Technically, this story starts three years ago on Earth, though that part’s not very exciting. It involves me, beach spring break, and a shiny rock. Yes, a shiny rock. What can I say? It sparkled, I picked it up, and a semi-translucent message box popped up in front of my eyes asking if I yearned for a life of adventure.

I don’t remember the exact phrasing – did I mention there was weed and beer involved too? A lot of both? All I remember for sure is the yearn part. Because that was kind of cool.

Anyway, I didn’t stop to think how a rock could give me a pop-up box. I just reached out and touched the [Yes] button.

And bam! That was that. Goodbye Earth, hello Realm of the Eight Moons. I’d been transported from the beach and my friends to a little hovel that smelled like cat piss. Home sweet home for me – and a colony of feral cats apparently.

I don’t know how or why, or even if there is a how or why. I just know that that’s what happened, and I’ve been here ever since.

I landed here in the middle of the Great Ogre Wars, which sounds about as fun as it was, as a level zero nobody.

As close as I can describe it, the Realm of the Eight Moons is like a fantasy version of medieval Earth, full of knights and sorcery and monsters, but with a leveling system like what you’d find in video games. We’ve got skill trees and stat charts, we accumulate points, and we level up – and no one bats an eyelash about any of it.

Like old Earth, the Realm follows a pretty strict social hierarchy. So if you’re not the son of a king or a duke or whatever, you’re dirt.

I leave it to you to figure out where a level zero nobody fits in that hierarchy.

Which meant my options were limited: join the army and run off to risk life and limb in the Great Ogre Wars, or take up a life of crime and petty larceny.

Again, I’ll let you take a guess as to what I went with.

Anyway, that’s the backstory. These days, I’m a level twenty-four master thief with 99 points in Stealth, plus maxed [Deft Hands] and [Carry] perks. Which probably means nothing to you yet, but take my word for it. It’s very cool.

If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here – in the great Cathedral of Dawn, during the coronation of King Charles VIII.

When the old man kicked the bucket, Chucky boy was at the front fighting the legions of the Dark Wizard.

That’s another thing about the Realm. They love themselves some war. As soon as the Great Ogre War – presumably so called as not to be confused with the Mediocre Ogre War – ended, we had another one.

Second war, so to speak. War is to these people like breakfast to hobbits. You can never have too many, and it’s okay to sneak in a few snacks between meals. Little skirmishes, just to satisfy the appetite.

Not unlike home, in that respect.

Anyway, Prince Chucky’s been on the front lines for the past eight months, battling the undead legions. Cutting them down by the hundreds, if you believe the royal propaganda.

After King Leopold bought it, Chucky made it back as fast as he could for the coronation. Can’t have a country at war and no king.

And so here we are: Chucky boy about to get the crown, and me about to get the scepter. Although I’m the only one who knows that part.

Officially the Sacred Scepter of Divine Authority, it’s basically a giant golden stick covered in shiny shit. Expensive, shiny shit. Some of it, you can find on Earth – diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds – and some of it exists only in the Realm – ice crystals, dragon stones, and so on. It’s not just a treasure, it’s a religious artifact. Each gem carries specific divine significance, and the whole thing is supposed to imbue the carrier with an almost supernatural divine favor.

All priestly bullshit, of course. My interest is the material value, which is estimated to be worth about as much as a quarter of the city.

That little bauble is my early retirement plan.

Now normally, this thing is locked up tighter than the Epstein client list. But now, on account of Chucky’s big day, it’s here, in the Cathedral of Dawn. On a velvet pillow, on a long table. Right out in the open.

And me? I’m under that table, hiding beneath the floor length purple tablecloth – where I’ve been since last night, waiting for them to bring out my scepter.

That part already happened. There’d been a whole procession about it, along with the blessed sword and a few other artifacts of rule. There were bits about everything, as the coronation is a highly ritualized business. Lots of prayers and sacraments, big robes, and long speeches. Lots of kneeling and pledging and singing. And lots and lots of processions this way and that.

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As I’d needed to go pee since four in the morning, it probably seemed longer than it was. But nothing I could do about that but wait.

See, there’s a specific part of the ritual where the king gets anointed. A priest in a big hat opens his robe and puts oil on his chest and forehead. While this is happening, everyone has to close their eyes and bow their heads. Then, a priest in a bigger hat puts the crown on his head, the scepter in one hand, and a blessed sword in another.

That was the moment I was waiting for – when everyone’s eyes were closed, and the priests were focused on oiling up Chucky boy. That’s when I could grab the real thing, plant my highly realistic replica, and wait.

Not that I’d get to pee after that, either. Not right away. I’d still have to wait for the ceremony to wrap up, and the new king to leave the cathedral. But as everyone trailed after him, I’d be able to disappear.

My first piss as a very rich man.

I watched the ceremony through a tiny space between the sections of fabric covering the table, clutching my replica to me. The thing had cost an arm and a leg, and involved loans from a few seedy investors – the kind who would take a literal arm and leg if I defaulted.

But I wasn’t worried. Either this went according to plan and I could pay everyone as agreed, or it didn’t – and I died very unpleasantly, long before the debt collectors could get their hands on me.

Nothing to worry about.

The priest in the big hat droned on. Gods’ blessings. Divine right. Unbroken line of succession. Defend the Realm.

On it went, until finally another priest – this one, bucking all trends, and wearing no hat at all – brought out the anointing oil.

Big hat guy said, “Dearly beloved, in the sight of the spirits, bow your heads and close your eyes, and offer up our servant Prince Charles to the heavenly realms for their protection, their guidance, and their everlasting mercy. Amen.”

An echo of “Amen,” rippled through the cathedral, and everyone lowered their heads and closed their eyes.

At least, I hoped like hell everyone did. Otherwise, well, cue unpleasant death for yours truly.

Still, it was now or never. And I hadn’t done this to my bladder for no good reason. So, taking a long, deep breath, I slipped through the split in the cloth. The scepter lay on its pillow just where I anticipated it would be.

Quickly, deftly, I grabbed it, swapping the real one for the fake. Not as easy as it sounds, as both are heavy. And for all my stealth abilities, I still had the curse to worry about.

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that, didn’t I? So all those cool stealth stats? They came at a cost. Namely, a curse. Turns out, goddesses tend to get pissed if you rob them. Angry goddesses are vengeful goddesses. So while I leveled my stealth stats, every once in a while my luck randomly turns to shit. I’ll trip on my own feet, or have an irrepressible urge to sneeze, or drop something for no reason at all.

Inconvenient, but it hasn’t killed me yet. And it didn’t get me as I swapped scepters, either.

I placed the replica, and ducked back under the table. No one screamed an alarm. No one noticed at all. While big hat guy dabbed oil on Chucky boy, I straightened the tablecloth and waited.

Big hat guy finished his prayer and closed Chucky’s robes. Bigger hat guy marched forward with the crown. A giant golden crown, topped by eight golden moons and encrusted with gems. It had been my original target, but my fence and adviser talked me out of it. Easier to fake a rarely used scepter than the crown itself.

He’d been right, but part of me regretted listening anyway. Not because of the money. The scepter would set me up for a dozen lifetimes. But the bragging rights of stealing the actual crown of the Realm?

Oh well, I thought, clutching the scepter tight. You’re going to solve all my problems, baby.

For the briefest moment, I thought I felt a thrum of energy run through the thing. Then it was gone. Nah, I decided. Must have been my imagination.

Beyond the table, bigger hat guy fitted the crown to Chucky boy’s head while big hat guy droned out another prayer.

Then came the sword. Bigger hat guy drew it from a bejeweled sheath to reveal a silver blade. Chucky boy held it in one hand, while he waited for his scepter.

Despite the ridiculousness of his robes and the silly gold and silver blade, he still somehow cut an impressive figure. Tall and muscular, with a young face that had lost some of its boyishness from his time at the front – all the fronts – he looked like the warrior prince he was purported to be.

King now, I guess.

I could see him slaying undead minions and cutting down ogres by the dozen. A testament to the efficacy of propaganda, I told myself. Whatever this pampered princeling looked like, he’d grown up a king’s son. No way he was out there risking life and limb like a common peasant.

Bigger hat guy trailed over to the table. I held my breath as his golden robes paused right before the split in the tablecloth. For a heart stopping moment, I thought he might have noticed some difference between the scepters. Then, he turned again, and I let out a breath of relief as I saw the decoy in his hands.

They hadn’t noticed. In just a few minutes, King Chucky boy would leave the cathedral, his little trinkets in hand, and I could make my escape.

Perversely, my bladder felt fuller and more impatient than ever. I gritted my teeth and willed them to hurry up.

Bigger hat guy gave over the scepter, and declared, “Rise, King Charles VIII, ruler of the Realm of Eight Moons. May your rule be blessed beyond measure. May your life be without end.”

Good to see the priests as realistic as ever, I thought.

Chucky boy got to his feet, still holding the blade and fake scepter. He started to speak. “My people-”

Suddenly, a voice interrupted. “Not so fast.”

A ripple of horrified chatter ran through the audience, and I strained my neck to see the speaker. Whoever it was, they clearly weren’t part of the plan.

Bigger hat guy clutched a sacred moon symbol, holding it aloft as a ward. “Back, demon.”

Demon? What the hell am I missing? Ever so carefully, I drew back a corner of the tablecloth. And gasped.

There, not ten feet from King Chucky boy, a man in plush robes transformed before my eyes. One minute, a smiling, somewhat sinister human, with eyes that glowed an inhuman golden color. The next, a gray-skinned, red-eyed half-man, half-goat creature towering above the assembly.