High in the holy caverns, the monks of the order of Tenatun, Shilvar, Alvar, and Genus, gathered. The trio leaned over a scrying bowl where, in the dark water’s reflection, rippled the image of Svorbald and Matthis. The two men had met and in doing so had put into motion events that would see the death of tens of thousands. Events that had been in the making since the last time the Devallah were called upon. Soon the enemy would return, crossing the schism that separated Verma from the rest of the dead and burned wasteland that had once been a thriving continent, and bringing destruction to man.

And Matthis and Svorbald were supposed to stop them.

Shilvar found it quite amusing, really. They were a sorry duo, and yet in a short period of time the two of them had taken over most of the old town’s underworld. Only a few gangs opposed them now, united under the one they called Three Silvers. A gang war was coming to Vermasse, and Shilvar had to admit he was quite excited to see it play out. Matthis had done well to conquer so much territory so quickly and Shilvar was impressed by the madman. He was deeply cunning. Taking over the resources of various gangs by paying each with the money of the next and claiming it to be the profit of his investments in order to being in new gangs? Simply brilliant. Now Matthis had enough men he didn’t need to return the funds he had ‘borrowed’ instead using it to hire the henchmen of the gang he had taken it from.

It really was brilliant.

Svorbald, on the other hand, was not much of a thinker. However, the man was an absolute force of nature He had quickly become a feared name in Old Town, beating down every champion the other gangs had thrown at him, despite being drunk for more than half the fights. When his berserker rage took over, he was nigh unstoppable. Shilvar saw potential in the two.

Alvar and Genus did not.

“Are these really the two chosen by the Deck?” Genus grumbled.

“They are monsters,” agreed Alvar.

“Monsters are what we will need in the times to come,” Shilvar replied quietly.

“Nonsense! We will need heroes,” Genus argued.

Shilvar was too tired of this argument to point out that one person’s hero was another’s monster. Besides, it took a monster to win a war. Not that Alvar or Genus knew anything about soldiering. “Then perhaps the deck will give us heroes this time around,” he said instead.

“Let us hope,” said Alvar with feeling. He winced as he saw Svorbald knock a towering brute unconscious in the water of the scrying bowl. “The Fasthand champion has fallen. Matthis now controls all of the east of the Old Town.”

“He took seven gangs in less than a month,” Shilvar said. “That is impressive.”

“If you say so. Did you know Gravine the Paladin was a nobleman of the Karikari? Shante the Golden was a cousin of the great emperor himself.”

Shilvar shook his head. The previous Devallah had long since passed from the world yet still these fools longed after them and spoke of them as if they were demi-gods. As if Gravine had never spent the night with a whore, or Shante had never had to shit in the woods! Besides, if the emperor had been so great then why was his empire now a burned wasteland, his people nothing but dust and ash?

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Genus and Alvar had no idea about the real world. Matthis was insane, shallow, and self-serving. Yet, he was strangely fearless and single-mindedly ambitious. Svorbald was an idiot with zero ambition. But he would stand against anyone and anything — and win, more often than not. What more could they ask from their chosen?

“Let’s hurry this up,” Shilvar said. A new full moon had come about, which meant the next two cards were due to be drawn. “It is time.”

The trio approached the stone plinth that sat atop the rocky ledge. From here the city of Vermasse was barely visible, its distant lights creating a soft glow on the horizon. The dark cards were already there, waiting in the moonlight. Dezem Bak dan Devallah. The Deck of Champions. Shilvar drew a deep breath as he approached. This was not a task he looked forward to. Each drawing only moved the day of mankind’s extinction closer. Yet without the drawing, mankind had no hope whatsoever.

Atop the ledge, the air was cool and fresh and smelt of pines. The trio took a moment to enjoy the world around them. The last drawing had not been encouraging, and Shilvar could feel the hesitation in his colleagues. He hoped the next two Devallah were princes. He’d even settle for a duke or two. Anything to stop the incessant moaning of Genus and Alvar.

Shilvar straightened his shoulders. It did not matter. The gods would make their choice and man would abide by it.

“Draw,” commanded Genus.

Shilvar hid his irritation. The man believed his age gave him some sort of authority over the group. It did not. Shilvar shot Genus an annoyed look, yet reached for the first card anyway. As he did so, he stumbled a little. His fingertips struck the deck and two cards tumbled from atop the pile. They fell facing upwards, their images visible in the bright light of the moon.

Alvar gasped. “What… what does it mean? Should we draw again?”

“We cannot,” Shilvar replied. “You know the rules.”

“But—” Alvar began to protest.

“Quiet!” Genus hissed. “Look at the cards. This was no mistake. A pair has been drawn. And it is good news. Good news indeed!”

Shilvar gazed down at the cards. Genus was right. It could not have been a coincidence that these two cards had fallen, for they belonged together.

The first card showed a bow. Though Shilvar knew its meaning to be less literal. The bow was the engineer. It did not kill, it simply instructed. It was the guiding hand. It was the sign of a thinker and a planner. Shilvar hoped it to be a spymaster. Or a general. A general would be good.

The arrow was death. Swift and lethal, it followed the bow’s orders. Once released, it was impossible to stop. The arrow was said to be a great and deadly warrior. In the past, it had been represented by Alias the Swift, a legend of the Devallah. Shilvar was relieved to see its image on the second card. But who in the world today could be the equal of Alias the Swift, arguably the greatest sword master of all time? Surely Shilvar would have heard of such a warrior.

“It seems fate has been kinder with this second drawing,” mumbled Genus. “It is time for me to head back into the world and guide our new Devallah.”

Alvar nodded his head enthusiastically, while Shilvar only grunted.

Fate may well have been kinder, but would it be enough to defeat the evil that was growing within the city of Vermasse? Shilvar doubted it. A thousand Alias the Swifts might be able to save humanity, but not four Devallah of questionable quality. Matthis had already encountered one of the enemy at the sanatorium of that whoreson Lapis. And, though he did not know the nature of the enemy, his instinct had still been to run. Devallah or not, if the chosen had any sense they would all flee from what was coming.

Shilvar sighed. It did not matter. They were all at the mercy of fate's fickle hand. At least Shilvar had a great seat from which to watch whatever was to come. Turning his back on his colleagues he returned to the warmth of the cave and the honey mead that waited there.