“Be reasonable, Tarn.” Ramad glared at Tarn incredulously across the broad council table. Tarn could barely see him over a growing pile of notes, treaties, and various tomes that surrounded the Steward. “If you and your team are going back to the dungeon, I must ask for some patience.”

Ramad sat in the center seat of the curved table, flanked on either side by a half-dozen members of the ramshackle Realm Council. The faces around him were older, influential men and women who had suffered under the weight of Lurim. Military, economic, religious leaders – experienced politicians all.

But in the ashes of the Old Bastard, only Ramad had shown the skill to hold it all together. As Lurim’s right administrative hand, he had known how to keep everything running smoothly without the Arch Mage to hold it together.

Ramad was a good man at heart, and to Tarn one of the few positive things to happen to the Realm since Lurim’s fall was watching the leadership vacuum coalescing around him. The others who aspired to power were older and savvier, but they also had more to lose.

Ramad led with his bravery, his willingness to put himself in center of the fire. In his own way, he reminded Tarn of himself. Ramad fought on a different battlefield, but used some of the same tactics. Now those tactics were directed against him.

Every eye was upon Tarn, but he knew it was only Ramad’s opinion who mattered.

“It was never a question of if we were going back to the dungeon, Ramad.” Tarn stared back at the group. “You know that. And between the attack on the docks and the theft of the key, it’s no longer a question of when either. We’re leaving now. Tonight.”

He knew what Ramad would say. It had been the same argument for three months now, one that strained the friendship and trust they were slowly building. Two people who wanted the same thing for the people but had wildly different ideas of how to get there.

“What about those of us who need you here, Tarn?”

A hundred debates, all framed around the same question. Tarn had a power given to him by the Sword Dungeon, the gems making him arguably the most powerful man in the Realm following the loss of Lurim. In Ramad’s eyes, that obligated Tarn to stay in the capitol. To use that power to solve the big problems, including shoring up Ramad’s own tenuous hold on leadership.

“Ramad, dear. What truly do we need Arisfal for?” The middle-aged woman directly to Ramad’s left raised one thin, gray eyebrow in Tarn’s direction. Satine Gorford was every bit the oily cog her brother the Prison Warden had been but was far more politically shrewd.

“I mean,” she continued, her tone one of false praise. “Thanks to Mister Arisfal’s expert training, we have nearly a dozen… gem-touched I think they are called? Not affiliated with his group of ex-convicts and ruffians, but rather that answer to this council.”

Tarn laughed derisively, making no attempt to disguise it. The gem-touched were intended to deal with the still-bombs and the possible Progenitor invasion. They were a shield to protect the people, but he knew they could just as easily become a noble’s blade. A weapon for one influence addict to use against another.

“I mean no disrespect, my dear child.” She smiled far too broadly, contempt dripping from her words. “Why, Tarn Arisfal has done the Realm great services, a true hero. He rid us of Lurim, and gave us the tools to stand against these still creatures. If he wants to go explore caves and help his winged girlfriend, hasn’t he earned that?”

Tarn grinned back at the head of the Merchant’s Guild, making the effort to make sure his smile appeared just as insincere. He had barely heard of Satine Gorford before being sentenced into Baltoro Prison. Yet once Lurim was out of the picture, she quickly emerged as a leading voice among the wealthy elite that once benefited from the Arch Mage’s whims.

Her brother had been part of that elite as well, but he mysteriously dropped out of sight not a week after Tarn’s return from the dungeon.

“Still, there is the matter of security to consider.” General Tromal spoke up from Ramad’s right, the gleam of his armor reflecting the torchlights around them. “The Sword Dungeon is closed. Reopening it may have unintended consequences. What will you let out, Arisfal? Our forces are spread too thin as it is to deal with yet another threat.”

“They’re not spread too thin, General. Not anymore,” Tarn said, pointing out towards the harbor. “You don’t have to defend against an orc invasion that is clearly not coming.”

“We don’t know that.” Tromal slapped his hand against the table. “These orcs could be lying. This could be a preliminary tactic, an opening move to lower our defenses. Those of used to living under Lurim have learned to expect deception.”

“No one in this room needs a lecture about Arch Mage Lurim.” Ramad favored the General with a glare. “Least of all me. But I agree with Tarn. The orcs have been invading annually for more than a century, with no change in tactic. There is no reason to suspect they would alter strategies now.”

“Perhaps,” the General muttered. “Orcs are not known for their subtlety I’ll grant you. But what about the dungeon itself? Going in there might bring more of these … still-spawn?”

“Tarn, about the Sword.” Ramad turned back. “Are you certain opening it is safe? Can anything follow you out?”

“It’s a one-way key, Ramad.” Tarn nodded. “That’s how Lash designed it. Remember, we went in there to help the Realm. No one on my team wants to make things out here worse. We go in, the door closes behind us.”

“And the second key?” Ramad took a long draw from his flask. “Assuming this Yarex can construct it. Do you have Lash’s assurance it works the same way?”

“Are we trusting the word of gremlins now?” Tromal’s bushy raised eyebrows reminded Tarn of Rykin. “Gremlins of all things?”

“I trust Tarn – and his team.” Ramad said firmly. “The gremlin included. They took down Lurim after all, as well as prevented the Progenitor invasion. Tarn, what I don’t understand is what you hope to accomplish, beyond returning the Kithikin to her home.”

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Standing up, Tarn pointed at the lone window in the room, a small stone portcullis that faced the harbor. The clean smell of salt air wafted in, carrying the sound of gulls and lapping waves. Aside from the lone orc vessel tied to the pier, the sea was empty.

“The fog has lifted, General. You can see for miles out into the ocean. There’s not a single ship out there, except the one that brought in wounded orcs. You know, the ship moored up with a moon-damned Progenitor head on the deck? That’s your threat - the Progenitors! They’re what you need to worry about!”

He found himself standing before the group, arms raised in frustration. He was hardly aware he had moved forward to address the council, surprised by the passion rising like a fire within him. He hadn’t worked hard to save these people, but rather the thousands who lived outside of the walls of warmth and wealth. The poor, the lost, the orphans like him.

That their fate might come down to the decisions of a few stuffy nobles sitting at some table, it was no better than Lurim. He would not allow it.

He kept his eyes centered on Ramad, the man who would have to hold the Realm together without him.

“I am not here for a discussion, Ramad. I don’t need your permission. I am going. My team and I are returning to the Dungeon, because that’s where I think our answers to all this are going to be. Yes, Isca also needs to go there, and yeah this Yarex guy seems to be headed there as well. All the more reason to get there before he does.”

Ramad watched him, eyes focused and listening. It was something Tarn admired about man. He never made up his mind and just refused to hear a new idea. It served him well.

For Satine, this was just an obvious opportunity, a change to remove a rival from play. The General stroked his mustache thoughtfully, trying to navigate the battle and find the real foe.

“The Progenitors are in Ak-Thanon right now.” Tarn continued. “That has to be where the still-bombs are coming from. Softening us up. They’ve taken the orcs, and they will be headed here next. You can wait here and prepare for them, in fact I think you should. But I’m doing you no good, Ramad. This is your fight, your arena. I need to be in the dungeon, where I can be useful.”

Where things make sense.

“Bravo!” Satine clapped her hands, grinning from ear to ear. “Taking the fight to them and all, I think it’s a marvelous strategy! To say nothing of romantically heroic! And as our brave liberator has already said, his mind is made up. Ramad, do you intend to bar him? If not – I move we proceed to other business. Like the crisis these refugees may present.”

Ramad favored Satine with an expression so sour Urthin would have been envious. The sight filled Tarn with confidence in the young Steward. Whatever Satine was planning, Ramad had spent too much time with Lurim to be caught off guard.

“So be it.” Trammel closed the ledger before him. “As the Guild Mistress says, we have neither authority nor means to prevent Mister Arisfal from his chosen path. As to the orcs, let us discuss that after the meal. I have waited too long as it is.”

The old General stood, only now showing the broad girth that had been hidden by the table. Squeezing himself in the space allowed by his chair, he waddled past Tarn with a respectful nod.

Satine also rose, and was immediately approached by three well-dressed attendants. One brought her a goblet, while a second whispered some seemingly critical gossip in her ear. The third man gathered the papers the Guild Mistress had left scattered upon the table, chasing after the retinue as they vanished into the darkened hallway.

Once the room was clear, Ramad leaned his chair back against the wall. Placing his boots upon the table, he let out a long, exhausted sigh. Tarn waited a moment, then took the chair opposite the Steward, propping his own feet on the table as well.

They had first met in the very room, a week after Tarn returned from the dungeon. Ramad had sent for Tarn, asking for his help. Seated where Lurim had once ruled, they had drank and mocked the Old Bastard. They played King’s Squares, swapped stories of battles, and argued about the fate of the Realm. In the end, Ramad had won Tarn’s trust and admiration, just through his simple decency.

The last good man in the Spire, Urthin called him. Now Tarn was going to leave him with the wolves.

“So, Tarn?” Ramad showed a grin filled with wry exhaustion, one he only reserved for when the council was gone When the wine was replaced with ale, and posturing politics gave way to honesty. “Doesn’t bother you that Satine endorses your plan, where I do not?”

“She doesn’t believe in what I’m doing, and she doesn’t care about any of this. She just wants me out of the way so she can make a play for your seat. You see that right?”

“On days like today, she’s welcome to it!” Ramad removed his feet from the table, sitting up and massaging his temples. “And with you ‘out of the way’ it will be my problem to solve alone.”

Ouch. Ramad knew where to hit, that was for sure.

“Look, Ramad-“

“-and I will handle it, Tarn. Like it or not, this is the battle Lurim trained me for. Satine is cunning, but she’s hardly subtle. I can manage, and I can see this is important to you. Go fight your fight. Just try not to get killed.”

Tarn stood up, feeling the gratitude welling within him. He didn’t need Ramad’s permission, but there it was all the same. He turned to leave, then stopped.

“We’re fighting for the same things Ramad, you know? The people of the Realm. Not these rich and powerful assholes, the real people. People from the places you and I came from.”

“Perhaps.” Ramad looked up from his hands, the stress of his concerns written across his bloodshot eyes, his gaunt cheeks. He ran his hands through his hair once, then stood.

Walking past Tarn, he headed for the same hallway Satine and Trommel had disappeared into, leading to one of Lurim’s many banquet halls. Tarn and his team had once raced through these halls, on a quest to save his sister and the Realm from the Arch Mage’s control.

Now both were gone, but Realm hardly felt saved.

“One more thing, Tarn.” Ramad stopped in the archway, turning back. “And I say this as a friend. I will not erase the help you’ve given me in the past three months. The lives you’ve saved. But consider this: since the moment you walked out of the Sword you have searched for a way back into the dungeon. Maybe you should ask yourself if this ‘fight’ is the reason you are going back, or the excuse?”

Not waiting for an answer, he turned and disappeared into the shadows.

Tarn stood in the chamber for a moment, surrounded by the silence and the relics of the Arch Mage’s past. The Spire had once been a place where the Old Bastard looked to use the people of the Realm like fuel for his avarice and ego, now Ramad tried to steer their people in a better direction.

His left hand fell upon the gem in his chest, his fingers dancing across the hard surface underneath the cloth of his shirt.

Tarn had made the realm a better place, as much as anyone. Maybe it hadn’t been his intent, but he was proud of the results. Even now, his desire to go back into the Sword Dungeon was about protecting the people, about doing good.

Wasn’t it?

Hearing the scrape of a boot behind him, Tarn whirled. He expected to see Ramad returning to debate some more, or perhaps Urthin with an update. Instead he found himself face to face with the broad green form of Narsol, the orc captain of the refugee ship.

Narsol had discarded his naval uniform, and now wore the scarred leather armor of a warrior in the Chieftain’s Elite Guard. A hole had been cut from the center of the tunic, where a golden dungeon gem now shone brightly in the dim light of the chamber.

“I understand you are going into the Sword Dungeon.” His voice was stronger than earlier is it echoed around the empty room, his voice more filled with purpose. He supposed Narsol might have been eavesdropping in the hallway, but he could have just as easily heard it from one of Satine’s attendants gossiping. Secrets didn’t stay secret long in the Spire.

“That’s right.” Tarn nodded. “We’re leaving tonight, to find out more about what the Progenitors are doing in Ak-Thanon.” Tarn paused. “Among other things.”

“Excellent.” Narsol folded his arms, his eyes taking on a look of steel. “Then I shall be coming with you.”