At the Dragon's Tail, the Imperial Capital's most infamous tavern, a chemical reaction took place as gossip, tales, and uncertainty melted together into legend.

"The Emperor will meet with the rebel Lord of Penumbria today," said a patron, raising his glass. "Mayhap he'll kill him on the spot!"

"Nonsense!" said the second patron, merrily drinking at the idea. "Have you heard of his deeds? The man seized Penumbria's throne after besting his own father, sallied forth to Gama to save the Lady in the Tower, and then slew the Puppet Curse in the East!"

"Steady there – my word! Did you say father?"

"Aye! I hear tell that he is the former Lord Aspreay's bastard son," the first patron replied, in a confident tone. "That's why Emperor Ciro would never dream of executing him. There's no reason to kill a lord that bears both ability and birthright. Fire makes steel, after all – it's why His Imperial Majesty allows disputes within the ruling houses."

"He gets to pick and choose lords to his liking, eh?" another patreon wondered, with drunken wisdom. "Suppose this is just more of that. If the Emperor likes Aspreay's bastard son, he'll rule the 'rebellion' as an internal fight within the House of Arcanjo. If he doesn't...off with the bastard's neck."

The fourth patron, the least excited of them all, slowly sipped at his wine. "Quite so," he dryly remarked. "Although it remains to be seen if the Kinslayer is stupid enough to fall for the lie. Bastard son my ass."

At this last blasphemy, the other three patrons sobered up enough to shift away from the fourth, muttering incomprehensible excuses as they moved to another table. They were not to blame for their cowardice; Ciro had punished others for saying less. Few people had the ability – and fewer the courage – to utter anything but worship for the man.

The fourth patron was one of those, and much more. Bitter, resentful, drunk, tired, injured, vengeful, hopeless, and fatalistic.

But most of all, he was Aspreay Arcanjo, Lord of Penumbria.

Former lord, he corrected himself, a smirk creeping across his face. Even now, he knew not whether to feel joy or despair over that fact. Long had he wished to disavow his title, and longer still had he wished to throw it all up in the air and journey out into the world.

Except the Painter forced the decision on me. His grip tightened around his cup. That, I cannot forgive.

Aspreay had awoken in Penumbria a short while ago. Since then, not a single piece of news he learned failed to shock him. The Painter had usurped his throne, somehow copied his Talent – how did one even do that? – and danced around the topic of his treason by claiming relation to Aspreay himself. That last bit was so ridiculous it crossed the line from offensive to absurd.

Worse still was the Painter's overwhelming power. Though Aspreay's Talent remained within himself, the Pretender's mere copy was now stronger than the original. Aspreay could no longer call upon his Lord Talent inside his own domain.

No, he thought, laughing bitterly. Not my domain. He claimed it for himself. Ah, what a competent bastard.

"To you, Pretender." He drunkenly raised his wine glass. "To the man who stole my world! May you choke on my riches, drown in my despairs, bleed from my enemies!"

In truth, Aspreay was shocked at how little he cared about losing Penumbria's throne – although mayhap he shouldn't have been. Vasco's betrayal had shown how impossible it would be to make any real difference as lord. There is only so much a man can take, and Aspreay already accepted more setbacks, pain, and enemies than most.

Until he could no longer. His indulgence started then, and by that point, it was a well-deserved reward for the hellfire he'd put up with. He indulged on wine, on performances, on whatever extravagances his heart desired – only for him to despair at his own vices later.

The alternative was worse. Had I not indulged, I doubt I'd have kept my throat from the rope for long. That the notion came so easily surprised, but did not bother him. 'Twas hardly a thought of comfort, yet easily a thought of truth. Penumbria needed me. The process of replacing a Lord is nightmarish at best, and too often an impossibility. I might not have been ideal, but I could have been much worse. They needed me. They needed me! I couldn't abandon the commoners!

And he resented them for it.

Oh, how he resented them for it...

Those bastard citizens, the ones who never understood his sacrifices, who spat on his name yet knew nothing. If he were truly as uncaring as their songs portrayed, Aspreay would have damned the miserable city to Rot and embarked on a westward journey long ago.

That sentimentality was the only reason he was hesitating instead of enacting his plan.

I could name the Painter as the treacherous pretender he is, Aspreay mused, sipping at his wine. Tell the Emperor of what transpired. He'd rid the world of him quickly enough. However, doing so would place Aspreay in the Emperor's service once more. At the moment, he was effectively a dead man in the minds of most. He could count the number of people who knew of both his survival and escape on Captain Valence's hands, and the man could hardly be accused of having all fingers. Another fault of the Emperor.

Regardless, Aspreay was armed with a Talent beyond most people's wildest dreams. Without the Emperor's Hangmen meaning to drag him back to the capital and serve the Kinslayer, he was free to venture out into the world, making riches and discovering new sights. Interfering here would rob him of that. There was very little to gain from striking against the Pretender.

Very little – except for his injured pride. The stinging humiliation of having what was rightfully his, usurped.

I cannot stand it, let alone allow it, he thought, the drink coloring his blurry vision red. The Painter must repay me with a scarlet portrait inked in his own blood!

Aspreay cared little for the title of lord. He cared more for his Talent – and that, at least, he still had. Yet he'd lost much in this life already.

Far too much.

His hometown had been swallowed by the Rot, although that was practically a natural death for a settlement in the Empire. His partner had betrayed him for his love of tree fuckers, a decision that still haunted Aspreay's nightmares. His people hated him for being unable to forge gold from dirt, when no one else could have done better.

Even if he cared little for the title, a part of him knew not who he was without it. His ideals had shattered long ago, and his dreams with them. All that remained was bitterness. Who was he without Penumbria's lordship?

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Aspreay was afraid of answering that question.

I'll turn him over to the Emperor. A manic grin overcame his lips as he turned another bottle upside down. As soon as he's in the capital...when he can no longer escape...I'll make sure he regrets the day he tried taking my city from me! Aspreay felt confident in his plan. Certain, even.

It was a feeling that lasted until he witnessed the Painter's arrival.

Outsiders poured through the Capital's barriers, dressed in the reddest of scarlets and followed by the blackest of deaths. The Pretender of Penumbria rode forth on a strong, brown stallion that was well-trained to make its rider appear competent. To either of his sides stood his only followers: the Banished Prince, and a cloaked woman the Lord could not recognize.

Behind them all was the Hangman, a creature of such overwhelming violence that even the lordly Aspreay would think twice of daring to fight it. Especially in the Imperial City, where the Emperor's domain would undo his own.

However, it was not the presence of the Hangman that gave him pause – but rather the cloaked woman at the Pretender's side.

While he tried his utmost, Aspreay could not fool himself into believing that he didn't know who the woman was. Cloaked she might be, the canter of her mount still ruffled the hood on her head, letting the sharp edge of her ears momentarily peek out. It was like a flash of lightning to his senses.

"An elf," he muttered, amidst the crowd. "She's a bloody elf."

One of the many onlookers who'd gathered to watch the newcomers' arrival grinned at him. "Aye, lad! Gama's Lady in the Tower herself! The Lord of Penumbria rescued her."

Aspreay knew it was true. Although he'd heard rumors of this tale before, they were the kind that he'd chosen to disregard as nonsensical drivel.

Until now.

No matter! This changes nothing! The thought was summoned in his mind as a shout, yet that did not make it seem any more convincing. I will tell the Emperor – I will have him executed! I will...I will...

Solara of Gama was Vasco's daughter.

Her presence at the Painter's side meant that Gama had allied itself with Penumbria. That Vasco had aligned himself with the Pretender who usurped his title! How could he sink so low as to betray him like this, that was–

–Not why his heart raced now. Aspreay tried telling himself that it was, but he knew otherwise.

Hangman! The Painter is not my son! He's an usurper! You have the right to kill him! If Aspreay shouted that thought aloud and publicly proved his identity, the Hangman would have had no choice but to kill the Pretender, even if it went against the Kinslayer's wishes. All he needed to do was raise his voice and speak the words.

Why was that simple act so difficult?

Was he so troubled by the idea of being forced to work for Ciro again? Was he concerned about his own punishment? Or–

If the Painter is deemed guilty of treason, so will Vasco. Aspreay couldn't keep the thought from rising up within his mind. It horrified him. Both that he possessed such a weakness, and the weakness itself.

Even after everything that had happened...he couldn't stomach sending Vasco to his death.

Why not? He betrayed me! He took what was mine by right, he, he, for the sake of those disgusting tree fuckers–

The Painter's group rode forward, splitting the crowd apart as they went. At the head, the Pretender looked dignified, confident, a veritable lord. He projected an aura of nobility that inspired the crowd to respectfully step away, allowing him forward without blocking his path. Their procession would disappear from sight soon enough. Aspreay needed to get the Hangman's attention now.

So why wouldn't the damn words just come out of his throat already?

'Let us try this again – my name is Aspreay Arcano,' he had told the handsome, brooding man, many years ago. 'We're both lords without a land, yes? What do you say about changing the world with me?'

Aspreay ran through the crowd, hoping to follow the riders to the Emperor's castle. There was still time. He could still inform the Hangman of the Pretender's true identity. Bring all of this to an end.

The other man had laughed quietly. His smirk was captivating, a sort of quiet objection that faded in the amusement reflected in his eyes. 'With you?' Vasco asked then. 'With you, I'll go anywhere, kill anyone, and die anytime.'

He pushed past a bystander who refused to give way. The tall, burly stranger glared at him as if he meant to fight. Aspreay paid him no mind. "Wait!" he said, but did not scream, at the Hangman. He knew his voice wouldn't rise above the cacophony of the crowd. "Wait–Hangman–Hangman!"

'Death won't be enough to stop me,' Aspreay had shot back, smiling widely in the vain hope of hiding the faint blush in his cheeks. 'Just you wait! Together, we shall change the world!'

Even so, the Hangman still turned around, peering over his shoulder. Perhaps his enhanced senses were too sharp to miss a voice clamoring for him, even a quiet one amidst a crowd. Immediately, Aspreay was filled with two conflicting thoughts. Relief that the Hangman had heard his quiet plea...

And terror, for exactly the same reason.

'Always a dreamer, eh, Aspreay?' Vasco's features softened. 'That's what I like about you, though.'

"Did anyone call for me?"

The Hangman's shout silenced the crowd. He frowned, his piercing gaze sweeping over them. "Who was it? Tell me, now!"

'Really? I thought it was my eyes.'

Aspreay thought of everything he wanted to say, every crime he wanted to accuse the Painter of committing. Who cared if Vasco was caught in the crossfire? The man had betrayed him once – twice, even! This was merely payback, it was justified, Aspreay didn't care, and he–

'Your eyes are beautiful,' Vasco said quietly.

'Because of their color?'

'Because they tell me so much about you.'

–He sank to his knees, disappearing within the crowd.

"Hello?" the Hangman called again. "Who the hell is wasting my time? Fucking hell. Show yourself, goddamn it!"

Aspreay grit his teeth and ran in the opposite direction, away from the crowd, away from the Hangman. He couldn't do it. His mind said his desire for vengeance was justified, yet his heart would not allow the words to reach his lips.

He couldn't condemn the Painter if it would damn Vasco as well.