Garen hurtled through the air, crimson eyes set straight ahead. Beneath him, white snow and gray crags rapidly changed to rolling hills and lush terrain.

The clouds evaporated before him with a hiss as his jump carried him onward, although the corona of heat emanating from Garen’s skin was gradually lessening. He began thinking the invasion through, trying to figure out when they’d stolen the crown.

He was certain that none of them had made it past him, which was the part about the whole thing that gave him pause. He’d reinforced the walls with metals that had no official names, materials that blocked magic from passing through them. They couldn’t have teleported through, which limited their options significantly.

His eyes narrowed. It was a question to ask them once they were dead. There had to be someone who practiced necromancy somewhere around here. The last time he’d left his castle had been…

His forehead wrinkled. When had that been?

Right, that village with the bird/human mixes in it a decade back. The last place on his list. They’d been oddly unafraid of him. In fact, they’d been relatively helpful. There wasn’t a single one of them capable of the magic he needed, but they had tried to be of use. They were higher up on one of his other lists, the one counting all the places he would avoid destroying.

The capitol he was headed to - Carodai Melas, he thought - wasn’t on that list.

The ground had switched to a desert at some point, and now changed back to grasslands and forests. As his trajectory brought his curve lower and lower, he flipped over midair and readied himself.

He landed on the ground, careful not to leave a crater, and started running. For the time being, he would concentrate on getting to the capitol and getting that crown back. As for the capitol itself, it could burn for all he cared.

Hey, not everyone’s out to get you, okay?

Garen almost tripped, regained his balance, and kept going. It wasn’t the capitol itself that was at fault; only those who had dared to steal from him. Their castle, and the knights inside, were the ones who he would be hunting.

Walls came into view, tall ones built from massive blocks of white marble. What a waste of good stone.

Slowing his pace, Garen lightly walked up to the wall. It was on the side of the castle, of the way of checkpoints or security details.

Placing his hand flat on the wall, Garen yanked back. The vacuum caused by the abrupt movement tore the block out of the wall, along with a cloud of white dust, and he stepped through.

After a moment’s consideration, he turned around and pulled the block back into place. It was good construction, after all.

Now then, the main issue of the capitol. Whoever had designed this place had been remarkably intelligent, choosing to build massive mansions at multiple places instead of a single obvious castle. Wherever the residence of the royal family was, it essentially blended in with the other decadent houses in the city.

Unfortunately for them, Garen chose to look humanoid for a reason. What invader would simply ask others where the castle was?

Dusting himself off, he turned from the wall he’d just repaired and saw a man watching him. The man was barely dressed, one hand frozen in the process of buckling his pants. His eyes were enormous behind the scraggly gray beard covering the majority of his face, and his other hand slowly inched towards a stick at his waist.

Garen approached him, looming over the hapless man. “You did not see me.” His voice ground out across the small alley, and the man pulled his wand out. A spark of fire lit the end, and splashed harmlessly across Garen’s chest. It didn’t even warm him.

The man swallowed. “Didn’t see ya, got it.”

Garen headed past him, briefly considering the thought of ramming him into a wall. The prospect seemed enormously uninviting.

The street just past the alleyway was worse than dealing with the old man. Hundreds of people brushed past each other, shoulder to shoulder and chatting amiably about the weather and the phraxium mines and everything in between.

In other words, Garen was surrounded by people who didn’t care that he was there.

With an irritated sigh, Garen fixed his all-important bow-tie and stepped out into the throng. He was immediately immersed in the flow of the traffic of the city, although anyone who bumped into him bounced off, often looking around in confusion to find the pole they’d run into.

Well, that wasn’t going to work. Moving out of the main road, Garen leaned against a wall and closed his eyes.

Sure, your vibe's a little scary, but man, you’re wound up like a steel spring! I just feel bad!

Taking a deep breath, Garen forced his muscles to relax. One by one, working his way down from his neck down to his calves. It had been nearly impossible to do when he’d first tried it, but over the millenia he had reduced the required time from an hour and a half to a mere six minutes.

When he finally opened his eyes again, he was fully under control, and he was in the mood for food.

Garen put two fingers to the bridge of his nose. Food was intended to be a purely optional source of consumption, and it wasn’t a luxury he had time for. He was angry, for crying out loud.

He stood there for a moment, thinking, and then rejoined the mob of passersby. This time, when people ran into him, the impact was just the same as if they had run into anyone else. It was a skill he was honestly proud of, even more than his mountain toss.

Still, it was annoying.

Muttering words that had no translation into any traditionally speakable language under his breath and entirely unaware that he was gently smoking, Garen made his way through the people, following traffic to the food courts.

He was almost surprised at the amount of irritation he was feeling about it. He, Garen, the only immortal being he had ever encountered in the entirety of his existence on Asterias and by far the most powerful entity he’d ever met, going to a food court. Most likely not even a good one.

The smoke intensified slightly, and this time he noticed it. Snuffing the gray trails out with a thought, he continued onward.

A massive number of scents bombarded him, and instinct instantly kicked in. The exact locations of twenty-three booths and eight shops were identified to the dot, give or take six inches, within a fraction of a second.

With no real plan on where to go first, he went to the closest one.

A tourist. He’d been turned into a tourist by nothing more than some hunger pangs brought on by forced relaxation. An issue he resolved to fix. He had nothing but time to do so, after all.

Stiffly walking up to the stand, a brightly colored green-and-brown temporary construction built from stilts and dyed canvas, Garen perused the contents alongside the mortals. Fat sausages rolled on spindles above simmering coals, dripping and spitting grease. The vendor, some kind of reptilian humanoid wearing a grease-stained apron over a gray shirt and black pants, happily flipped them over, moving the finished ones to a tray under the counter. She seemed perfectly satisfied just to be selling food.

Looking up at the potential customers before his stall, the vendor’s slitted eyes landed on Garen and dilated. The distinct and oddly refreshing scent of abject terror washed over Garen, and he made direct eye contact with the vendor.

One of the sausages fell off the spindles and hit the coals, hissing its guts into the fire. Ignoring it, Garen very slowly shook his head, and the vendor blinked in shock.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

So, not entirely reptilian. Most didn’t have eyelids.

Not the time to be thinking about it, though.

The vendor hastily grabbed the sausage with her bare hands, tossing it into the trash. With a forced smile, she started selling them once again. This time, she didn’t put any new sausages on the spindles.

So that was what she was trying to do. Escaping from him by ending her job early was an interesting tactic, but not one that would succeed.

Good grief, Garen, you’re going to scare him to death like that. Calm down a little! Loosen up!

Garen sighed. As pleasant a smell as fear was, he wasn’t here to intimidate anyone.

Then again, he wasn’t supposed to be here for food either.

Easily pushing to the front, Garen stared down at the lizard woman, and her pupils dilated further.

He heard a dull thunk.

The vendor’s face turned bright red, a visible heat rising from her yellow and brown facial scales. Garen absently filed the fact away; apparently they could blush as well. Perhaps it was an evolved solution to their coldblooded nature? A method of circulating blood? But then again, that wouldn't explain the scent. He could smell extreme embarrassment mixing with the terror, almost exceeding it. But what was it about?

Something behind her moved, and Garen glanced at it. It was a thick, scale-covered… oh. The object wriggled uncontrollably on the floor of the booth, mostly concealed by the canvas walls.

He glanced at her, a single hairless eyebrow rising infinitesimally. “That’s your tail, isn’t it.”

It wasn’t really a question. He was aware of the defense mechanisms of certain lizards. He’d actually done several tests on every variant, curious to see if the regrowing capabilities could be applied to himself. After the successes, he’d found himself with a not-insignificant amount of information on lizards and nothing to do with it.

The vendor swallowed hard, still a startling shade of red. The other customers didn’t seem to know what was going on, but they cleared out regardless.

Using her foot, the vendor slid the still-twitching tail underneath the counter. “Y-you, you’re t-the…”

“Sell me food.”

She blinked again. “W-what?”

He removed a solid gold coin from his pocket and put it on the counter. “You’re a vendor. Sell me food.”

Her eyes landed on the coin and went round. The scent of fear faded noticably, although the shame was still potent in the air. Garen couldn’t help but wonder if anyone else could pick it up. It was thick enough that even a human should’ve been able to smell it.

Warily placing her three-fingered hand on the coin, she slid it under the counter and dropped it into something. Based on the clink, it was a purse.

She didn't stop watching him as she took one of the sausages, wrapping it in a thin sheet of paper. It was almost as if she was worried he would attack, which would have been a ridiculous assumption if the customer had been anyone except him. It wasn't as though she would be able to follow his movement if he did try to kill her. A vendor wouldn't have the skill to see him fight, not without getting a bad headache at the very least.

Leaning over the wooden counter, he accepted the sausage and immediately took a bite.

It was… hot. There was a very faint sense of… savor? Salt, maybe?

He sighed, and the vendor looked curious in spite of herself. “Issss… is it good?”

Garen shook his head. “The issue is not with the flavor, but with my tastes.”

She looked dubious. “You’re vegetarian?”

Garen stared levelly at her, and she withered. He relented after a moment, taking another bite. “My sense of taste is... not good.” The sausage must have had a powerful flavor if he could taste it at all, if he was being honest. From the infinitesimal amount he could pick up, it was a good sausage.

Looking up, he found the vendor with an aghast expression. “You can’t taste?!”

“What’s your point?”

“What’s my-” The smell of fear was all but gone from her as she reached under the counter, coming back up with a small bowl. Uncapping it, she removed a dab of the orange paste inside and spread it defiantly on one of her last sausages. Placing it in front of Garen, she folded her arms and told him, “Eat that!”

Garen watched her through half-closed eyes, utterly nonplussed. Her confidence evaporated as she remembered who she was talking to, and she took a step back. Garen’s eyes narrowed further. “I am immune to any toxin you care to name.”

She swallowed hard, faltering. “I-I didn’t think you wouldn’t be.”

Picking the sausage up, Garen took a bite.

It had flavor. The barest amount of spices, layered over the nearly invisible savor of the sausage itself. He couldn’t say he liked it, but he could taste it, and that meant a lot.

He indicated the sausage. “This isn’t bad. What is it?”

Tentatively emboldened by the compliment, she told him, “It’s made from Pyrado cacti. They are only found in my home.”

Garen nodded, taking another bite. Again, that tiny sense of flavor, and he shrugged. It really wasn’t that bad. In fairness, he hadn’t encountered anything he could taste at all in quite some time, and something was a definite improvement over nothing.

Reaching nto his pocket, Garen retrieved another gold coin and set it down. “I’ll take another.”

She looked more startled than anything else, but started wrapping up another one, adding the paste to it as she did. “You, er…” She trailed off for a moment, setting the sausage on the counter and accepting the coin. “You’re not going to… kill me, or anything?”

Garen stared flatly at her, trying to figure out where she’d gotten that conclusion. “Why would I?”

She backtracked almost instantly, raising her hands in defense. “It’s not that I want you to kill me! I mean - nobody does. Well, some do. Sceledraeans are… strange. But most don’t! And I don’t!”

Garen nodded slowly. “What does that have to do with me?”

Her narrow mouth opened in a long O, and then her eyes shifted to look behind Garen. She instantly fixed her expression into a polite smile, despite the visible panic in her eyes. “Good afternoon, guardsman! How can I help you?”

Garen turned around to face the helmeted man who had come up behind him. He appeared to be in his late forties at the most, well past his fighting prime, and his spear was dull. He wasn’t wearing much in the way of armor, either. “Yeah, just checkin’ up on everybody.” Scratching the rough stubble peppering his chin, he looked Garen up and down. “Ye might wanna grab a sword or sumthin’, bud. Bad move to be unarmed, even if you’re in Melas. Word has it Garen came back from the dead, if’n ye can believe that.” He chuckled at the mere thought of it, shaking his head.

The vendor hastily said, “Oh, that’s not an issue at all.”

Garen stared down at him. “Do you know where the primary residence of the royal family is?”

“Oh, Monarchs save us…”

The muttered words came from the vendor once again, and Garen swiveled to face her. “How would they? They’re dead.”

She flinched visibly, and the guardsman intervened. “Now wait just a minute, there’s no need to be rude or nothin’. You know how th’ lizard people are about their legends and whatnot.”

“Legends?!” The vendor nearly shouted, furious.

The guardsman raised his hands. “Whoa, now just hold yer horses, ma’am. I don’t mean no offense or anything. Just disagree with you, is all.”

“Classic human move!” She exclaimed, leaning on the counter. “If you don’t like something in your history, you either get rid of it or pretend it didn’t happen. We remember everything, good and bad! We even remember the slime!”

Garen ignored the loathing in her voice, turning the majority of his attention to her words. “What do you know about their crowns?”

She seemed on a roll now. “The crowns!” Jabbing a finger at the guardsman, she practically roared, “The crowns were the epitome of magic! They were - they were the literal crown of magic! They were so closely linked to the Monarchs themselves that even in undeath they returned to their masters!”

The world paused.

It hadn’t stopped, not really. But Garen needed a moment to think, and it was better to think at extreme speeds than with the chatter and buzz of everyone around him.

Of course they hadn’t broken into his vault. They hadn’t been anywhere near powerful enough for that. The strongest among them had been the knight… no, he couldn’t recall his name. Either way, he’d been far from powerful enough to get through the door of Garen’s design. The only creature capable of entering that vault was Garen himself.

But exiting? If the crown itself ceased to exist and began to re-exist somewhere else… well, there was no method of blocking that.

Garen stared at the vendor. She knew things about the Monarchs that even Garen hadn’t learned in all the millenia he’d spent in Asterias.

What else did she know that he didn’t?

He made his decision.

Coming back to conventional speeds, Garen flicked the guard in the forehead, knocking him out instantly, and did the same to the vendor. Ignoring the startled screams of the citizens surrounding him, he hefted the vendor over his shoulder and turned to face the closest wall.

After a moment’s thought, he took the sausage as well.

Bending his knees, he jumped out of Carodai Melas. There was little point in subtlety anymore. He hadn’t acquired what he’d come for… but he might have found a vault of information, and information could help him more than simply getting the crown back. She might know how to use the crown, know how to exploit its powers appropriately.

Apparently hunger pangs could be helpful.