The distant crack of ceramic confirmed that Gaspard’s projectile had made impact. Whether it was on target or not, Gaspard didn’t know. Nor did he particularly care. He wasn’t in the business of precision.

Gaspard rubbed a weary shoulder and checked his bag. Only one of his improvised projectiles remained. It was probably for the best. He was beginning to overstay his welcome. Gaspard took the small ceramic container in hand and lobbed it as far as he could. It cracked through a window of the palace, and Gaspard turned to flee immediately. The noise of broken ceramic was bad enough already, a broken window would only attract more attention. Gaspard was not ready to face the horrors of the palace just yet.

Fleeing with an expertly balanced mix of speed and stealth, Gaspard withdrew from the city’s center, returning to his hiding place further out in the city. A small shack, hidden amid the crowded alleyways of the city’s poorest districts. The narrow streets were barely wide enough for Gaspard to pass through, which would hopefully dissuade large beasts from approaching the area.

Once he was hidden in the relative safety of his lair, Gaspard worked to refill his bag. He had gathered every flammable object he could get his hands on; cotton, lantern oil, dry timber, hay, and anything else he saw that seemed like it might catch a spark.

Gaspard meant to set a trap. He already had the bait, but now he needed the mechanism to strike the killing blow. He had decided on fire. A conflagration large enough to rid the city of some of its most loathsome beasts. The palace, being mostly stone, would need a little help to become the towering pyre that Gaspard intended. He was setting the stage by supplying as much tinder as he could.

Once the jar was packed to the brim, he reached for a pot of melted wax, and found it meeting his hand sooner than expected. Gaspard spun sharply on his heels, drawing his sword with his offhand. It snapped into place, ready to strike, but paused midair as Gaspard halted his spin.

“What uncivil behavior,” the madman said. “I was offering you assistance, good sir.”

Gaspard took a step back. The madman stood in place, still extending the vat of wax. The carnival garb he wore was exactly as Gaspard had last seen it, with not so much as a tear or a stain upon the white robes, nor a single crack in the porcelain mask. Gaspard had to imagine the madman had found a storage room full of such garb at some point. No one could survive for so long in this city with their flesh unscathed, much less their outfit.

The madman leaned forward, extending the container of melted wax further, and Gaspard took it from him. He did not release his grip on his sword, but he did relax slightly as he grabbed his packed jar.

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“I must say, if one were to observe the state in which we find ourselves, said observer would believe you to be the lunatic,” the madman said. “A sane man would try to bring down a castle with large boulders, not little pots of oil and hay.”

“And yet they are much easier to throw.”

Gaspard disregarded the madman’s scrutiny and put his vat of wax above a lit candle for a moment to soften it again. He melted some wax around the lid of the jar, to keep its contents from falling out as it flew. The madman tucked his hands behind his back and stepped closer to Gaspard’s collection of flammable detritus.

“Where did you even come up with such an idea?”

“I made the acquaintance of a veteran, who offered me his knowledge of war when asked,” Gaspard said. He had asked the veteran for any strategies to bring a building down. Short of assembling a trebuchet, the veteran had said, Gaspard’s best bet was fire. It had not taken much convincing to set Gaspard on the path to an inferno.

“A sensible answer,” the madman said. “Now, would it trouble the gentleman if I were to ask an insensible question?”

“It would trouble me, but you may ask regardless,” Gaspard answered.

“Why is it you wish to burn down the palace? Were I you, I would seek to claim it.”

Gaspard scoffed at the thought. He was surprised the madman had discerned his intent, but he still misunderstood. As the jars broke on impact, scattering hay and oil across the palace grounds, their flammability would offset the inflammable nature of the palace’s primarily stone construction. Gaspard needed to ensure that enough fire would catch to eradicate the palace completely, hopefully destroying everything inside. No doubt there was still a wealth of gold and valuables inside the palace that could be claimed, along with the throne itself, but Gaspard wanted none of it.

“I’ve had enough of kings for ten lifetimes,” Gaspard spat.

“A sentiment which would make you an ideal king, to many,” the madman noted. “But I digress. If not you, then perhaps I shall be king. I shall construct a crown posthaste.”

Gaspard nodded idly, double-checked the wax seal on his pot, and then launched it. Gaspard waited for the crack of the impact as the madman continued to rant.

“A mad king for a mad world shall be most appropriate, I think. If not kingship, shall I offer you a lordship? Perhaps a dukedom? Or perhaps a man of your skill with the blade shall be my captain of the guard?”

Gaspard continued to ignore the madman and his rantings, keeping his focus on the task at hand. The madman took no offense at receiving the cold shoulder.

“What is it you intend to do after, your dire mission is complete, my dear friend?”

As the madman had expected, Gaspard paused briefly. He stopped his work for some time, and the madman’s question went unanswered. He stood, and bowed to Gaspard before stepping towards the door.

“I can see that I have distressed the gentleman,” the madman said. “I shall leave you then, with my apologies and my best wishes for the success of your mission.”

The madman left as silently as he had arrived, leaving Gaspard alone again.

He did not know what came after. But as Gaspard stared at the single flickering spark of the candle, Gaspard put any doubts of the future aside. Before there could be an "after", there had to be an end. Gaspard snuffed the flame.