Early next morning, Sara was called from bed by a knocking at her door.

She opened it and groaned. “I was just getting used to not seeing you.”

The masked girl bowed. “The King is ready,” she said, then handed Sara a fresh set of clothes before leaving.

Sara changed, wrangled her hair into a ponytail, then grabbed Jack and her sword off the drawer.

“Slept well?” the talking skull asked.

“No," said Sara. "I kept having this nightmare where I was trapped in a foreign world and my only company was a human skull- oh wait. No. It’s a living nightmare.”

Jack chuckled. “I’m flattered you consider me company, on the account of the whole capturing and tormenting you.”

“You’re right,” said Sara. “Why don’t you give Stockholm a call, because I’ve got one hell of a case for him to study.” She gathered what little possession she had, using the cloth she was given to fasten her sword across her back.

The masked girl was waiting at the bottom of the steps. She looked exactly as she always did, which was starting to creep Sara out now.

“Do you wear those robes to bed?” she asked.

“I have my clothing custom-made,” the girl replied. “It’s one of the perks of being the Right Hand of a king.”

“Even if he’s poor?”

The masked girl stopped by another set of double doors. “Don’t tell the King that,” she said, pushing them open.

The room was crammed full of people. Pillars of bronze stood against the corners of four walls. In the middle, taking up nearly every inch of the floor space, was a dining table packed with brightly dressed people. They feasted on a splendid array of food, from whole lambs to pots of pumpkin soup, and piles upon piles of chicken wings stacked high on porcelain plates.

No one looked up as the masked girl led Sara towards the head of the table. There, a boy sat with a crown of bronze encircling his strangely oval head. He looked twelve, maybe thirteen. He was scribbling on a piece of parchment held by a servant while pawing at a chicken leg with his other hand.

The masked girl directed Sara towards the boy king. When he was done scribbling, the king flicked the quill over his shoulder and said, “And away you go. Make my kingdom rich as you promised.”

The servant bowed deeply. “My liege, it is not I who has promised such.”

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The boy-king waved his hand. “I tire of your explanations. Make it happen or I shall find someone else who will.” He went back to tearing into his wing.

Unable to help herself, Sara said, “He really is a bastard.”

The feast screeched to a halt.

The boy-king reared his head. “What?” The word came out of his mouth in the form of a scream.

“The wench said nothing, my liege,” said all the men around him. A few of them shuffled over to consolidate the king, but most just kept on eating.

The boy would have none of it. “I heard her say a bad thing to me! I heard it!”

The masked girl sighed. “Did I not tell you to behave yourself?” she asked, taking Sara by the arm to stand before the king. There, she dropped to one knee and said, “King Rychard, I have found the strongest traveler in all of Arcadia for you.”

“She called me a bad thing!” the king wailed and threw his drumstick.

Sara caught it before it could collide with the masked girl. “But everyone calls you that,” she said, taking a bite. The meat was dripping with honey and horribly sweet. She tossed it back onto the table, where it splattered into a bowl of soup. “Oops.”

Gasps sounded across the table. Some of the men at the other end got up and started to leave.

King Rychard’s face took on the color of a tomato. “How dare you say such lies! You stand in front of a king. You’re not even kneeling!”

Sara scoffed. “Are you for real? Do you not even go outside?” She looked around the table, at these fat bodies all dressed up in silks and animal skins, and it made her think about Taiga, picking food off the ground.

“She’s not kneeling,” the boy-king shrieked. “Cut her down, fox! Carve out her knees!”

“My liege,” said the masked girl. “You must forgive this traveler. She has obtained incredible power at the expense of her manners. I assure you, she means no disrespect.”

King Rychard calmed down a little. “Incredibly powerful? So she’s super strong?”

“Enough slay the Berserker in our crypts, I’m sure.”

The boy pounded the table with his little fist. “But she’s just a girl!”

People swarmed over him like flies to shit. They told him all sorts of things, like how people actually loved him, or how much better a rule he was than his late father and thirteen brothers before him.

“Let me get this straight,” Sara said. “If I kill this Berserker thing, I get to fight the Calamity Dragon?”

The masked girl nodded. She guided Sara away, gently now, her touch barely registering.

“I can’t promise it’ll succeed, but I can assure you this - Unless you want to spend the rest of your life here, you don’t have a choice but to do this.”

“Funny,” said Sara. “Last time someone told me something similar, I stabbed him.”

“Wait here,” the masked girl said, leaving Sara by the door before turning back to the king. “My liege. The traveler has agreed to exterminate the monster. You can hold another tourney very soon.”

The boy-king’s tantrum stopped. Eyes narrowing, he said, “I suppose she would want a reward afterward.”

“Your father would have offered a prize.”

“Do not compare me to him!” the boy-king said. “My father is dead. So is my mother. So are all my brothers. I refuse to rule and die like they did.”

One of the brightly dressed men went up to feed the boy-king a grape, but Rychard kicked at him.

“I understand your reluctance,” said the masked girl. “Why not consider this? Should our traveler succeed in taking back the underground arena, why not hold a tourney in her name? It would be a great way to open it up once more.”

Sara leaned on the door and watched as Rychard’s eyebrows knitted together in deep concentration. It seemed like a long time before he gave his answer.

“I will allow it.” He looked around at the table of food in front of him and pointed at the roasted boar in the middle, his face opening up into a stupid grin. “I want the belly!”