The Emperor of the World shook his fist in anger as he stomped through the woods like a half-feral barbarian.

Victory had been so close as to be an absolute certainty, and yet it still eluded him. It hadn't even been an equal contest! Not only did his Empire possess superior forces to the Little Painter's ragtag group of upstarts, Ciro had needed to win just one of four separate battlegrounds to ensure that the rebels tasted bitter defeat.

The fact that they'd yet to crush them was more than a mere annoyance – it was an insult. One that Adam the Painter had thrust upon him.

The 1st front, the assault on Penumbria, ended in failure. Tenver and the Puppet Duelist held us off until Aspreay rebuilt the city's Realm Walls.

The 2nd front, the left flank assault, fell short as well. Aspreay interfered again and forced us to call off the attack.

Twice the damned lord had gotten in his way – and the second time was an even more grievous wound than the first. Acknowledging Adam as his trueborn son had forced the Empire into retreat, albeit temporarily. They would be able to find another reason to declare war in less than a year's time.

Knowing that did little to dull the sting of failure from aggravating Ciro as he advanced. It was somehow less stinging than the thorny vines harassing him with every step.

At least the 3rd and 4th fronts were still active, however barely. For the final front, its continuance was a matter of simple logistics. Deep within the Santuario das Chamas, where ancient magic of the Dragons of Old roamed, it was nearly impossible for even the Emperor's words to reach there. In those antediluvian walls, the order to retreat couldn't have been heard by his youngest Hangman.

Which meant none should complain if his Gryphon were to slay the Painter.

As for Ernanda's assault...after Valente ordered her to retreat, that one should have resulted in a loss as well. But she'd disobeyed orders and gone on what seemed like a suicide mission, throwing herself far behind enemy lines.

Nayt crossed his arms, his frown deepening. "Didn't seem like you tried too hard to stop her."

"And it doesn't seem likely you cared either way." Ciro cursed as pushed through the vines, their prickling thorns only half as painful as the indignity of being forced to endure this commoner way of traveling. How dare his nephew destroy his carriage? "There were witnesses who saw that I ordered her to return – meaning no one will be able to blame me if she cuts her way through to the Painter and kills him."

Granted, that was assuming an errant arrow didn't kill her sooner. She wasn't near-invulnerable to physical harm like Valente or Ciro himself. Hangwoman or not, Ernanda could be slain as easily as anyone else...provided they didn't use a Talent, where her superior Rank ought to protect her.

Ciro was done underestimating the Painter. Chances are they accounted for her weakness in their strategies. While some of the rebel soldiers will be using Talents to empower their arrows, it wouldn't be strange if they mixed in a few regular, unpowered arrows with them. Even if they didn't do that, the fact that they could was what had kept Ernanda prudently standing behind her army's front lines, rather than recklessly charging ahead.

Until now.

Prudency was a luxury Ciro could no longer afford. The notion burned him like hot pokers stabbing at his soul. I am Emperor of the World, he fumed. There should be nothing I cannot afford.

And yet there was. "She might die, but her fanaticism should at least impel her to erase most of the rebels' left flank," Ciro noted dryly. "Even if she fails to reach the Painter, she should help reduce their fighting strength – which Valente already did, despite his setbacks – and further weaken their negotiating position when we later come to peace terms."

Not to mention how it would make invading again with a fresh excuse much easier, and far cheaper. "Whatever the outcome, they cannot hold me accountable if she dies."

The elf let out a sound of acknowledgement, but after a thoughtful pause, shook his head. "No. They absolutely will be able to blame you. A sheath is to blame for what its blade cuts. The Pretender and your vassals will both see it as a failing of yours...and demand satisfaction."

Ciro turned to look at Nayt. "And satisfaction I shall give them," he said, lifting an eyebrow. "Her head would be a fair trade."

Nayt's expression twisted in shock, his body tensing as the reality of Ciro's words hit him.

"So she will die regardless of whether it's by the Pretender's hand or yours." The elf appeared annoyed at the notion. "What a waste of Hangmen. Wouldn't negotiating with the Pretender be better?"

"What are you Hangmen for, if not war?" Ciro asked, sneering. "Are you the kind of person who keeps a special bottle of wine in the cupboard, refusing to drink it year after year, telling yourself that you're saving it for a special occasion that never comes?"

Nayt stiffened, the remark hitting closer to home than he cared to admit. His mouth opened as if to retort, but he stopped himself, the truth of Ciro's point settling in. The Elf was exactly that kind of person, and his silence spoke volumes, the slight flush in his cheeks betraying his irritation.

"There you have it," the Emperor affirmed. "I'd much rather sacrifice my pieces for a perfect victory rather than lose because I wouldn't give them up."

"Costly sacrifice, that one."

"We have a total of twelve Hangmen in the Empire and usually find a new one born every two or three years. Losing one is affordable – if not downright prudent."

He stared directly at Nayt, as if assessing the man's worth. "Leaving a caste with that much power to grow in size is most unwise, anyhow. Sometimes you have to prune a tree to keep it healthy."

"You're letting her disobey your orders on purpose, so you can claim no responsibility for her actions, and then execute her to prove your point?" Nayt's voice neared disbelief, but stopped just short, instead arriving perfectly at a quiet sort of disgust. "What a reward for loyalty."

"She'll be glad to die. Have you not met her? Not everyone is like you, Elf. Some truly know their purpose."

"Like I said...what a reward for loyalty."

–

I died, Solara absently thought.

She watched as soldiers burst through the door and grabbed ahold of her few friends who'd yet to turn into corpses. And that's when I...

The child Solara arose from death anew, her Talent awoken, and used a knife to stab a soldier in the neck. Neither the scream bursting from his mouth nor the warm blood running onto her hand stopped her from stabbing again.

Surrounded by bodies, knowing that my friend was going to die right after I did...I remember thinking I wanted to come back and save her.

That's the first time I used Resurrection.

She had thought of herself as a hero then, possessed by the childlike notion that you could overcome any evil by clinging to your beliefs and simply deciding to win. It was a foolish notion that she now knew only belonged in the minds of children. For adults to succeed, strategy, effort, and hard work was needed.

But why am I thinking of the Greenisle massacre right–

WAKE UP!

The Ghost of Flames screamed inside her mind, jolting her awake. It took Solara a mere moment to fully comprehend the situation, having grown used to abrupt awakenings after dozens of deaths.

She had just died again – and the Hangwoman had devastated the battlefield around her. Solara studied the faded corpses beside her, seeing dozens of men turned to ash. Her ears were ringing, her head was pounding...

And those were the least of her concerns. "I appear to be missing a leg," Solara noted, almost as if it were someone else's problem. "How did that happen?"

You used Partial Resurrection to survive and still retain a full charge, the Ghost told her. There was anger, but also a measure of concern in its – his? – voice. Were she to die while haunted, there was no telling what would happen to the ghost. The Hangwoman...Ernanda, the Lady of Ash...she changed tactics. All of a sudden she moved up, caution be damned, and started leading a charge through the battlefield.

The Elf nodded slowly, her heavily-concussed mind still reeling from her most recent death. Solara's recollection of the last few hours was patchwork at best. Normally she would've returned to life fully aware of what had just transpired, ready and healed up for another round...but normally she wouldn't have been forced to use her Talent every day over the course of a week.

My Canvas must be stained to hell and back. Guess that's why my memory is full of holes. She could ponder on the whys and hows later – survival took precedence over curiosity. "How did I respond? What was my strategy? Actually, before that, how dangerous is the Hangwoman?"

With her Talent of Hanging, death manifests in the form of aging. Anything that she or her weapon touches crumbles to dust.

"Guess I must have cut off my leg to keep the rest of my body from fading away..." Solara recalled, faintly, Adam doing the same when he and Tenver had fought against the Lady of Ash in the Capital. "How did I respond to her charge? What did I tell my soldiers to do?"

You ordered them to fall back to the walls, then try to use arrows to kill the Hangwoman while you held her back.

"Did they succeed in killing her?"

Look and see.

Solara peered through the cloud of dust...and saw a figure stalking toward her. The Hangwoman advanced with a grim determination and an even grimmer weapon slung over her shoulder. Her massive scythe was taller than the woman herself, and it was so stained with blood that Solara could barely make out the original silver on its bladed side.

That weapon is new. I think the moment she used it was when she started risking her life in the fight.

"Shame. Guess they didn't get her." Solara sighed, sounding mildly annoyed by the matter, as if death was such a certainty that further panic was unwarranted. At least I prevented my soldiers from dying unnecessary deaths. They might still manage to kill her if they have the height advantage as she approaches.

"What rotten luck, though," she mused. "Aiming at a moving target is difficult, but I was hoping one arrow would've hit her. We had good odds, too."

The Lady of Ash stepped through the dusty veil, appearing before her. "Do not wail and whine over the whims of fate," Ernanda said, with a voice of partial amusement and total disgust. "Let the dice roll – then accept the result. That is how you should live your life, Elf."

Ernanda made her race feel like an insult in and of itself. However, Solara's mind had been weakened by numerous, consecutive deaths over the past week. She knew it would be remiss to waste her few precious thoughts on mere anger.

If the Lady of Gama was even remotely deserving of her title...then her fading consciousness should be spent coming up with a plan to survive.

A plan to win.

"You look fucking stupid," Solara told the Hangwoman, gesturing at her Imperial Robes. "Ever considered wearing armor? You could've died to a random arrow dressed like that."

"But I didn't," Ernanda replied, steady and unbothered. "And that itself is proof of the divine favor I was bestowed. What you call luck is the will of the gods, Elf. Your lack of it is proof of your evil."

Solara sighed deeply as she attempted to gather her thoughts. Lovely. She's a fucking zealot. Don't think I can reason with her like I almost did with Nayt.

Yes, the Ghost replied, in her mind. The Lady of Ash is famed even among Stained creatures for her devotion to her cause.

Meaning that I–

Should escape. Now.

–Can get information out of her if I question her beliefs. "And what blessings did your God bestow upon you, Lady of Ash?" Solara tauntingly asked. "Should I expect you to have one of those Genius Realms as well?"

The Hangwoman's face tightened briefly. "The Realm of Geniuses is beyond me," Ernanda coldly stated. "The Empire tests all of its citizens for the gift, and very few are capable of it; less than ten in the entirety of our Empire. Within the ranks of the Hangman, only two of us can...and I am not one of them."

"That must be difficult." As she spoke, Solara covertly tested her remaining leg for strength – and found it lacking. Can't stand. "To live knowing that your limitations were decided by the whims of fate and chance...it must be torture, is it not?"

"We are all obligated to embrace our roles," the Lady of Ash told her immediately. "It is the one true way to live. Anything else is an affront to nature, to the Gods, to His Holy Emperor Ciro himself!"

Solara grinned. "Tell me more," she managed to say, through ragged breaths. "Why should I live according to my supposed role?"

She had no interest in the answer, but the Hangwoman would waste much time in replying. A deranged zealot such as yourself can't help but gloat about your beliefs before delivering the killing blow.

Figures that the only way you can get someone to talk to you is if they're incapable of walking away.

Unfortunately, Solara's efforts to refocus and think of her next step were rather rudely interrupted by the Ghost of Flames. It shrieked within her mind, so loud and insistent that its voice burned, its desperate pleas searing words onto her brain.

WE HAVE TO ESCAPE. NOW. NOW! YOU CANNOT FIGHT A HANGMAN! NOT EVEN AT YOUR BEST! CERTAINLY NOT AS YOU ARE NOW!

"Maybe I can't fight her," Solara quietly muttered. She forced herself not to think of the corpses she'd climbed on top of. There was no time to mourn or even fear; not when the Hangwoman was just inches away. "But Adam definitely can't fight two Hangmen at once, so escaping isn't an option."

NEITHER IS WINNING!

Solara willed the creature to stop distracting her. Her heartbeat pounded like a war drum in her ears, loud enough to silence even the Ghost that had once haunted her life.

It still wasn't enough to silence Ernanda, the Lady of Ashes. "Your soldiers lack as much honor as you lack luck," she noted, smirking. Her lecture was finished...and so too was her patience, it seemed. "They were quick to abandon you."

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Solara tried and failed to stand up, wincing as a sharp pain reminded her of her missing leg – and of the trail of blood leaking out of her stump. "I ordered them to retreat back to the walls. They obeyed me."

"And they would have disobeyed your father and died to protect him," Ernanda remarked, with a note of twisted pleasure. "Do not mistake compliance for loyalty."

This was a truth that hurt far more than the missing limb. Managing the left wing had been an arduous task...and the Hangwoman's massive power was only part of it. Her soldiers could be generously described as reluctant to follow a young woman yet to partake in battle – and an elf at that.

Solara had often tried focusing on the former to avoid acknowledging the latter. She couldn't blame the soldiers for hesitating to entrust their lives to someone with little experience in war. She could and would blame them if the source of their troubles was her elven nature.

"Oh well," Solara said, with a casual laugh. "Life is sometimes unpleasant. It won't do me any good to dwell on it."

RUN! RUN NOW! The Ghost screamed. YOU'RE NEARLY OUT OF RESURRECTIONS – YOU'RE GOING TO DIE! PERMANENTLY! WE SHALL BREATHE OUR FINAL BREATH! RUN!

With what leg, Ghost? Hearing sheer desperation in the creature that had haunted her for so long was a delight to her ears. It was almost enough to make Solara forget her impending demise.

Almost.

"Had you been blessed with more honorable soldiers," Ernanda lectured, "you might have retreated with your life, if only for now. And had you been blessed with more luck, mayhap you'd have fought someone whose Talent was a better matchup for yours."

Possibly. Nayt the Elf's power had proven to be a remarkably poor matchup against both Solara's pain tolerance and her Talent of Resurrection. Not to mention that if Adam had been slightly luckier, Eric would be dead...but because he didn't manage to win early on in their fight, the Gryphon will be much harder to kill now

Solara clawed at the dust, her body trembling as she tried to stand on one leg. Pain flared within, but she grit through it and looked at her grim reaper with a smirk. "Mighty proud you are," the Elf said, "of your life being saved by random chance."

"Chance!" The Lady of Ash laughed with disbelief. "You think it mere chance? Nay! It is the very will of the heavens manifest – proof that Our Holy Emperor is among the righteous! Do you not understand? Every single time your side could have benefited from luck...you didn't."

Solara nodded, her gaze dropping to the ground as she tightened her grip on the hilt of her broken sword. There was enough truth in Ernanda's words to argue this particular point. "True enough. If Adam had killed Eric, if Aspreay had woken from his rebirth sooner, if Eric hadn't been the one to investigate Belmordo's letter..."

The elf chuckled bitterly. "If the Goddess of Chance had been ever so kinder, this war could've been over by now."

But if, if, if...'if' doesn't exist. Banish the thought from your mind.

Pondering over hypotheticals was an insipid, treacherous poison that could not be allowed to taint her thoughts. No good ever came from an unacademic study of the past.

Solara smiled, however faintly. "I must warn you." Her tone was dry and superior – an ill match for her wounds. "You should really stop talking about luck. I'm the luckiest woman in the entire world, don't you know? If you try to paint this duel as some sort of showdown between a roll of the dice..."

Despite her fading consciousness, and in defiance of the river of blood flowing from her stump, she laughed loudly and without fear. "...Then I'll win."

Ernanda's eyebrow twitched, but she gave no other visible sign of the anger she likely felt. She started to circle around Solara, closing the distance with methodical, spiraling footwork. "Your ill fortune has brought you to this point, elf," the Lady of Ash stated. "You now lay near death because of it."

"Yet I stand alive – because I am lucky."

"You stand alive because of your Talent," Ernanda snapped. "Which you earned by the misfortune of having your people slaughtered."

"Aye," Solara acknowledged. "And by awakening to Resurrection, I survived long enough for my Father to save me. I was quite lucky compared to most others at Greenisle."

"Compared to the others? You lose your home, watch as your wretched kin are put down, barely survive a culling – and consider yourself blessed for it?"

"Everything is relative. For example, those born with the Talent of Hanging are very lucky, aren't you? The shining stars chosen by fate itself..."

Solara shook her head sadly. "But compared to someone like the Dark Captain, I'd say you're quite unfortunate yourself. How does it feel, I wonder, to be a star outshone by an even brighter constellation?"

Ernanda brought down her scythe. The massive weapon cleaved through Solara's remaining leg in a single, brutal second. Her severed limb accelerated through time, aging until it crumbled into ash before it even hit the ground. Only dust was left, dispersing into the wind.

The Ghost of Flames roared to life. WE HAVE TO ESCAPE! Even as it begged and warned the Elf to escape, it used its powers to ignite the dust on her wound, preventing the decay from spreading. Its flames licked at Solara's body, burning away the affected area at her leg's stump.

"You aren't like the Pretender and the others," Ernanda muttered. Her voice was quiet and filled with understanding – as if she hadn't just almost burnt Solara to nothingness. "I sense you are smarter than them. Deep inside...you know it too, don't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, but you do. There's a reason why you didn't try fighting me in the Capital. Why you helped the other traitors escape instead."

The Hangwoman, regrettably, was correct.

It was among the rare pains that hurt Solara worse than her missing limbs.

Adam would be the first to admit that he was no genius. He made up for it with hard work, clever plans, and a borderline suicidal attitude. He had no delusions of being the strongest, yet he still challenged the strongest, intending to win regardless.

Yet sometimes? Sometimes Solara didn't know if she shared that belief – that frame of mind – when it came to life. Despite wishing otherwise, despite desperately wishing it wasn't so, the Elf would occasionally bite her lip and try not to admit to herself what she truly believed. That she didn't think she could valiantly embrace the role of a gallant, everyday hero; a mere mortal battering down the gates of gods.

In truth...she didn't think she could fight like Adam.

She didn't think she could live like him.

Doing so would be just lying to herself.

Maybe...Ernanda is right. I should embrace my role and stop acting out this farce. But this farce was how leaders should act in times of need! She knew that, and yet...

"I'm not like Adam," Solara mumbled. "Nor am I like my father. Even Tenver is completely different from me. They know this world doesn't belong to them. That it belongs to monsters like the Hangmen, like the Dark Captain...like the Emperor."

Her voice dropped lower. "You know what's so fantastic about them, though? Adam, my father, and Tenver all know that they weren't born under the auspices of fate. They were never destined to be the greatest in the world. Yet in spite of everything, they try their damndest to fight – to prevail. There's something beautiful about that, don't you think?"

"There is no beauty in attempting to violate the natural laws of this universe," Ernanda retorted, her voice low and her gaze sharp. "It is no more respectable than a mongrel trying to survive by stealing coin. When the Gods push you toward death, be they in the sky above or sitting upon the Imperial Throne, it is your duty to open your arms wide and fall into the abyss."

Her tone was harsh, and she spat out every word with a sincere venom – yet at the end, she held back the worst of her disdain, curiosity taking over. "And you say you are not like them, Elf?"

"Aye," Solara acknowledged, in a resigned voice. "Try as I might, I can't be like them." Her laughter was hollow. "Although I greatly admire their dispositions. Bravery, modesty...those are qualities a ruler should have. Qualities I wish I could have."

She threw out the admission like a curse. It felt good to say it aloud, for once. Too often she had locked the thought away, afraid her loved ones would judge her for the thought. "But I simply...I simply don't. I cannot be like Adam, who started out alone and without significant power, and now declares himself against the Empire. I cannot be like Tenver, who lacks the Talent of a Lord, yet aspires to reclaim the title of Emperor. I just...can't be like them."

There was a long, painful silence.

"Take pride in your destiny, Elf," the Hangwoman said. "Accepting your role is what makes you more than a mere child."

"Yes. For that, I thank you."

Ernanda's features softened, though her grip on her scythe tightened, if anything. "It is no trouble at all." She readied her blade, preparing to bring it down for the last time.

"I can't be like them," Solara repeated once more, with a touch of bitterness – suppressed by a wave of acceptance. She sat up and looked at the Hangwoman's scythe, her gaze impassive. "I can't stand as one of the unchosen ones, take up a sword against those handpicked by the Gods, and claim that I will surpass everyone with tenacity and hard work. Thank you for reminding me of that."

The Lady of Ash nodded. "Farewell, Elf. May you find peace with your kin in the life after this one." Her blade began its descent.

And then stopped when she noticed the fire blazing in Solara's eyes.

Lightning bolts of terror raced up the Hangwoman's spine. A primal, animalistic fear screamed at her to leap back, to protect herself.

Yet nothing could have prepared her for what was about to come.

"I can't fight like a noble underdog–" Solara brought her hands together as though in a prayer "–because deep inside, I BELIEVE I AM ONE OF THE CHOSEN ONES!"

She hadn't sought the Dark Sorcerer for a new Talent out of ignorance as to its risks. Nor had she chosen to side with Adam out of a noble, dreamlike notion that she could triumph over a stronger evil due to the goodness of her ambition.

No. It was a bright fire, one far more destructive, that burned within her.

The Survivor of Greenisle had grown to understand that only madmen clung to childish notions of valor. She couldn't be an invincible warrior that never lost – a figure that exceeded the bounds of reason and logic. A more pragmatic, practical person would have chosen to be like Adam, focusing their efforts towards devising clever plans that mitigated their weaknesses. Perhaps they would've even heeded the Ghost of Flames' warnings and retreated for now.

Solara of Gama didn't wish for that. She did not wish to be pragmatic, practical, or even clever.

Solara of Gama wished to be a hero.

The kind that could overcome any obstacle while wielding only a manic smile. Someone who fought with the unwavering belief that the universe itself should bend to their whims. A hero that would leap headfirst into an impossible situation, wager their life, and always figure out a solution within seconds.

HANGMEN, EMPERORS, GODS, EVEN THE DARK SORCERER – I KNOW I'M FUCKING BETTER THAN THEM!

WOMAN–KID– The Ghost's desperation was halted by a sudden note of hesitation. Solara, it said, hoarsely. You have no weapons. No hope. What can you–

She didn't waste her time answering. Her mind had already narrowed onto a single solution, a single ray of hope that her father had told her of a while back.

One that the Hangwoman herself had uttered earlier.

"The Realm of Geniuses is beyond me," Ernanda had coldly stated. "The Empire tests all of its citizens for the gift, and very few are capable of it; less than ten in the entirety of our Empire. Within the ranks of the Hangman, only two of us can...and I am not one of them."

Solara laughed maniacally, her hands clasping together as she searched for a new way to channel her Talent – a new path to tread upon. "Can you guess where the Empire neglected to test its citizens for latent abilities?" Visible sparks jolted from between her fingertips, her Talent seemingly trying to separate her trembling hands. "Greenisle. The place the Emperor massacred."

Ernanda gaped at the elf with outrage, shock, and anger. Partially at the declaration itself...but moreso at the fact that it wasn't wrong. Solara's words were true. The Empire hadn't tested the elves for potential Genius Realms.

However, Solara had also neglected to mention the sheer improbability that she would be blessed with it. Only one out of a hundred thousand people would have the chance to foster a Genius Realm. The chance that one elf from Greenisle would have it – let alone her specifically – was astronomically low.

And even in that unlikely case, the idea that she could awaken it in the middle of a battle was downright absurd. Solara of Gama knew all this. She was well-aware of the odds.

Yet she never doubted for a second that she would succeed.

I am the hero – the one who will always triumph, no matter what obstacle stands in my path.

"Stop this! Stop making a mockery out of the divine!" Ernanda lunged at the elf, her scythe descending with lethal intent. "How dare you–"

Solara grinned from ear-to-ear, licking her lips with mad amusement. "Ah, do not wail and whine over the whims of fate," the Elf parrotted, in a tone of delighted amusement. "Let the dice roll, then accept the result. That is how you should live your life, Hangwoman."

This situation...being surrounded by death, knowing more is to come if I fail...it's just like when my Resurrection Talent awoke during Greenisle.

It's perfect.

The Lady of Gama guided her thoughts with an unfounded confidence that came from the very depths of her soul. She declared her next words with a gravitas, with a nobility to it that challenged the world itself to prove her wrong.

"Genius Realm – Palace of the Eternal Horizon."

It was here, as a crackling white sphere enveloped the ladies of Ash and Gama, that the Painted World bent the knee to its newest monster.