once belonged to the Oaken Elf General Wren had been sent to replace.

The man scratched idly at the blood caking his face and wild beard as he squinted an eye at Wren. “Hmph.” He ran a hand over his shaved head, his wolf-like ears twitching. “Did this one fight?”

One of Wren’s captors raised his voice. “Three on one. Got two good.” He wobbled Bittercup, the woman going as stiff as she possibly could. “Gave up when this one was threatened.”

“Ha.” The man squinted his eye at Wren again, weighing and evaluating. “Fine then. He can go to the line with the others.”

“I think I can offer an alternate option.”

Wren’s two guards gasped as someone breezed past them, releasing their hold on the general. But he was too tired to make a break for it, or attack, or even do much of anything besides stare bleary eyed at the familiar figure who had apparently strolled straight into this horrorshow without a care in the world.

If the boss raider was surprised, he hid it remarkably well. “Of course you can, Shh. Always scheming.” The man spat. “That’s you straight down to the fucking ground.”

“It’s Shin, Higen. You need to work on that memory of yours.” The kobold glanced over his shoulder at Wren, regret clear on his face. Or, at least, Wren thought it was. The world was messily beginning to spin, and he was quite certain he was about to pass out.

At least Wren managed to keep his eyes open long enough to see Shin whirl around in a savage backhand, smashing Prince Ceril so hard across the face that a tooth went flying from the elf’s mouth. That was the closest thing to a victory Wren was going to taste today.

And you know? As Wren faded into cold blackness, he had to admit that it tasted pretty okay.