Athlasar’s body quickly warms to my direction, as well it should. I’ve been sharing it for months and now that Althasar’s soul has departed, it recognizes only me as master. The hospital was a bust, Eruth came through and cleared it out with his own abilities, then doubled down on showing off and resurrected everyone in the morgue. Stupid attention whore. How can I possibly compete with bringing the dead back to life?!

Steel and stone clink together, the loudest pronouncement of my return march. The armory that saw my host’s death now protects his body, with a bastard sword tugging on my left side, and a brace of daggers opposite it to counterbalance my belt. An equal and contradictory action that will soon mirror my meeting with the king.

Two royal knights stand outside the private dinner hall. Laughter echoes through the oak door, bouncing up and down hallways as the King celebrates the death of his firstborn son. Councils of war often end like this, with the generals and champions hob knobbing until the morning light drags them back to war. I remain at the door, forecasting desired outcomes. He isn’t MY father, but I need to earn his trust…

Or kill him.

Murder would be way easier, but this is the kingdom of Holy Sol. We’re lousy with paladins like Eruth, and even the common folk have access to resurrection temples, so long as they can pay the toll. Beyond my thoughts I can hear servants move, turkeys are ripped apart to sate warrior appetites. King Erdian’s closest advisors and head paladins are nearest him. Half are capable of resurrecting Athlasar’s corpse, or of guaranteeing his survival through the elixir, yet here they sit. Preoccupied by quality mead and the sweetest meats money can buy.

‘Athlasar, I get he’s your father. But he will receive no honor from me.’

My gauntlet closes on the doorhandle. Wood splinters and snaps beneath my grasp, breaking off the handle with a crunch.

Silence takes the room. They’ve heard me. On this side of the door, one of the royal knights gawks at me, adjusting his halberd in case I’m a threat. Wise move.

I twirl the broken handle around my finger, splinters scraping against my gauntlet.

“Ha, Prince Athlasar, tis good to see you’re in fighting form! Please, allow me.” The second knight says, flashing a grin to the other guard.

He knocks on the door three times, then projects his voice, “Hail Prince Athlasar! He whom has awoken!” Shouts the knight.

Hands lift the broken latch, screeching against splinters of wooden shrapnel until the door pops free, a moment of liberation that grinds to a halt an inch later. My impatience wins. The king is an asshole, but fighting his doors is less productive than licking ice, at some point they’ll start to enjoy the process. While you’ll only be stuck outside in the cold, waiting for someone to bring a bucket of warm water to set you free. Or you can pee on your own tongue, a maneuver I would not recommend.

I choose to pee on my frozen tongue, metaphorically speaking.

“Damn thing.” I say, laying a hand, palm open, on the door and forcing it open.

Solid oak cracks, the door folds like letter paper, crumpling at the plumline and cross hatch like a sledgehammer hitting a pop tart.

“How-” I begin, confused at my preposterous strength. “That shouldn’t happen– oh.”

The answer to the door’s weakness is behind it. Eruth stands on the other side, his steel shod warhammer pressed against the door’s backside, an enchanted bulwark capable of turning giants into jelly. The cunt had tried to block my entry.

To deny my meeting with the king. I give him a wide smile, marking him for later. One day soon he is going to be licking my boots. But not today. He isn’t a vassal I will kill for a single slight. Or even a hundred. His kind of power cannot be replaced without a war.

“I see, how polite of you to greet me Sir Eruth.” I say.

Surprise registers on his face for a millisecond, then his beard droops into the permanent frown he’s known for.

“Prince Athlasar, ah, you’ve awoken! Aherm. How good to see you.” His brow furrows, as if he realizes the meaning of his words. Prince Athlasar is no longer the lil fukboi all thought him to be.

Eyes gleam, and I wonder what is running through his mind. Pride maybe?

“Indeed.” I say, stepping past him.

Eruth doesn’t move, remaining motionless as I walk through the already broken door. Under stress from two enlightened beings the knots serve as focal points. They shatter with humble crunches, showering both Paladins with pizza slices of wood. I’m grateful for my inability to grow facial hair, and smile at Eruth’s new beard decorations. One last insult before I pass into the hall.

Daaaaammmmnnn. Paladin was the right choice! Healing, more strength than a lumberjack, and resurrection as my capstone? Hell yeah brother! Wait, why did I say brother? Oh man, I’m gonna have to lean into this class aren’t I… Oh well, I've done weirder things.

“All hail the king.” I say.

“Hail King Erdian, Last of his Line!” Shout the Paladin’s in unison.

Voices raised to honor the traditions of old. But it was more than that, not a single one of these paladins hailed my arrival. The message was clear, loud enough that the stone walls of Erdian’s tomb heard it. But not potent enough to pierce my thick skull. Respect is earned slowly, and eroded quickly. I don’t need to overcome Erdian’s current confidence, I only need to undermine his position. To that end I join my equals, there is one empty seat, conveniently next to ‘dad’, complete with a plate of untouched food. Perfect for me. I tear into the turkey leg, enjoying every bit of the rotisseried bird, whose warm flesh steams as I bite into it. Juices flowing over my recently healed tongue. After the awful elixir its so delicious I have to hold back my tears. Eyes widen around me. There is only one seat next to the king, and only one paladin on his feet.

Serves him right. Let Eruth wait on me. Tis a crying shame I can't drag out this moment.

“My name is Athlasar, heir of none, and a first rate Paladin.”

Half the paladins grin at the cheek, they all outrank me, both in wisdom and levels. Ten seems to be a single order of magnitude larger than one, except levels are nonlinear, a level five is closer to twenty five times my ability, while a level ten would be closer to a hundredfold. If resurrection could even be held in comparison against healing. Moreover, levels are only raw ability, all heroes possess items. From Eruth’s maul of giant strength, to the bandolier of fresh healing potions across Lark’s chest, to the King’s Crown of Dominion. All are enhanced.

“Heir of None? You are the crown prince.” Says King Erdian, sipping red wine from a silver chalice.

Alcohol tickles my nose, reigniting the fire in my guts. Aftershocks of the elixir melt through my courage, subverting my confidence before I’ve begun, as if Athlasar is watching from the afterlife and disapproves of my plans.

“My father disinherited me moments before my awakening. I have no house to serve and no kin to offer me comfort. The only recourse left to me, is as a Knight Galavant. To fight the King’s foes, wherever they are strongest.”

Erdian smiles, a genuine thing, I'm now the son he always wished to have. “If you’re seeking adoption then one of these braggards ought to suffice.” He says.

I return the smile, never letting it reach my eyes.

“A bit strange, adopting an old goat when I’m so young. No they just won’t do as squires. Not where I’m heading.” I say, rising abruptly.

My chair weeps against the floor, crying out in protest. Laughter once more fills the room at my quip, even Erdian lets out a chuckle, attempting to conceal the royal insult.

“This is the highest table in the land, where would you head from here?” He asks.

“To establish a new line of Kings. A task far easier done from a table of dead orks than a roost of greybeards.” I say, goading the congregation.

We all know this is a celebration of my death. They’ve been caught greasy-fingered by the very man they came to dispose of. Amber ale sloshed in drinking horns, libations given for the King’s good health. None rise to my barb. It’s for the best that they leave me to blabber on. Mistake my insults for bravado. Horns are drained, filled, and drained once more, I take the moments of silence to memorize faces, Eruth and Lark are known, but there are others here, men I must sway or slay before the throne can be taken.

“You are newly awakened, I would consider it a privilege to be your tutor. We’ll be culling ettins in the southern marches, Marquis Whitefield is eager to see our banners.” Begins Lark, calling to me.

I feign apathy. Ettins are too dumb to provide a worthy challenge, and I can’t level up by killing idiots; a lesson Lark clearly hasn’t learned.

“When I first found my talents I nearly tore my house down. Caused a proper mess, and hurt my wife too. Lucky for us both, I ‘ad a spare pot.” Lark says, breaking the silence to tap on his bandolier.

In way of response I snatch a fork from the table, twanging the tines three times before tossing it in front of Lark. They hum gently, disturbed by my actions yet unbent. Proof that I’m no quarter brained buffoon.

“Let’s just say I’ve had an epiphany.” I say, trying not to leer at his pulsating jugular.

Paladins are not known for speed, there might be a window when I could slash through the paired veins. But that will have to wait. “I’ll be going to the front. Shall I flip a coin? Heads and I go north. Tails and I fight the greenskins.”

Lark shrugs, draining his ale horn.

“I’ll not have a jester ruin my plans.” Snapped Eruth, “If you join me then, mark my words, you will adhere to military discipline. Those are my lands!” Growled the master of Eldarion’s Paladins.

Brows knit as I stare at him. The pizza-shards of door are still in his gray beard, their brown knots so out of place. Gypsy jewels nestled in an aged shawl. I pick a couple out, dropping them to the floor.

“Military discipline eh? That’s easy enough, but we’ll have to get your beard back into uniform first.”

Beer sprays from Lark. An unfortunate casualty of my joke. Yet, his mirth breaks the room, laughter returns in full force, my sins forgotten.

Ruth looks to the king, hoping for support and finding a pensive crown, contemplating how best to skewer the Paladin.

“Eruth was just asking me for the assistance of a junior Paladin. Someone to act in his vanguard. Carry the flag and his orders.”

My smile calcifies, he is asking me to become Eruth’s manservant, to beg for scraps on the fringes of his battles. Yet… It will get me to the battlefield, and give me a reason to kill.

“I’ll not carry any banners, nor should it be asked of a fatherless son.” I say, sticking to my routine. “If those who hear my name find it credible sign of Eruth’s orders, then we are in accord.”

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Strange looks pass between Eruth and Erdian, til the former nods, accepting my service. None voice their disapproval, and for the first time in Athlasar’s life no one offers a lighter task.

Well, it’s a start. Better than being offered the job of watching the camp women.

—

Two months later…

I find myself riding alongside Eruth at the forefront of a hundred warriors, men-at-arms all. Independent warriors hired to put down the greenskin rebellion or sent to reinforce bleeding towns. A much needed relief to the people-

-And cockblocking jerks to me.

Googling eyes watch my every move, the way I button my pants, when I piss in the woods, when I drink, anything I do is watched, analyzed, and aped by the filthy peasants.

“Eruth, why are they-” I gesture behind me, careful to keep my hand hidden from the body of warriors.

Eruth is the sort of man who refuses to lead from anywhere other than the front, along the road I was once dusty enough to inquire why and received only, ‘So I can be the guiding light to my men’. He was such a boyscout. I need to distance myself from him or that resurrecting sun will dim my healing stars.

“Have you ever heard the tale of Falco Dante, Dragonrider?” Eruth asks.

I snort. Of course I’ve heard the tale, every boy hears the tale during the summer solstice. A tradition we keep, Athlasar was forced to memorize the epic, so he could be seen reciting it. Something King Erdian was never competent enough to accomplish. Last of his line only meant that he was the final king of a mediocre line, unable to sire an heir whose accomplishments earned a new lineage. Though King Erdian the sixth had come close when he massacred the forest trolls.

“Yes…” I say.

“They play the role of young Falco.” Eruth says.

My eyes roll. “Copying how I shit isn’t going to awaken them.” I mutter, spurring my charger ahead.

Let them emulate that!

Dust rises behind my hooves, made thrice worse by the hill we’re marching against. Farms or tended woods surround the road, the conclusion of a century’s labor. Peasants worked the fields, with a few lumberjacks moving through the forest, harvesting stored warmth to keep away the winter. A few men cheer as our banners pass, waving their joy at a Paladin’s arrival. I ignore them all, galloping to the road fortress at the hill’s peak.

Tis an old thing of grey stone and worm eaten wood. In truth it is little more than a watchtower and a wall, with scarcely enough room for five wagons. But our mission involves manning this tower, turn it into a road station and supply cache. Orders, men, or food, will all pass from the capital to this tower before being disturbed across the contested lands.

Behind me crests the warhost, Eruth already giving the orders to refurbish the watchtower.

“Break for camp men! Second company clear the fort, get the wagons inside. Third company, put those axes to use and get to clearing the woods. Cut down any cover within arrowshot!”

My eyes glaze over at the orders, as a Paladin I am separate from the companies, duty bound to remain at Eruth’s side.

-”A squad into town. Paladin Athlasar, time to begin your training, head into the woods and break down a tree.” Eruth finishes, turning to me.

I try not to shout, the man is giving me busywork? The power to heal life ending wounds flows through me and he wants me to play lumberjack? I ought to–

–Do as he says. I am not me, not to Eruth. I am Athlasar, playboy princeling.

“Yes sir.” I say, dismounting and drawing an axe out of my storage. “Didn’t think I’d be using this so soon, but a tree is as worthy of chopping as orc necks.”

“No lad, break down a tree. Find the largest tree you can break down with your own hands. Strip it, and bring it here. Call it a secret paladin training technique.” He says.

There is mischief in his eyes, some joke I'm missing. But in the two months we’ve spent marching together have built a tacit truce between us, so the order is obeyed.

I wander into the woods, karate chopping gouges into trees so I can find my way back, and cause its fun. The comical amount of strength my class has bestowed is like a line of cocaine, addictively entertaining. Four inch trees snap too easily, so I press deeper into the woods, there seems to be a mix of ancient trees several feet thick, or saplings that bend when I slap them. More like thirty foot tall fans than woods.

Disturbed by the arboreal menace I've become, a rabbit leaps from the underbrush, sprinting across my path and into the darker woods. He’s pursued by a red tailed fox, who darts between my legs faster than thought. Two beings who have no understanding of what an armored paladin can do, I would have expected more from the fox. Squeals of terror reach my ears a second later, soon silenced by the whip crack of a broken neck. It seems the fox’s gambit paid in rabbits. He risked death for a meal.

“Well played.”

Deeper into the woods I go, never finding a tree I can break cleanly. Four inchers are too fragile, while eight is too thick, it’s like shopping at the Homeless Despot for metric wrenches and only finding freedom units. A result that will only end in sorrow. Similar to the sap dripping over my armor. I’ll be scrubbing for days.

The trees fade around my thoughts, and I find myself in a clearing, there is a yellow tower in front of me, made of straw and covered in a rainbow of signs. Athlasar’s royal education deciphers them easily reading ‘Welcome’ and ‘Open for business’ in dozens of languages, human, elvish, orcish, and dozens of others I hardly recognize.

“How, convenient.” I mutter, deciding that it can’t hurt to take a peek.

After all, Eruth sent me on this errand to get me out of his hair, some window shopping can’t hurt. Tassels hang from the door, shading the interior, strange, since there is also a glowing blue barrier that bars my entry. I know the drill, and drop a single gold coin into an open security drawer

“Oh hidey ho!” Says someone inside.

The magical barrier fades from sight, and in a more composed tone the voice adds, “Welcome to the portal emporium, we sell only the finest of wares here.”

I slip through the curtain of tassels and beads, wondering how many sweaty orcs have touched the same thing. A thought I try not to focus on. Inside the hut is cordoned into zones with velvet ropes keeping visitors away from the walls and most the cabinets.

“We’ve just painted the walls good sir. Please stay within the rope area and I'll be happy to fetch any items you may wish to see.” Says the goblin, bowing twice to me.

He’s a scrawny specimen, short, wearing a tuxedo vest, homespun pants that look like someone’s used underwear and curled shoes that have bells woven into the curl, so he jingles with each step.

Athlasar has unpleasant memories of these emporiums, especially ones run by goblins. They take their name from the portals behind the counter, instant teleportation that allows rare goods to flow between cities and even kingdoms. If you can afford their price.

“I’ve got a number of weapons and armor I would be happy to barter, how is the exchange rate for Eldarion crowns?” I ask, finding an empty table and placing a few extra swords on it.

“Gold is gold, ah,” begins the goblin, his greed curdling into buttermilk at the sight of my offerings. “But we only accept magical weaponry.” He finishes, trying not to call me brokeboi.

His eyes scrunch into beady dots, exerting a preposterous amount of effort to avoid insulting me.

“Ha, you haven’t been at this very long have you?” I say, exchanging my spare blades for a bag of gold and pouring it out onto a scale.

Lead bricks are used to counterbalance the gold, I deliberately drag out the ritual, placing them and counting aloud to drive my point home.

“-six, seven, eight, and just shy of a ninth.”

If the greedy little twat heard me, he doesn’t show it. Saliva is pooling at the corners of his mouth, literally drooling at the sight of gold. My bounty only represents a few hundred coins, a sum that should be commonplace… I give the gold a sidelong glance. Athlasar was the crown prince, he has no reckoning when it comes to the value of gold.

“Hey squinch, how much does a mana potion cost.”

“Ah, depends on quality sir, our standard pots cost the equivalent gold as two lead bars. While the greater pots are four bars.” He squeaks.

That little quirk of balance is why Lark carried a bandolier of the cheap kind, or maybe because he liked the taste and never really thought his life was in danger. Considering his level, that was probably the truth. Even a greater potion wouldn’t restore a fourth of his overall vitality.

Squinty Mcgoblin verges on tears as I balance the scale, removing gold coins and stacking them neatly in front of myself. Five coins to a stack, like a low stake game of poker. I have to pinch myself, each coin is solid gold, these little stacks represent a few pounds of gold. Hundreds of thousands of dollars. Man, inflation really screws with economies, oh well. It’s not like I’ll care if I ever make it back.

I nod at the goblin, “You ever taste a mana pot?”

“I’d never sample my own wares! What kind of charlatan do you take me for?” He cries, holding a hand over his heart in offense.

“Stow the performance for someone who hasn’t dealt with your kind before.” I say, laughing as he winces.

This particular goblin is young, clearly inexperienced and nothing like the ones I used to snack on. Goblin tastebuds are nothing at all like a humans, so they end up eating things people would consider, abso-fuking-lutely disgusting. The same way they taste.

“Hey, give me the worst tasting pots you have.” I say, smiling as he produces two corked bottles.

Each is the size of a short necked beer bottle, full to the brim with a deep blue fluid. They’re sealed with cork and a coating of wax, long term storage. More than that, it’s a mark of quality. Rotten potions would offgas and pop their seals, whereas smooth beeswax accents the blue potion.

The little runt didn’t try to swindle me, that’s good. Deeply surprising, and something I can’t help but pick at. One glance around the shop and I see dozens of items on display. Bracers that deflect arrows automagically, shields that dance around their users, and even a vorpal zweihander all six feet of it. I’m envious, but not nearly tall enough to carry that around. Conversely, there are pricetags on everything, even if I could haggle a goblin down, those cost thousands of gold. One tap to my pouch tells me I've got less than two hundred coins left.

Goblin ears flap at my pouch’s jingle, his face falls.

“Of course you’re a broke paladin.” He groans, lifting his arms as the shelves and items rearrange themselves. Display cases sprout legs and walk into the back, replaced by cases of -more affordable- trash. Nothing here is worth my time. Sure everything is magical and valuable, but I don’t plan on being a level one Paladin for long.

“Cmon, don’t be like that. My name is Athlasar, son of Mienhas Erdian the ninth.”

“Ha, Last of his line. Puts the crown prince in an awkward position.”

“Superstitions aside, I will take the throne one day. How about you open a line of credit for me. Keep the future king indebted to you.”

At the mention of credit the goblin’s nose wrinkles, his whole face screwing up into a pickle. As if he just watched me piss into his beer.

“Sure, you get me a free pass to a temple and we have a deal.” He sneers.

I roll my eyes, we both know that’s not how it works, temple resurrection requires twice your bodyweight in gold. And a finger. Or some other significant but not too important piece of you.

An anvil in the corner catches my eye, it carries a sign that says “WE FUSE MAGIC ITEMS!”

That service could be useful, assuming I acquire a weapon I want to keep and find a second enchanted weapon, dual wielding is for games, not real life. Far easier to fuse items rather than carry two greatswords. Or fuse two breastplates together instead of stick with old gear.

“How about this, I’ll sell you my permission. You can take this now for the price of three gold.” Says the goblin, tossing an enchanted shield my way.

It flies through the air, rotating exactly into the right position to slid onto my outstretched hand. As if it wishes for me to be it’s bearer. Reassuring weight settles on my forearm, I know this is a trick, but I’m feeling agreeable, this goblin is next to my supply lines, I’ll probably see him again. If only to parade some orc skulls on my way home. Three gold coins clatter onto the table and I head for the door.

“And we were having so much fun. If it’s discovered that you befriended the crown prince only to stab me in the back, why, the King would have to embargo every emporium in the nation. At least until a thorough investigation could eb competed. He might even have to build walls around your shop to prevent accidents.” I say.

He blinks, fingers moving rapidly as he alters the spell. My hand touches the bead curtain and instantly lightens. The shield is gone, teleported back to its display case.

“You wouldn’t dare embargo us!” Snaps Mcgreedy.

I find my was back to him, leaning in close enough to whisper.

“Mienhas Erdian would throw up mountains so tall that not even dragons can fly to you. Then fill them with an eternity of cowshit.”

He swallows, uncertain if I’m bluffing.

“Hey, I don’t make the rules big man. No credit. No refunds. Gold before goods. Thems da rules.”

He is so squishable, I could reach out and rip his head off his tuxedo-vested chest. See if his slippers still jingle then! One glance at my quest keeps me on the straight and narrow. A ‘just and honest king’ wouldn’t go around murdering salesmen, no matter how skeezy. Besides, he’d just get replaced.

“What’s your name?”

“Uh, Grinickel sir.” Says the goblin.

“Grinnickel? Nice to meet you, I’ll be back. Might even bring some gold then. You can keep your permission.” I say, waiving as I depart.

On my way out the door I catch sight of my earlier footprints, the hut has crawled several feet towards the watchtower, as if its heading towards customers. Doubtlessly on its way to sell arms to the orcs. Its locomotion is provided by a series of five inch thick stilts, the perfect width for Eruth’s little quest. I consider breaking a couple off, but knowing the wards that are on this hut they would probably end up elbow deep in my anus. Best to leave them alone.

“I hate emporiums.”

It’s a short trip back to Eruth after settling for a four incher and stripping it down. A failure i’m deeply pleased to endure, because he breaks the log in half and uses it to teach me ‘fencing’. A sort of violent sparing where we beat each other until our logs shatter into matchsticks. Useful kindling for the spectating footmen who stand in awe of two idiots ‘shword-fighting’ with trees. To some this could be the greatest dick measuring contest they’ve ever seen. For others, it’ll be their last day alive.