In the vast expanse of endless darkness, massive shapes loomed—entities where no life should exist. Yet, Buren sensed they were not dead but dormant, ancient beings that had existed for eons. He shouldn't have been there, shouldn't have witnessed this. They sensed him, and their consciousness bore down on him, their alien thoughts shredding his mind.

Buren awoke with a scream, tangled in the luxurious, sweat-soaked bedding that had wrapped around him during his thrashing—a nightly occurrence since the Malignant One's demise two weeks prior. Disoriented, he took a moment to recognize the master bedroom of his new castle in the capital. His skin prickled, and he reflexively checked for insects, a habit from countless nights spent on the forest floor. A door creaked, and his hand darted under his pillow for a dagger.

"Are you alright, sir? I thought I heard yelling."

Relaxing slightly, Buren recognized his squire, Flynn Avern, the only familiar face among the many attendants in his new residence. Flynn had remained behind during Buren's quest, handling things back home, earning his trust and gratitude.

Buren grunted, a sound Flynn had come to understand as affirmation. Crossing the room, Flynn drew back the heavy drapes, flooding the space with sunlight.

"What time is it?"

"It's time to prepare for the day's proceedings, my lord."

Buren dressed in the attire Flynn provided: a white tunic, dark trousers, and a half-cape draping over his right arm.

"I'll send in the barber."

"Do you know him?"

Flynn stroked his cleanly shaven jaw and brown hair cut short on the sides. "He's done my shave, so I'd say he knows what he is doing."

"I mean can he be trusted?"

He blinked before answering: "I haven't noticed anything suspicious. He keeps shop on the main street, has done for years."

"Fine, but stay. We have matters to discuss."

Buren watched the barber intently in the mirror. As the blade neared his throat, he tensed but gradually relaxed. Flynn stood by, waiting for him to bring up whatever matter he was supposed to discuss, but in truth Flynn was there just because Buren judged a prospective assassin would be discouraged by the presence of a capable swordsman at his back. As the barber's work progressed, the transformation was remarkable. The wild, unkempt look of a woodsman was replaced by the refined appearance of a nobleman.

After grooming, Buren changed into a regal purple doublet and new half-cape. They ate a quick meal of bread and ham before heading to the courtyard where their carriage awaited. As they traveled, Buren observed the pedestrians through a gap in the blinds—families in tattered clothes begging on the streets with accents that marked them as refugees from afar.

"So many displaced by the war," Flynn noted. "I thought they'd return home after the dark army's defeat."

"Their lands remain poisoned. The crops are deadly," Buren replied. "For now, they're trapped here, living off scraps."

"The food stockpiles won't last here either. They need to go somewhere."

Buren didn't answer. The kid was right, but as it stood there was no place to send them, apart from as settlers to distant lands, as the lands had been divided and jealously guarded by their titular owners. Until a solution was found, they would continue to occupy the streets in their makeshift tents, begging, stealing and prostituting for the morsels that hardly dampened their hunger.

Upon reaching the cathedral, guards, who had cordoned off the streets, checked their credentials. Buren simply revealed his right arm. The once-glorious façade of the cathedral was scarred, statues of old gods toppled and replaced by banners of the Faith.

As they ascended the steps, Buren murmured, "They couldn't even grant him the funeral he would have wanted."

Flynn whispered back, "Duriel aims to portray King Devon as a secret follower of the Faith. It legitimizes his own concessions."

Buren offered a wry smile. "Careful. Talk like that can get you killed around here."

They walked past rows of pews filled with mourners. Among them were peasants and vagrants, a sight previously unheard of at a royal funeral. But the world was in flux. Ignoring the murmurs and sidelong glances, Buren and Flynn settled into their designated seats at the front. Where the Sacred Tree once stood, bathed in the iridescent glow of the mosaic clerestory windows, a rough-hewn stone statue had replaced it, depicting the Faith's symbol: a burning raised fist. Beneath it, an opulent casket shimmered, its intricate gilded carvings reflecting the soft glow of surrounding candles.

Buren, not particularly devout, felt a twinge of sorrow for the discarded symbols of old. The ancient tree, a symbol of tranquility that had stood for a thousand years, had been supplanted by a stark emblem of anger, a natural wonder replaced by something made by human hands. He found himself yearning for quieter days at his estate.

The sonorous peal of steel pillars, large hollow metal tubes struck with a rod, echoed through the cathedral, marking the ceremony's commencement. The High Reverend, with his attendants in tow, emerged from behind a luxurious drapery.

"Friends," he began, his voice resonating throughout the cathedral, "we gather today to honor King Devon, who sacrificed his life in the Grey Battle to protect these lands from the Malignant One. His bravery will be remembered for eternity."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing, "Yet, in his battle against darkness, he allied with another dark force, equally vile. His desperate choices birthed a treaty that will haunt us for generations. History has shown us the consequences of such choices. Just as the Flood once consumed our lands up to mountaintops, human frailty gave rise to Daemons and Dryads, plaguing us ever since."

Whispers of discontent spread, punctuated by louder shouts. Buren suspected these agitators had been planted to stir the crowd.

The show went on, all according to the script. The Reverend, playing along, raised his arms, "Do not despise the man; he was as human as any of us. Direct your anger towards those who misled him, those who exploit the weaknesses they have cursed us with: the forest witches, the Dryads, and the mages who heed the daemons' whispers, sacrificing our young. Love your kin, and therefore show no mercy to those who threaten them!"

Applause and cheers filled the cathedral, but Buren and Flynn remained silent, their hands still.

"They're not even trying to hide their power play behind this façade of mourning," Flynn whispered.

Buren grunted in agreement. "With their growing support, they don't need to."

The Reverend continued, "Now, representing all who mourn our late king, I present King Duriel."

A figure, draped in a heavy ermine cloak and crowned, rose from the front pew and approached the Reverend. Buren had previously met him during tense negotiations. The new king, noticeably shorter and more rotund than his predecessor, had not matured into his role. His dark hair fell listlessly, framing a face dominated by darting, bulbous eyes. Yet, those eyes held a cunning that Buren couldn't ignore, especially given the suspicious circumstances surrounding the deaths of Duriel's half-brothers that had preceded him to the throne. Duriel's attire was ostentatious, every visible inch adorned with gold and jewels, a display of extravagance that bordered on the inappropriate.

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

"Citizens," Duriel began, his voice mimicking the refined tones of the aristocracy, "my father sacrificed himself for all of you. I wish I could've been in his stead. When the undead threatened our ranks, it was his leadership and sacrifice that repelled them. He saved countless lives that day. Yet, I know he'd be disheartened by our current plight, with many homeless and the devils celebrating this so-called Treaty. I vow to work tirelessly until justice is served. To our hero, King Devon!"

He lifted his ornate goblet, taking a sip amidst roaring approval, then returned to his seat. The ceremony continued with hymns and more impassioned sermons from the Reverend. As it neared its conclusion, the pallbearers were summoned. It had been decreed beforehand that the bearers would be the King's family, closest advisors and important generals and those who had importantly contributed to the war effort. Buren, having played a significant role in the war and wishing to honor the late king, stepped forward. He positioned himself and gripped the casket's handle.

Suddenly, King Duriel interjected, clutching his stomach, "Ah, I don't feel too well."

An advisor whom Buren had seen always shadowing King Duriel, like a dog, chimed in immediately after the king's complaint. "I hurt my back yesterday. I doubt I can assist with the casket either."

King Duriel, feigning discomfort but with a cunning glint in his eyes, addressed Buren, "With two men down, you won't manage this casket's weight. Bearer of the Gauntlet, you must use your other arm to balance."

Buren's brow furrowed in irritation. "There are plenty of men around. Just call someone else."

The advisor snapped, voice dripping with condescension, "You will address his Highness appropriately, understood?"

Duriel, smirking, added, "Only these men were deemed worthy to carry the king to his rest. No substitutes. Would you dare defy a direct order from your king?"

With a scowl, Buren shifted his position, flinging back his half-cape to reveal his metallic arm. The congregation responded with a mix of hisses and boos. Undeterred, Buren, on a silent count of three, lifted the casket alongside the remaining men, bearing the weight intended for three. They began their solemn march towards the exit.

The reverend's voice rang out, "Take heed, my friends. This is the fate of those who dabble in dark arts: they will bear you to your grave."

The crowd's sneers and jeers followed them out of the cathedral.

After the King's interment in the family mausoleum—a ceremony filled with both genuine and feigned respect—the attendees dispersed. The commoners scattered, while the more distinguished guests headed to the sports arena for a tournament in honor of the late king. The grounds were abuzz with guests, wine glasses in hand, plates filled with meats, fruits and pastries, as they mingled, seeking favor from those close to King Duriel. Despite Buren's status and special position granted by King Devon, he found himself largely avoided, left to converse only with Flynn, who was now assisting him with his armor for the upcoming joust.

Flynn tightened the straps on Buren's chest plate, remarking, "I'm somewhat surprised you agreed to participate, sir."

Buren sighed, "They insisted it would honor King Devon to have a so-called 'hero' display his talents. That's the sole reason I'm here."

"You had a close bond with him?"

"I only knew him briefly, but that was enough. It's hard to fathom that a man like Devon could sire a son like Duriel."

"I heard he sired all manner of offspring, but I guess the rest are either dead, or hiding," Flynn said as he secured a buckler to Buren's left forearm. "I wish I'd had the chance to meet him. Do you still remember how to wield a lance?"

"Well enough, considering," Buren replied. "I think this arm of mine knows how to handle most things better than I ever could. Win or lose, once my part is over, we're leaving."

Flynn's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Leaving? But there's dancing scheduled for the evening. They even said squires and chambermaids can join in, after the nobles have had their fill."

"You can dance at the castle if it's that important to you."

Flynn rolled his eyes, "It's not about the dancing, sir. It's about the... well, the inebriated chambermaids."

Buren raised an eyebrow, but his tone was firm. "We're leaving, Flynn. That's an order. It's for the best, and in time, you'll understand."

Flynn's face clouded with frustration, but he held his tongue.

As Buren adjusted the final piece of his armor, the helmet, he mused to himself, "I doubt he would believe me about the danger we face, realize its full scope, even if I told him."

As if on cue, the distant sound of a trumpet signaled for everyone to take their seats and for the lancers to assume their positions.

Emerging from the tent, Buren was momentarily blinded by the afternoon sun. He squinted, noting the disadvantage of the sun's position as he tried to make out his opponent, whose back was conveniently to the light. Mounting his horse, a sturdy brown steed, he accepted the lance from an unfamiliar servant. The weapon felt surprisingly light, though Buren attributed that to the fact that the last time he'd held a lance, he'd done so with a flesh-and-blood arm.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" the announcer's voice boomed from a raised platform, "Tonight, for your entertainment and in honor of our king, two formidable warriors will face off in a jousting duel. Introducing Marquis Buren of Coldwood, bearer of the Gauntlet of the Ancients, and his challenger, the people's hero and champion of the Faith, Knight Commander of Penance, Traum!"

Buren couldn't help but think, "Everywhere I go, the Reverend's lackeys seem to follow. And this one is the worst of the lot."

All eyes turned to the King, who, basking in the attention, gave a flamboyant wave of his napkin. Another trumpet blare echoed, and the duel began. The ground vibrated with the thunder of hooves as the two riders charged. Buren aimed his lance at Traum's shield, not wanting to cause serious harm. But Traum had other plans. At the last moment, he shifted his lance, aiming directly for Buren's chest. Buren managed a last-second deflection with his shield, but the force of the blow sent him reeling and his shield went spinning across the air. His lance split in half the moment it hit the Knight's shield. The other man's lance grazed his side, causing pain even through his armor. Struggling to maintain balance, Buren flailed momentarily before gripping the horse's mane.

As his horse slowed, Buren turned to face Traum, assessing the situation. The crowd, initially shocked by the impact, now laughed and jeered. The announcer's voice, dripping with sarcasm, suggested Buren invest in better gear.

Flynn, concern evident on his face, sprinted to Buren's side. "Sir, are you alright?" he panted.

"I'll live," Buren growled, his voice tinged with pain.

Flynn shook his head in disbelief. "I've never seen such rotten luck in my life."

Buren glanced at the remnants of his equipment. "Luck? This wasn't about luck," he retorted, discarding the remnants of the buckler's straps around his arm and examining the broken lance. Both were clearly sabotaged: the lance was hollowed and fragile, meant to shatter upon impact, and the shield was so poorly constructed it couldn't withstand a genuine strike.

"I can get you another shield and lance," Flynn offered.

Buren shook his head. "They'd be just as 'unlucky' as these." He guided his horse to the starting position, signaling his readiness.

The announcer's voice dripped with mockery. "Ooh, the hero of the Iron Hand seems to have misplaced something. But no matter, let's see how he fares without his matchstick against the lance!"

King Duriel, clearly enjoying the spectacle, waved his napkin, signaling the start. Buren discarded his useless wooden lance, earning more jeers from the crowd and the announcer. He knew that even a proper shield wouldn't have protected him against the knight's lance, which seemed to have been reinforced with steel, a far cry from the blunted tips used in traditional tournaments.

As the distance between them closed, the knight aimed his lance directly at a vulnerable joint in Buren's armor, seeming eager to run him through, Buren, however, was prepared. With his metal arm outstretched, he grabbed the horn of his saddle with his left hand, bracing for the impact. At the last possible moment, he snatched the incoming lance, twisting it downwards and using its momentum to unseat the knight. The man was launched into the air, landing with a resounding crash that drew gasps from the audience.

Dismounting, Buren approached his fallen opponent, only to see him scramble to his feet, brandishing a dagger. Buren calmly removed and dropped his helmet, meeting the knight's gaze. "Walk away. This won't end well for you."

The knight remained silent, his face obscured by a helmet designed to resemble a tearful visage, exaggerated like a theater mask, as was the style of the Knights of Penance. His eyes, however, blazed with fury. Without warning, he lunged at Buren, blade aimed for the face.

With a swift motion, Buren's metal arm swung with inhuman strength and grace, easily slapping the weapon away. He then gripped the knight's helmet, his metal fingers reaching almost to touch at the back, holding him at the arm's unusual length, so he could just ineffectually flail at the limb, not causing any damage.

"Damned fiend," the knight snarled, not giving up. "Harlot of the daemons."

Buren squeezed and the helmet crumpled as in a vice, and the knight's insults turned to a howl of pain and horror. Releasing his grip, the knight crumpled to the ground, struggling to remove the now-deformed helmet. His attendants rushed to his aid and undid the straps under his chin, pulling with all the might they dared to free him of the metal bind, but to no avail.

The crowd, once raucous, now watched in stunned silence. Buren, seizing the moment, addressed them. "Let this be a lesson to all of you," he declared, sweeping his arm to encompass the entire stadium. "I know who you are, what you desire. Stay out of my path, and I will stay out of yours."

With that final proclamation, Buren turned on his heel and strode out of the stadium, leaving behind a scene of shock and awe.