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Ch 24: Reign On My Parade

The walk to Saltkrow Keep was exhausting at this hour, doubly so without shoes. The soldiers and the retinue of the knights were all grumpy and exhausted too, recently returned from a trip to the northern border to clear dangerous beasts.

Hallvar rode up the castle lift with Hurst and Kennard and their staff. While the adventurer was too tired to feel a normal, healthy fear from being arrested, they did feel their apprehension intensify as they looked out over the open expanse of dark, star-dotted sky and the pitch-black rocky landscape below. One trip into the thin railing meant certain death.

Yet, the fear was undercut by the not-so-quiet bitching from the soldiers.

“The rest of the year?” One asked of the capital-wide brothel ban.

“She’s bluffing.”

“No,” stated the Knight Kennard with a sigh. “It’s a rule. Mercenaries and soldiers alike are not permitted to hunt within brothel land. She will spread word to every brothel in the capital by sunrise.”

“How do you know?”

It was a reasonable question, Hallvar thought. They were simply trying to keep a low profile, staring out into space and maintaining what little dignity they had left.

The Knight Kennard answered bluntly. “Dennis pulled a drunk out of Dove’s Den in Whitwater, without permission of the proprietor. Was banned for three months.”

A low whistle came from behind Hallvar.

“So why this guy?” A logical conclusion of the discussion. “Hey, what did you do?”

Hallvar tensed but didn’t answer.

The other knight, Hurst, glanced back at the adventurer, who desperately avoided eye contact.

“Whatever it was, it was worth burning an entire company for,” Hurst stated drily.

The lift ride ended shortly afterward, all staff sent on their way to clean armor, polish swords, and collapse into their cots.

Hurst and Kennard acted on orders – or maybe protocol? – and brought Hallvar to an actual, real-life dungeon. They looked at the barred cells and assortment of manacles with growing trepidation.

Couldn’t be worse than an outhouse at a swampy research cabin, right?

Wrong.

After Hallvar was fitted for manacles, the knights opened a thin door in the corner. It had enough space for an adult of standard height to hunch uncomfortably, which meant that Hallvar was immediately distressed by the low ceiling.

They were shoved in, ass first, with only a half-hearted, “sorry” as an indication.

Their back slammed against the hard stone; the door slammed too, informing Hallvar that this space was designed to be cramped. The closed door forced their knees up into their chest, making it close to impossible to rearrange all the squished limbs. Hallvar could stand, with great effort, but for what? To hunch over for hours? Or would they sit here, crunched up like a doll, feet falling asleep?

Why were they stuck in a fucking hole when there were open-air cells available?

It was stifling. No light, no space, barely any elbow room, wrists shackled together.

Hallvar fought to gain any inch of comfort, pretending for their own sanity that this was a shitty airline whose new seating concept was “torture box.”

They closed their eyes to try and trick their brain into dozing, opening up a system-archived book on beasts for the second time and skimming the contents.

Hallvar awoke to a sudden jolt.

The door had been ripped open, their legs falling out in tingling pain. They didn’t get time to wake up; a soldier grabbed the manacle chain and yanked them along. Stumbling on pins and needles up flights of stairs, down corridors, past courtiers or whatever court people were called.

After a turn through a subtle, near-hidden hall, the adventurer understood what was happening.

A tall set of ornate double doors awaited at the end of a highly decorated hallway. Plush carpets and massive tapestries lined the stone walls, only interrupted by impressive windows with stained glass flowers embedded along the edges.

Everything had unicorns on it. Absolutely everything.

The door handles were shaped like the curved forelegs of the beasts, each side mounted with a huffing equine figure above.

The thrones were gilded. The largest central throne had two reclining unicorns at the base, as if they were relaxing near the enthroned ruler.

A man awaited the prisoner on the smaller throne, lounging legs crossed in relaxation. He was too far away to see in detail, but the rays of stained-glass colored light fell across onlookers as Hallvar passed.

A lady in a neatly fitted waistcoat stood near the entryway, her hip jingling with chained objects – scissors, a magnifying glass, keys. Staff, undoubtedly.

On one side of the room were the seated heroes and a few others standing around, observing. Their handlers?

A scholar sat at a desk in a nook, recording this for posterity.

Closest to the throne.

A stout man with a sheathed sword, plain hilt, and an ornamental breastplate but no other armor. Dressed quickly when summoned but not properly. Was it early?

A lithe elder… person with glasses, holding a large book. A flower symbol, so vode? But it was a dandelion puffball, or something similar. They seemed entirely nervous, glancing at the throne then back to Hallvar, muttering something quietly to a third figure.

Anton. The Court Mage.

These were the advisors.

attribute increased: awareness +1

Hallvar was pulled to the front before they could assess much more, adrenaline making perception easier and quicker, as if panicked. No time to celebrate the stat increase.

If Hallvar had a nemesis, it was… well, it was Leon. If they had a second nemesis, it was King-Consort Cyciphos.

Calling him old was true. Decrepit, less so. It would have been easy, boring fodder if Hallvar’s un-met enemy was old, ugly, and senile. A low-blow, movie depiction of evil as abnormal.

Instead, Cyciphos was white-haired in his late age, a short militaristic cut with a swooping mustache and jaw-defining beard. The lines were heavy on his tanned face, but his eyes were bright and cutting. Unhinged, but mentally present.

The man had to be in his seventies or eighties at bare minimum, but he looked strong and sharp still.

Damn, there went Hallvar’s plan to Hulk-out and defeat the evil not-king.

Instead, the adventurer silently recited their instructions as the soldier announced the prisoner’s arrival.

Don’t die. Buy time. Don’t sell out your friends. Endure.

Cyciphos spoke in a stern tone, as he addressed Hallvar. “You are brought before me accused of assaulting the princess Citarina prior to the jousting tournament. What do you say?”

This was the guilty, not guilty bit. Did Hallvar not get a trial by their peers? Would those be the cityfolk or the heroes?

At charisma 10 and awareness 15, Hallvar knew to be polite and agreeable, if possible. Yet, like with Viktor, Hallvar couldn’t summon real fear here. Stage fright. Hesitation. Awe. But not fear. What did that mean? Surely that wasn’t the appropriate reaction.

They felt fear during the tarrusmaw attack. Why not now?

“Is she not here?” They began slowly. “Am I supposed to be condemned for allegedly injuring a girl who doesn’t care enough to confront me?”

So much for politeness.

The system sparkled. What? Why?

Cyciphos launched into said condemnation. “So you did injure the princess.”

Hallvar huffed, exhausted and through with this shit. Why did the other heroes get to roll in luxury while Hallvar begged for permission to survive?

“I threw a rock at a moving carriage, which I did not know had the princess inside.”

“Yet you hit her.”

Fuck, they were going to get themselves killed, but the irritation flew out of their mouth unintended.

“Sure, I hit her, but in the same way a seabird intends to shit on a sea captain. It was coincidence, not malice.”

The bespectacled advisor stood to speak. “Sir, that is clear absence of wicked intent, and—”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“Set up an execution at sunset,” came the chilling order.

What?

The stout man was next. “Your Lordship, the princess has not brought this crime to our attention and though the knights fell short of their duties, a life for a scratch is—”

“Silence, Rask. They confessed to the crime, therefore they receive the appropriate punishment.”

It was weird having your pronouns respected by the man who ordered your execution.

Stunned, Hallvar glanced at the heroes. Was this really happening? The shock on Gryphon’s face said that yes, it was real. The mage girl looked sick. Hallvar couldn’t actually focus on the archer, which had to be a skill or a spell. Leon looked… fucking smug.

Hallvar went through a string of expletives in their head at the princely hero.

They breathed in. Out.

Don’t die. Buy time. Endure.

“I will apologize to the princess if that is what it takes, but—”

Hallvar’s calm, reasonable offer was cut off by a silence affliction. Ten minutes remaining.

With growing fury, they activated [ skill: trap breaker ] and continued, undeterred.

“But I demand an audience with the Queen before any judgment is reached.”

The King-Consort’s gaze settled on Hallvar as if seeing the adventurer for the first time rather than looking through them.

“You will be executed at sunset.”

The silence affliction befell them once more. Hallvar was beginning to think it was the King-Consort’s doing.

The reset timer on [ skill: trap breaker ] was ticking downward, but still a long ways off.

emergency situation: Use skill at cost of 33% of health, stamina, and magic?

Hallvar felt the cost hit them like a punch to the gut. They squared their shoulders, stood up straight, and thanked the system for their endurance.

“I will speak to the Queen, unless you want to explain to your wife that you not only lost a hero, but then you executed the found hero over a fucking scratch.”

The supposed hero had the full attention of the room now. They didn’t take their eyes off of Cyciphos; they weren’t losing this pissing match to a shitty wannabe king.

The King-Consort merely silenced the adventurer once more. Did he have infinite charges?

“Sir,” the vode advisor tried again. “Perhaps we should—”

“Windhelm, your counsel is not needed.”

The Court Mage did not speak. Was he avoiding Hallvar? Would he watch the adventurer die?

A voice sounded from behind. Gryphon.

“Your lordship, this is—I mean, we should check, sir. They may lie, but—” The brawler was suddenly silenced, mouth opening and closing like a fish in shock.

Hallvar suddenly understood why Anton did not protest.

“Take them to the holding cell and make arrangements,” Cyciphos ordered.

Out of options, Hallvar forced another [ skill: trap breaker ]. They felt weak on their feet with only a third of anything left.

“Get an Archivist. My place of origin is listed as—”

Silence.

A soldier grabbed Hallvar’s arm to pull them away. The adventurer used what communication was available to them and flipped the King-Consort a double-bird, shackle chains jingling lightly.

As they were dragged off, Hallvar extended the birds to Leon, who scoffed.

Gryphon reached out for the mage and archer with a frantic patting motion, wide-eyed and pointing, raising his middle finger.

The archer caught on quickly – their specialty was awareness, no doubt – and they stepped into the middle of the throne room, bowing to the King-Consort.

“Your Lordship, if I may?”

Cyciphos waved a hand in begrudging permission. “If you must, Hero Sivanos.”

Hallvar wondered how the advisors felt if the heroes were given more weight in decisions than the people literally employed to give advice.

“That gesture of raising the middle finger is from our culture,” Sivanos stated plainly. “A certain region, but ours nonetheless.”

“So they learned it from you,” the King-Consort added dismissively.

“No, your Lordship. It is not common where I come from, nor where Gryphon is from. I cannot speak for the others, but I am certain we did not teach it.”

Sivanos’ deference and status as a hero – an obedient one – served them well.

“Hero Leon?”

The oh-so noble Leon stood with a flourish of a cape and bowed. Ugh.

“I would not dream of committing such vulgarities, your Lordship; however, I must protest this line of questioning. This alleged “hero” was claimed by members of the Adventurer’s Guild in a conflict where I was threatened and assaulted. I would sooner believe that this is their plot, than accept that the assailant of princess Citarina is the fifth hero.”

A quiet fell, broken by a small, shy voice.

“I didn’t teach anyone that, Your Majesty.” The mage hero vouched for Hallvar too.

“A plot from the Guild,” Cyciphos intoned, as if entranced by the option. Nothing else mattered when Leon’s charisma pressed a tempting idea into the King-Consort’s mind.

Son of a fucking bitch. So much for not selling out the guild. Well, if Cyciphos intended to blame the guild, Hallvar could take their head off of the chopping block.

They were close to the entrance door, the soldier pulling them along despite the debate. Orders were orders.

Hallvar activated [ skill: bull rush ] and shouldered the soldier to the ground, slipping in their socked feet as they did. They used the borrowed time to awkwardly dig in their cloth pocket tucked under their waistband, pulling out the metal guild card and handing it frantically to the startled staff lady.

More guards rushed forward and grabbed them, forcing them to their knees in submission. Hallvar looked over at the woman, silently pleading for help.

She read the metal card and gasped. Without delay, she stepped forward to face the King-Consort’s throne, curtseying and placating the irritated Cyciphos. “Your Lordship, please forgive my intrusion. The card says hero of Amnasín.”

Hallvar knew they won.

Part of the date included a lot of questions about Stella and her life, dipping into guild work and her system magic every so often. The metal of the guild cards was special, able to be altered repeatedly. Other institutions used cards like this, but the guild card was best known to the public.

A system mage could alter an individual’s stats and other details, but they couldn’t forge information. They couldn’t force the system to inscribe false numbers or names. The system was visual-internal; it, by its own nature, could hear everyone’s thoughts.

Changed names had to be changed with sincerity and earnestness, not as an attempt to hide and lie.

The place of origin could not be changed, no matter what.

“What is the meaning of this?” Cyciphos demanded. “Windhelm, assess.”

The advisor stood, opening their mouth to agree and bow, but no sound emerged. They cleared their throat, the sound emitting halfway into a cough like a broken microphone.

“Yes, your Lordship.” They gestured for the soldiers to bring Hallvar forward. The marble floor was slippery under the adventurer’s wool socks, but they kept it together.

They observed the scholar now that they were closer. They wore a purple tunic thing, long-sleeved and embroidered, that was covered by a lacework shawl.

Even close, their sex was unclear. Interesting, was this a normal function of intersex traits or a choice? Did this world have magical transitioning?

“Do I have your permission to observe your attributes and skills?”

Right, they had to have consent to see anything other than the stats. Hallvar pointed up to their throat. Silenced.

The scholar’s eyes – an odd purple – flicked over to the King-Consort. “Your Lordship, I need verbal agreement from the prisoner.”

The silence lifted.

Hallvar grunted, stifling the urge to insult. “Attributes, personal details, and [ hero skills ] . Nothing more. That should b—”

The silence fell.

The supposed hero turned their gaze to the King-Consort, glowering at the man. The affliction had to be a function of his status as royalty or whatever he was called. That was the only thing that made sense.

Hallvar settled down, watching the scholar parse through invisible data. Their eyes fell on the patch, a dandelion puffball or this world’s equivalent.

Lifting their hands, Hallvar reached to examine the symbol. Soldiers shifted nearby in defense of the advisor; Hallvar stopped for a moment then continued when the people with the swords settled down.

They poked the symbol gently, looking up at the scholar. Windhelm’s eyes focused back on the adventurer, raising an eyebrow.

“Ze and hir, used like she and her,” the scholar said quietly but not rudely.

The proof was evident; it wasn’t Hallvar’s fault they didn’t know the different varieties of vode as a hero.

Ze turned to the King-Consort, bowing. “It is true, your Lordship. The presence of the place of origin is enough to confirm, but a [ hero skills ] category is impossible to deny.”

There weren’t enough people in the room for a murmur to be cast over the crowd. Hallvar envisioned one anyways, feeling satisfied with this small win. How did that little shitbag Leon feel now?

The King-Consort stared down Hallvar like a prized horse that just shit at the finish line – with great disdain but regretfully tied to the fool by fates.

The commander Rask stood, gathering all his dignity. “I must insist, your Lordship, that there be a stay of execution until the Queen returns – or we should consider an outright dismissal, if mercy can be found.”

The room waited for the King-Consort’s decision, even as he contemplated in silence for minutes. Nothing could be done without his verdict.

He spoke: “In exchange for your life, you will swear an oath of service.”

Hallvar watched the seconds tick down on the silence affliction, eagerly waiting to respond.

“Life in service of the Kingdom, or immediate death. Those are your choices, hero. We shall forgive your crimes and your ties to that guild and the traitorous guildmaster; you can begin anew with a life of value and worth in service.”

Three, the advisors shifted uncomfortably.

Two, Anton remained unmoving, undoubtedly listening but unable to respond.

One, Hallvar could hear whispers from behind them, from the heroes.

“Kill me then,” the supposed hero stated, flashing a strained grin.

Cyciphos’ expression dropped from the disdain of a cat who caught a disgusting bug, to outright surprise that his threats failed.

“You heard me,” Hallvar continued, twisting the metaphorical knife. “Kill me. Tell the Queen why there’s only four heroes when she arrives.”

The surprise shifted to outright rage. Hallvar expected it and they were startled. The King-Consort had a temper, then?

Fine. Don’t die. Buy time. Endure.

“You will not speak to me in such a manner. You are a prisoner, and you will remain such until you are willing to hear reason.”

“So, you won’t kill me after all?”

The King-Consort failed to understand who exactly he was dealing with. Hallvar had poor stats and no beasts, no weapons.

But they were taught how to fight by Kiran the Unyielding, known for buying time, drawing blood in small jabs, wearing the opponent down with constant frustration.

And they knew just enough of Guildmaster Viktor to find the most cutting, terrible secrets to push into the light, to sow chaos and bide their time for the perfect strike.

Hallvar smiled in a feral grin, all teeth. “Make up your mind, Cyciphos. Did you forget to tell the other four that we’re property of the state? That you want to steal us heroes from the Queen’s service for your own bid for power?”

“Silence!” The King-Consort demanded, but the affliction didn’t arrive. Oh, so he had a limit.

“What do they mean, property?” That was Sivanos, a hero who was known for fading into the background, following orders and keeping their head down.

Hallvar found another crack to shove a wedge into, expanding this debate into a full-fledged meltdown. The mage hero looked on the verge of tears already.

They faced the heroes, staring directly at Leon as they spoke. “What was your [ final wish ], heroes? To be seduced with wealth, power, fame into becoming a little marionette for the King-Consort to make dance?”

Cyciphos stood, shouting something, but Hallvar was too busy sowing discord among the heroes. They poorly sung a few lines of the song from Pinocchio – “I’ve got no strings, to hold me down, to make me fret, and make me frown” – then proceeded to hum a few more bars in mockery.

“I don’t like this,” the mage said, wiping her eyes and clinging to the brawler.

Gryphon was repressing rage. “We aren’t property. I would oath to the crown but I’m not your fecking pawn to set against the Queen.”

Leon seemed shocked but he was quietly arguing against the new information. “No, of course not. This stranger is here to separate us. He’s clearly an enemy agent, so-”

“BOW.” A loud order came from the King-Consort, and it resonated with magic, not simply command.

Everyone in the room was forced to a knee, regardless of if they were sitting or standing. Heads were bent downward, gazes averted. The rule of the Enthroned class was absolute within the throne’s radius.

Hallvar was left standing, soldiers kneeling around them as they gazed at the King-Consort without fear.

“New title unlocked: Defiant.” The 5th hero read out nonchalantly from their system notification. “Unaffected by social challenges made on the basis of authority or perceived superiority. Requirements: Attempt to resist challenges from 5 figures of authority; Endurance 15; Luck 1.”

Hallvar watched Cyciphos’ chest heave as he fought to retain control of his emotions. Eventually, he sat back down. The command to bow faded and soon people shuffled back into their former positions.

“Take them to the pillory for the night.” The old man ordered. The soldiers jumped to action, eager to leave this terrifying meeting.

“Perhaps it will change their mind on service or death.”