The cry of a hawk.

"..."

"Sir."

"..."

"What is your command?"

Static.

"Were there any alterations to our plans?"

No answer.

"Then proceed with the next phase."

=

The snow was gone.

The ground was cold and lifeless, only recently cleared of its burden. Buds fussed and refused to peek their heads out, refusing to believe it was finally spring.. To compensate for the absence of color and life, groomed flowers, freshly plucked, were placed gently onto the ordinary grave markers.

Bellavarn bowed his head, forehead pressing into the dirt.

"I've failed you. I couldn't keep them safe."

There were four graves now, all equally mundane. He wished to carve them statues, but that is not what they would have wanted. Being buried next to their parents is the best he could do.

"I've made them join you early. Because of me, they died. On my order. My naivety."

Raising his head, he faced the names carved in stone.

Astel Cross. Loving Mother

Paul Cross. Devoted Father.

Jeral Cross. Treasured Friend and Brother.

Lannie Cross. Saint and Savior.

It was the one luxury Bellavarn allowed himself. The titles titles were grandoise. Jeral would have laughed. Lannie would have... He would never know.

"The killer will be found if it is the last thing I do. I swear it on my name."

The wind ushered him to look away. Rising to his feet, Bellavarn faced his new destiny, wiping the tears away.

=

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

An angry mug slammed into the table.

"Are you going to keep beating around the bush? Tell me the rest of the story, or I'll throttle you till you spill it!"

Placating hands. They did little to help the drunk's mood.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist. Fine. Fine. I'll tell ya."

Taking a sip to wet his throat, the gossip restarted his story.

"My cousin is friends with one of the palace servants, and he saw what happened after the bang. As he tells it..."

=

The dust cleared. Vision returning. Sound swept in, ringing.

Bellavarn coughed and choked.

"Monster."

Raiden held his throat in a death grip, Bellavarn's legs kicking uselessly. Klein's pupils were whitem and blood was trickling out of his ears. Blind and deaf, he caught Bellavarn at the last moment.

As the crowd remained in turmoill, the two enemies were frozen there like a grandiose statue. It was then that Raiden started circulating mana, speeding up the healing process. Magical regeneration. His eyes and ears were healed. Just like that.

Like a monster.

The scene Raiden returned to was Bellavarn grinning; the only thing preventing laughter was the meaty fist tightening around his neck.

Looking around, Raiden noticed the panicked onlookers, His two companions remained unconscious. Kerv too. Henry was refraining from aggravating his injuries, but his menacing glare drilled holes into Raiden's back.

"Scary."

The words indicated it was anything but. Returning to Bellavarn, he spoke with unnatural calm.

"Your plan failed."

Raiden could feel the chuckle rise through Bellvarn's windpipe.

"Did it? Did it, though?"

A wheeze.

"Check your broach."

Raiden did. It was off.

Bellavarn crumpled, finally release he coughed hoarsely and was barely able to kneel.

Raiden pointed a finger at Bellavarn's broach.

"Yours is off too."

Again with the smiling.

"But whose winked out first? Do you know? Who could tell with everyone being blinded? I suppose there would only be one feasible result. One that no one wants."

The King stretched out a hand to quiet the noisy spectators.

A declaration with each word emphasized.

"The duel is over."

Dramatic pause.

"The result is a tie."

=

The intoxicated listener slammed their mug down.

"How'd you know what they're sayin'? You weren't there!"

"I told ya. My cousin's friend was there!"

"You ain't yer cousin. Stop spouting nonsense. There's no way Duke Raiden, the war hero, would lose to some... child. And Spinners? What the hell are those supposed to be? Where'd he get all those spell papers at the last minute, and how'd he hide 'em? Who uses a baton? Somehow, little Bellavarn fended off a legendary sword, with a stick!"

"I'm tellin' it as I heard it. Don't believe me if you aren't gonna."

"Pssh."

The inebriated fellow shoved his chair back, leaving the conversation as beer spilled all over. A waitress shouted at him.

"Hey, you have to pay for that!"

The drunk responded with unintelligible words and a hand wave, moving for the door. Not bothering to stay to hear the end of the story.

Bursting out of the tavern door, he stumbled and lost his cup. It rolled across the dirt, boucning out into the street, and was crushed by a heavy hoof. The drunk registered the incredibly tall stallion, but not the rider. He did, however, recognize the figure riding in tandem on an even larger horse.

Duke Klein Raiden.

Eyes wide, the drunk watched them lead a procession down the street. Countless civilians flooded outisde to watch and cheer the soldiers—a military parade already in full swing. The drunk didn't fully understand what was occurring, so he tapped a nearby wench on the rear.

She punched him in the face, spinning him one-hundred and eighty degrees. Disoriented, he walked back into the tavern, catching the tail end of the conversation.

"... Sallow didn't win anything. The king ordered him to conquer the badlands in three months, all while working under Duke Raiden. It's an absurd timeline, and we can probably expect..."

The drunk's head was spinning, blacking out, he fell on the floor, hearing only a few more words.

"...He did save his father, though."

Darkness.

=

Bellavarn rode next to Raiden on a dark horse. Eyes set to the South.