Like clockwork, the spearman was there to ward off the killing stroke. Only he’d played the support role too well. Effective, but predictable.

Gil roared, gripping the hilt of his massive blade tightly and changing direction at the last second, slamming it into the infernal’s plate. The banner lieutenant’s white eyes widened a moment before collision and he braced, lowering his arm, expertly spreading the impact between gauntlet and chest plate, the defused force still enough to send him sliding backward, one hand pressed to the ground to keep from toppling over. The spear skittered to the side, spinning off into the shadows. The infernal’s primary arm dangled uselessly.

“Going back on your terms. I should not be surprised,” Sevran observed, speaking for the first time.

“What choice did I have? Untreated steel was no longer an option. Your captain made that explicitly clear.” Gil smirked, listening as the mongrel behind him struggle to stand. As soon as he heard the man’s feet take purchase, he slammed an elbow backward, feeling a rush as hard leather impacted soft flesh. The mongrel toppled, and for the moment at least, did not get up again.

“Difficult to believe the armory did not house even one tempered, blunted blade in your preferred configuration.”

“Speaking of which, where is your captain?” King Gil said, observing the infernal’s reaction. “Up in the rafters, perhaps? Lurking on one of those tall shelves near the back?”

“He isn’t here.” The mongrel grunted. Somehow, he’d stood and moved out of reach, though from the sound of his speech and breathing, his nose was broken. “You’re wasting your time.”

“Hm?” Gil hefted his sword, giving it a casual swing. “That’s unfortunate.” He looked up, feigning sudden remembrance. “Come to think of it, you’ve both spent some time with the princess recently.”

“Alten did. My experience was limited to witnessing the chaos her illusions wrought.”

“Tougher than any kid has a right to be.” Alten confirmed as he wiped his face on his shoulder. “Let alone a princess.”

“So it seemed.” Gil agreed. “From the day Annette tore her way out of the queen, she never cried. Punishment and correction never phased her. A complete departure from my older children. At first I thought it nothing, a manifestation of winter’s blood.” He studied his blade with distaste. “It took some time to comprehend that it was not merely her sorrow that was muted. And what I had believed—perhaps hoped—to be strength was little more than masked frailty.”

Showing his experience, the infernal had guessed what he was doing, and held his silence. But the mongrel did not.

“Because she lacked a warrior’s fire?” Alten asked, his tone flat.

“No. Because she held no fire at all.” King Gil’s mouth tightened in disgust. “No matter how much knowledge she consumed and technical prowess she attained, there’s never been so much as a single drop of passion in her blood. She is a walking husk. And that has always been her way. So when I informed her of the decision, I expected little reaction, if any.” He leered into the darkness towards the back of the warehouse, where his heir was undoubtedly hiding. “Imagine my surprise when she tried so desperately to change my mind. Begged me to reconsider. Had I been at all unsure in my decision, it would have been solidified in an instant, given the way she wept when I denied her. Perhaps the queen bore an indiscretion. Such a pathetic child could never be mine.”

King Gil leaped back, sensing the projectile long before he saw it. Air compressed into the form of an arrow rocketed into the hard ground and rebound, homing towards him. The spell rebound at an angle so fortuitous it had to be intentional and Gil raised a gauntlet to shield his head, absorbing the impact effortlessly.

Sevran dashed for his spear while Alten rushed forward.

Only, Gil wasn’t concerned with Alten anymore. He spun, turning to face the figure that landed behind him, marveling at the malevolence and rage.

“If you wanted to die so badly, there are easier ways to go about it.” Cairn snarled. His mother’s eyes were gone, replaced with those of a monster’s, one iris glowing blue, the dark pupil it housed a dark slit. The same way he’d been at the gravesite. Only now it was harnessed, directed. Terrifying. The potential Gil saw in this version of his son was fathomless.

Now. How to direct it?

Gil frowned as he took a step to the left and trapped the bodyguard’s sword beneath his armpit, waited for the lull between efforts, and released, driving his elbow into the man’s forehead without giving him so much as a glance. The resulting thud of a body hitting the ground confirmed he’d struck home, and the king barely heard it.

It would be a decade of battlefield experience and dedicated physical training before Cairn had even the slightest chance of winning such a direct engagement. His magic wasn’t enough. The gulf was simply too wide. It went without question that the potential was there. If he’d had the same upbringing as Gil himself, there was a good chance Cairn might have already reached the point he wouldn’t even need the underlings to eke out a win. But his mother had coddled him. Threatened her own life and that of the child in her belly. For all his grand battles, and strategic victories, and military excellence, it was the one fight Gil had lost.

And now the son she’d tried so desperately to protect paid the price.

He spoke, still enraptured by the brutality in his son’s gaze. “Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for the good of the kingdom.”

A sword answered, singing death, arcing towards his neck. He knocked it away, appreciating that the boy had finally started focusing on more vital targets.

What he didn’t see coming was the dagger. Cairn had concealed it well until the last possible moment, flicking his wrist and bringing the lowhil weapon to a forward grip seconds before the blade made purchase. It bit into his chest plate, digging in right beneath the breastbone, and Gil smiled grimly, feeling the dagger’s tip pierce his underlying skin.

“Is that what you said to Annette? To Sera?” Cairn growled. In an insane gambit, he dropped his blade and gripped the dagger with both hands, attempting to push it further rather than disengage. Gil’s eyes widened and gripped the dagger by the blade. The edge cut into his leather-gilded fingers.

“Your sisters have always held an overly-inflated view of their own worth. The eldest made a rout inquiry far more difficult than it needed to be. And the youngest? Well. Smart as she is, she really should have seen this coming a long time ago.”

A surge of furious intent filled Gil with alarm. Every honed instinct told him an attack was coming, but from where? Cairn’s dagger was trapped. Was there another hidden blade, a spell from one of his many inscriptions? Or would it be that absurdly strong left fist again?

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What would I do?

Gil tucked his chin and leaned forward, shielding the softer target and allowing his son’s forehead to slam against his own. To Cairn’s credit, he didn’t recoil. He remained planted in place, still pushing. His soul-vitiated eye burned, a finger’s span away.

For just a moment, the king faltered. It was as if he’d spent his entire life slogging through knee-high snow, constantly on the verge of freezing to death, trudging towards some forgotten destination he’d lost all hope of ever seeing. And now, before him, there was a hearth. It was mostly ash, and what little was left of the flame burned dimly. But it was there. And he wanted to protect that flame. Nurture it, until it burned through the clouds that stretched horizon to horizon.

With all his heart.

Gil drove a knee upwards. His son finally released the dagger, cushioning the impact and scampered backwards towards his sword. He hesitated. When Gil nodded, Cairn slid his boot beneath the hilt of his weapon and kicked it up into his hands. Slowly, and far more focused than before, Gil held his blade before him. It was not an equal match. But the boy was an opponent worth taking seriously. Unfortunately, that meant once the others reentered the fray this would end. Quickly. He needed to make the best use of the time that they had left.

“If you take only one lesson from the conflict, let it be this.” Gil leveled the blade at Cairn. “You are not solely at fault for today’s failure.”

Cairn’s eyebrows furrowed. “The game is still undecided.”

“Soon, it will be.”

“If your intent is to disparage my men—”

“The fault is mine.” Gil murmured. The words stunned his son to silence. He continued, struggling to communicate what he felt. “Not long after my coronation, I pondered what would happen when the end of my reign came to pass. I knew I would expand our borders, annex weaker powers, and strengthen our holdings. That was inevitable. But I also knew that none of it mattered a single golden rod if the King that came after was too weak to hold the spoils. For the first time I could remember, I felt fear.” He stared at his son. “Everything you’ve accomplished, everything I’ve witnessed leads to one definitive conclusion: You will be strong enough. And to simply maintain the status quo, strength is all that is required.”

“Then—”

“But strength is not all there is. It is foundational, and necessary, and the gods help any king without it, but it is not the end.” Gil smiled. “I had to be strong, boy. It was my only path forward. Cunning has been my ally, but in the end, it only serves to facilitate strength. I keep whispering sycophants like Thaddeus around for a reason. Because while I am cunning, cleverness never came naturally to me. Not like you.” His smile faded. “Never lose that in your anger. A king capable of upholding both in equal measure—strength, and cleverness—would surpass me so vastly I cannot fathom the gulf.”

Understanding dawned in Cairn’s expression, followed by horror. “Annette was never in Topside. That’s why you’re saying all of this.” He looked away, mouth tight. “And now we’ve lost the initiative.”

It would be so easy to give him a second chance. His original plans were already ruined, so House Westmore would remain. They would make a fuss, but in the end, they would bend their knee, just as they always had. Thaddeus probably already had a plan for that if Gil went that route. But if he caved, the lesson would not be learned. “There must always be consequences for failure, son. But know that I take no joy—”

THUNK

King Gil keeled forward, seeing stars, an aching warmth spreading up the back of his skull. Beside him a spear bounced to the ground, pointing off to the side. The filthy fucking infernal. How dare he.

Gil spun, closing the gap at a dead sprint, wrapping his fist around the creature’s throat. A sneer split his lips as it attempted to break his grip, violet skin turning white. “Perhaps I’ve been too lenient. Just because your kind is allowed to squat in our lands, eat our food, and shelter beneath our rooftops, does not mean that allowance cannot be rescinded. Know. Your. Place.”

He bore down as the infernal struggled, shrugging off the bodyguard as the man tried to pull him off. “Stay back, mongrel.”

“My lord, please! He was just doing as the prince—”

Gil was done. Done with all these upstarts, and self-important commoners, and Demi-humans, and islanders that didn’t know their place. They’d crossed a line, and while a small voice whispered through the fog of his rage that this would only make his son hate him more, it could not be ignored.

Hands seized him from behind, attempting to loosen his grip.

“Do not interfere!” Gil spun, releasing the infernal swinging viciously at the bodyguard, fully intending to part the man’s head from his shoulders. The man stepped backward at the last moment, his expression shocked.

Because it was not the bodyguard. It was his son.

What?

No. That was wrong. It had to be wrong. He was so sure it’d been the bodyguard. But there he was, standing off to the side unharmed.

“Boy.” Gil trailed off, his jaw working furiously.

A line of red appeared across Cairn’s throat. He staggered backward, hands clutching at his neck as crimson gushed through them. The bodyguard and infernal both dashed to his side, attempting to aid.

“Keep pressure on the wound.” Sevran commanded, “We need a healer.”

Alten shook his head, doing as instructed, grimacing. “No time—”

“Where’s the diplomat?” Gil asked, still not able to comprehend what had just happened. One moment he was counseling his son and now… “Her magic will save him. Where is she?!”

“Across the damn city.” Alten grunted. “Stashed for her own safety. The prince believed she’d be targeted if she was present.”

There was so much blood. With nothing to soak into, it spread across the stone, pooling around the boy’s head. The din of battle outside swelled, becoming loud, almost unbearable.

Gil’s hands clenched into fists and turned toward the fortified door and bellowed. “STAND DOWN. EVERY FUCKING ONE OF YOU, STAND DOWN.”

Though the fighting slowed, it did not stop. That was unacceptable. They heard the command and did not obey. Gil’s face screwed up in anger, and he cracked his knuckles, preparing to emphasize the order with force.

Something caught his boot. He looked down to see his son’s bloody gauntlet, fingers wrapped around his heel. A little to the right of them were words scrawled in blood, short sentences hastily written.

acting on my orders

Sevran too

only chance we had

don’t punish them

please

As he absorbed the words, Gil felt the fight go out of him. Unsure what was taking the infernal so long, he bellowed again. “Get a healer in here now!”

But he knew how pointless it was. With that wound, an entire regiment of healers wouldn’t make a difference. His son was already dead.

There were many things he needed to do, matters to attend to. The boy had instilled real loyalty with these men, and they would not take this loss lightly. A mutinous regiment was a great threat to any monarchy, let alone one that existed within the walls of its capital city. So he needed to—

He needed to...

What, exactly?

Surely there was something he was overlooking. But even as he thought this, the fog that settled over his mind grew thicker, and he left the bodyguard behind, unbidden long strides carrying him out of the building and into the afternoon sun.

Despite knowing that this would not go unanswered, that he needed to move quickly to stamp out any embers of rebellion that resulted from this debacle before they caught, he felt the exhaustion return. The same persistent feeling of tiredness that had stemmed from his last campaign, long before his son’s disappearance on the road from the Everwood.

None of this was supposed to happen.

An indeterminate amount of time later, feet tiring from the march to nowhere, King Gil scoffed. It didn’t make sense. The boy had visions of the future so specific he could stop a plague before it happened, citing the exact ingredients. He couldn’t see everything, of course. But the gods were notoriously sloppy.

There was a small part of him that wanted to uncover which god, specifically, had failed his son, and find a way to wage a war that reached the heavens. But there was only one person to blame.

King Gil looked down at the blood on his hands.

And found it gone.