Laughter-fueled ramblings of Darko’s cell neighbor echoed throughout the temple’s not-so-refined basement. The woman was a distinguished fellow with lush golden hair and bright blue eyes. A noble, no doubt. Few of her words were decipherable, and none seemed to have intelligent thoughts behind them. She stared wide-eyed at Darko’s hunched-over figure as she munched on her robe’s collar like a hound chewing its bone.

The Corruption’s work, Darko presumed. Whatever sadness the woman had lived through within the last few weeks, her glory days were over. It seemed she would have to suffer for a little longer. The cells were void spaces; so long as the disruptor device stayed active, no mana nor vigor could escape from a user’s body.

Funny place, Darko thought.

No, that wasn’t his name anymore. The Wyvern Slayer’s days, too, were over.

Darryl Blythe. That was who he was. A second child whose responsibilities lay nowhere except to take care of the elderly who raised him. Nobody asked him to train the sword, and the village outright begged him not to attempt to avenge his mother.

“Every man thinks they own the world when they first touch vigor,” Grandmother had said. The words rang eerily true. Darko had been far too arrogant with this quest. Rigrith and Jordan were both leagues stronger than his entire team combined. What about the Founder himself? Darko would never reach the skill to duel his target.

His days were over. And with failures like these, with the tremendous debt stacked over his shoulders, he doubted he would ever dare rise again.

They’d all be dead if Cillian wasn’t a lying genius. Darko had utterly failed to keep the one promise he had made. To keep the kid safe.

Still, Darko could consider himself lucky. Shena and Remy were alive and out of the city, back to their own lives. Remy’s crime of teaching Cillian had been overlooked. And Cillian himself… Hopefully he would wake up. Darko had done all he could.

Footsteps accompanied the clinging of keys at the end of the hallway. The guards were back. Darko stood preemptively, keeping the respectful air around him. He wouldn’t want to get petty with his caretakers, not yet at least.

“Is he alive?” Darko asked when the guards’ faces came into sight. Four of them approached, three equipped with basic glyphswords and one with a staff.

“Your stay has changed,” the burly head warden said. He opened the cell, and the guards immediately took Darko by the pulley chain on his shackles.

“What’s happening?” Darko asked.

“The King wants to meet you,” the guard said. He appeared as confused as Darko. His words came with hesitation. “His Majesty has granted your audience. You will have an opportunity to explain your plan in detail.”

“What?” Darko gushed. “No, no, this has to be a mistake. My plan is ruined.”

“I don’t know what this is about,” the guard said. “I am reciting what was told. I do know, however, that your damned mage is up and walking, and is asking for you to be brought for the audience.”

***

The shackled figure of our red-haired leader was dragged into the throne room by chains. His hair was somehow disheveled even further than usual, and his black suit had been replaced with a monotone gray shirt and trousers, no boots, and certainly no adventurers’ harnesses.

He spotted me and the girls, and something within his brain appeared to malfunction. This was not the face of the leader I knew. Rather, Darko looked like a once smug drug lord who had been beaten up a few too many times on his way to court.

This wasn’t good. Darko couldn’t have looked more guilty. He had already given up.

“You have had your wish, outsider,” King Xastur said. “Speak.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” I said with a small bow. “I wish to remind everyone of the purpose of this audience. We hope to reveal our leader’s plan, and for everyone involved in the cultist hunt to acknowledge his ideas and our efforts. This includes all of our knowledge regarding Jordan Feryah.”

“Get on with it,” the King said.

This was the point of the plan where I had hoped for my portion to end. Darko was in the room, and he had an opportunity to take things from here. In all honesty, I had no idea what I was doing. The sooner Darko spoke to reveal his plan, the better.

If he had a plan at all.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“There is something I wish to show you, Your Majesty,” I said, sensing I would have to speak some more. “A special urn to reveal our achievements.”

“The urn of the undead,” the King said. “I am aware of your abomination. It’s bold of you to suggest the use of black magic in a royal operation.”

Black magic? What the hell? Nobody told me about this.

I glanced at Remy. This was our signal for her to help, to answer when I didn’t have a clue as to what to say.

Remy opened her mouth, but no words came. She had nothing to say either.

Goddammit, Darko’s plan was terrible. This whole operation was a mess. What was our leader doing!

“Your Majesty,” Shena said, lowering her head. “Necromancy, as research shows, has no correlation to black magic. The undead soldiers are impure beings. However, drawing them into life is a pure art, the same as any natural magic.”

Thank you, I thought, relief washing over me.

The King didn’t look as impressed. “Never once in my life have I been addressed so arrogantly by an escapee. Ordinarily, I would not waste time entertaining a second more of your arguments. But fifteen minutes is what I promised. Tell me, adventurer, why would I ever consider necromancy an essential part of defeating a cult of black magicians.”

“Forgive my bluntness,” Shena said. “Our timespan does not allow me to dance around my words, pretending to be classier than I am. Truth is, you lack an army. Azetoth’s cult numbers are well into the tens of thousands. Numbers that the royalty cannot match during the war. Undead soldiers will be a fine replacement for an army.”

“A wise idea,” the King said. “And ultimately useless. Fighting lesser cultists is a waste of time. In these little conflicts, what truly matters is the location of organizers. Cult leaders. Archpriests. Once every cult official is defeated, small-time cultists will dwindle out, back into their usual lives of crime.”

“Correct,” Shena said. “Which is why an army is important to distract the cultists’ goons and grubbies while their leaders are assassinated during the chaos.”

The King looked as if he wished to sigh. He turned to me. “I fail to see myself impressed. Tell me, how does your group plan to capture the kidnapper of my daughter?”

I took a discreet but deep breath through my nose. This was not going well at all. The King made our plan sound like child’s play, and the royal guests weren’t any more engaged than him. Daphine Belyris stood near her peers without a hint of concern on her face. A bad sign, considering she was our rival in the dispute. Prince Vitek, the second man we were trying to convince, looked at our leader with disappointed eyes.

Darko watched from the sidelines, shackles held tight by multiple guards. His expression was serious and unchanging. There were thoughts behind his eyes; I knew. This was undoubtedly the same man. Yet, he made no effort to help. It was as if he didn’t want us to succeed. He refused to look in my direction.

Our leader’s inattentiveness was a choice. He was purposefully quiet.

He accepted defeat, I thought. That fucking idiot, he has given up. He wants to send us home!

“Very well,” I answered, confidence wavering. “As I mentioned, our party fought a cultist attack force yesterday evening. This squabble caused us to miss yesterday’s audience, and also nearly sent me to my death. The cultist attack force was led by First Archpriest Rigrith and Jordan Feryah.”

The King’s silence indicated for me to continue.

“I fought Jordan,” I said. “At the watchtower by the edge of town, as witnesses know. Jordan had me trapped until I sacrificed myself by shooting a fireball at our feet, collapsing the tower. I am uncertain if my attack connected.”

The King scowled. “His body was not found.”

“I guarantee he will be back,” I said. “As long as I am nearby, Jordan Feryah is too. He needs me. For some screwed up experiment. As long as I am used as bait, Jordan Feryah will come to us. This is how we plan to capture him. By setting a trap with myself as the prize.”

The King studied me. For an unnervingly long time, throwing me into the type of nerve-wracking pause that confused every part of my brain, as if my nerves were preparing for a literal punch.

“If you are the bait we require,” the King asked, “what need is there to bring your criminal excuse of a team along?”

The punch came. I had no defense. Remy stood stiff, clearly uncomfortable. Both girls looked at me, hoping I had something to say. I had convinced them this would work.

And I had nothing. The plan had failed. I couldn’t convince the King of anything.

I had one last desperation plan.

“Darko!” I called, turning my look from the King to the man I hoped to call leader. “You promised to reveal your secrets. You have brewed plans so important not even your team was allowed to know them. Isn’t now time you snap out of your moping fit and reveal your damn ideas!”

The room fell into silence. I surprised myself with my volume. Odd muscles were active on my face, ones I hadn’t used in years. I’d formed a scowl. Anger. Directed at another human being.

Darko did not face my eyes.

The King roared in laughter. He slammed his fist on the throne, then continued laughing. “Oh, adventurers, you are comical. Outright mirthful. This audience reminds me of the fairy tales read to me when I was a child.” He let his laughter fall, the rest of the room staring in silence. Others were afraid to share a laugh with him. “Are we done, then? Have I entertained your request?”

I paused, lips twitching. This was it. I had no more tricks to play. We’d gotten as far as we had hoped. Darko simply didn’t wish to cooperate.

Goddammit. I just wanted some friends for this stupid adventure. Was that too much to ask?

“Your Majesty,” a new voice said. Darko, our excuse of a leader, raised his head and faced the King. “Cillan is right. I do have a plan brewed up. I wish to ask every individual in this room; how many of you remember a mage named ‘Zara Fel Blythe?’”