King Alban III was a big man. Not big as in fat, no, just… big. Everything about him seemed to have been magnified with the help of a magnifying glass. At two meters and fifty, he was the tallest human in the world. Once upon a time there were whispers that he had Giant’s blood flowing in his veins, but that was quickly disproved. He was one hundred percent human, with human parents and no giants whatsoever among his ancestors going back thirteen generations. And had he gone even further back, the most he would have discovered was that one of his great great great… you get it, grandmas had a lot of intimate relationships with giants. But nothing had come from them.

Currently, King Alban was sitting on his throne in the throne room of the capital city of Eriman . It was, appropriately, extremely big, but surprisingly simple. One could have called it a big wooden chair and be done with it, because that’s what it was. Sure, it had a comfortable cushion to sit on, and it had been carved by a Level 40 [Carver], using Skills that made the wood more durable and, somehow, helped in keeping one’s concentration, but in the end it was just a chair.

King Alban was, among the [Kings] of his world, what you would call the exception. He was a simple man, who rather preferred spending money on making the lives of his people better than commission a big, useless, chair out of gold that would, most probably, be much less comfortable than the one he was currently sitting on. There was a reason why even other rich people tended not to buy such extravagant decorations.

This opinion alone put the man on a higher level of intelligence than most of his brethren. And yet, he did not flaunt his superiority, both moral and intellectual. He liked to act like any other person when not necessary. He found it funny how dumbfounded most other dignitaries and envoys from other kingdoms looked when, out of the blue, he lifted the mask of the man who let his subordinates do all the work for him, and showed just how much he knew about his country’s affairs. One’d think that, after nearly a decade, someone would learn.

Yet they didn’t, and he capitalized on it.

Still, sometimes he wondered if he was surrounded by idiots in his court as well.

Idiots like the [High Mage] currently standing in front of him, twiddling his fingers nervously behind his back. How did he know that? He had, long ago, had a mirror installed over the entrance door to his throne room. It had been a spur of the moment decision, one of the rare ones he had ever made, but sometimes it came in handy. Not right now. It didn’t take a genius to see that the man in front of him was a walking wreck on mana burn and very close to mana poisoning.

[High Mage] Argus was a much smaller man than his [King]. Well, it really didn’t take much to be taller than him, since he was a dwarf. Normally, he reached no higher than a person’s elbow at best, but with Alban his head was at waist height. He was wearing his usual gear: the typical tunic most [Mages] wore, his of a warm, dark, gray color, just like his eyes, enchanted with [Fire Resistance]. That wasn’t because he was the stereotypical dwarf that worked at a forge and knew everything about metals. Like, yes, he did know a lot about metals, thank you very much and stop being speciesist, but he had put the enchantment there because he had realized that most [Battle Mages] had a penchant for low-mana-cost-high-damage spells like [Fireball] or [Fire Spire] or… well, anything related to fire.

Fire magic was the cheapest in terms of mana cost, with the downside of being extremely complex to learn and cast.

Second to that came lightning magic, but he had other protections and artifacts on his person that could help with that.

Argus was a bit of a generalist: he knew spells from most schools of magic, had an affinity for earth magic, like most dwarves did, and specialized in spatial manipulation spells. He also had an aversion towards death magic and its complete opposite, blood magic. Too convoluted, in his opinion, and he had no interest in entering the eternal debates around the morality of those two schools of magic.

But why then such an accomplished [Mage] was standing in front of his [King] looking so nervous, ready to bolt out of the room with a [Minor Teleportation] Spell? Well, the short answer was, he had fucked up big time.

The long one, well:

"So, let me get this straight. I want to be sure about what you just told me: you executed the ritual precisely as the book stated, step by step. The circle was created, using the materials that were asked for, like ‘melted crystals’ and all that stuff you twinkle fingers like to use. Materials which I spent a considerable part of this month’s budget to obtain, I would also like to point out. Then you did your thing, called upon gods know what to tear apart the veil of reality and open a doorway towards another world, putting at risk the stability of both realities. And then you come here, and tell me that the rite was a success… but you forgot to input coordinates into the spell matrix, and now the people you summoned are somewhere on this planet and we don’t know where.

"And then, as if the world wanted to give us another big middle finger, you’re telling me the spell is no longer working because, apparently, the System decided it needed a cooldown!-

[King] Alban was having the closest thing to an aneurism one could have without dying.

[High Mage] Argus took a step back, then nodded sheepishly: "Yes, your Majesty, apparently the spell was meant to be used a single time. Whoever created it didn’t think we’d be using it more than once. The same goes for the System, apparently."

"And how, in the endless and ever changing names of the Stars, did you not notice you were missing a part of the spell matrix. The most important part, to that."

This question seemed to calm the [Mage] as he sighed and took a leatherbound book out of his bag of holding. The cover was a plain brown, with no title or other sign to show who had written it and what it contained. It was so nondescript that nobody would give it more than a cursory glance. The sensation lingered even now, the book trying to erase itself from his memory and sight, as if trying to make the [King] forget that it was there and could contain anything useful. It was clearly an enchantment of some sort, but no matter how much Argus tried to study the spell’s matrix, he simply couldn’t concentrate enough to give it more than a cursory glance.

"Well, the book is missing a few pages," he said, opening it to the final page, where the spell that was supposed to turn this war around was written. It was a twenty page long explanation on how the summoning circle should be drawn, using which ingredients, at what time of day during which phase of the moon. To the already complex spell, add the fact that the book’s enchantment kept affecting even the reader. It was so mind bogglingly complex it was giving him a headache just looking at it. And, as the [High Mage] turned to the last page, he noticed a detail he hadn’t seen when he had first been shown this book by that strange pair of brothers on a carriage.

The last page had been ripped off cleanly. It was such a clean cut no one would have noticed it without them actively looking for it.

That was, he realized, the point. Someone had done this on purpose, left this to him at such a desperate time, with precisely that flaw in that part of the spell’s matrix. Someone wanted people to come here, in this world, but why not in his kingdom?

Stars, why didn’t they perform the rite themselves? He found it hard to believe that whoever had found this book couldn’t do what he had had his [High Mage] do.

"There’s something fishy here."

"...What are you talking about Your Majesty?"

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"Nothing Argus. Clearly this wasn’t your fault. Not completely. You are free to go. Take the day off, rest, and prepare yourself, we’re leaving for the battlefields in three days."

The [High Mage] sighed and nodded. He had been hoping he wouldn’t be hearing those words. It meant they had failed. It meant they were going to lose. Stupid wars. Why couldn’t the world just learn to live in peace, without that stupid, endless, desire of expansion, that all consuming greed that had led to the destruction of entire races? For what? Something that would collapse sooner rather than later in an endless cycle of infighting and desire for freedom.

The [King] sighed and slumped in his throne. Not a very regal position, but who was there to judge him? His court was either on the battlefields or in their territories, trying to stabilize a crumbling economy and keep the people alive. His [High Mage] had left the room. The [Jester] was in a corner, silently sitting, uncaring. It wasn’t his job to think big. His only job was to make people smile. And he succeeded at that more on the streets than in these gloomy hallways, where the true weight of that war could be felt.

He was alone.

So he let himself slouch.

And he sat there, crown slightly askew on his head, the simple gold catching a stray ray of light, reflecting it on his black robes. His eyes looked around the empty throne room, resting on the landscape outside the large windows, roiling fields of brown, freshly harvested land, with the occasional mounds of hay here and there waiting to be stored away in drier places before the advent of autumn.

Then his eyes fell on the mirror. On his reflection. And he smiled bitterly as he thought to himself: What good is a [King of the People] if he cannot even help his people? I am failing.

He knew that, yet his Class didn’t change. He wasn’t downgraded to some lesser version of the [King] Class, no blood dripped on those words even if his people’s blood bathed the grounds of the battlefields. He stayed the same, and he didn’t know why. He allowed himself to wallow in his sadness, letting the feeling of weakness that had been gnawing at the back of his mind for so long surface for a moment.

And then the [Jester] talked:

"Do not despair, o’ foolish king. For surely, if the gods don’t care about your place upon this world, there are those who are interested."

The man, young yet sometimes older than Alban, was smiling slightly.

"Do you know something I don’t, Manny? Has the Game chosen not to Checkmate me?"

The [Jester] shook his head. No jingling sound filled the room, for he had taken off his hat with those little silver bells. He was passing a hand through his hair, as tired as his [King] apparently.

"I am no Player, young king. [Jesters] aren’t meant to Play. We are meant to smile and make smile, and anyone of us who doesn’t follow this simple rule is unworthy of our Class. No, Alban, I’m just saying that you’re a good [King], and that someone has noticed, has seen through that transparent mask you insist on wearing. Masks are not for [Kings], Alban. They are for [Jesters]. And you’re way too boring to be one of us."

Someone knocked on the door to the throne room. Three knocks, a pause, one knock, another pause, then two more.

Alban’s eyebrows shot into his hairline as he registered the simple code he had taught to his [Attendants]. Every major party in the world, from great kingdoms that had survived longer than a few generations to representatives of the Game had their own code. This way he could know who to expect to meet before they walked into the room. It was a good trick, so simple only the truly sharp noticed it. A trick he had created after realizing how much nations liked to send envoys unannounced to surprise their [Kings]. It happened more often than expected, manners be damned.

Now, that code was for an especially young kingdom that had risen rather recently after a decades long war and, before that, centuries of persecution.

He took the crown off his head and placed it on the armrest of his throne. These people didn’t care about such things. They showed respect only to those that gained it through their actions. So he sat, and hoped for the best, because after the failure that was ritual these people were about to bring another ray of shining hope that he’d endeavor to trap in a box of mirrors, so that it may never stop shining.

The doors opened, and three people walked in.

The first thing anyone would notice about his guests was the color of their skin: green. The same green of a clearing of grass after heavy rain. Dark, but with lighter tonalities here and there.

Following that they would notice the slightly pointed ears and, if the light hit their faces the right way, the red eyes.

And, when they’d eventually smile, their rows of sharp teeth.

Goblins.

They were here.

One of them, at the front, was dressed in simple traveling clothes, white and comfortable, a shortsword at his side and a bag of holding at the other.

The two behind him, instead, wore full plate armor and helmets that left not a single bit of skin exposed. The visors, though, were open, letting anyone in the room see what was under the armor. It would have been more impressive if there weren’t just a [King] and his [Jester] in the room.

"Good morning, envoys of the Goblin Kingdom. I welcome you to the Kingdom of Decora. I hope your travels through my lands were uneventful, even in these trying times."

The goblin in front nodded his head.

"I would like to ask for forgiveness for the… surprise call. But we believed time was of the essence, and you don’t have much. My name is Cremrion Nevres. You may call me Crem, [King] Alban."

"I welcome you and your companions, Cremren Nevres. Since you’ve kindly offered that I call you by this nickname, you may drop the honorifics."

The goblin looked up from his small bow and smiled, flashing his teeth slightly.

"You seem like a no-nonsense man, Alban, so let us skip to the reason I have been sent here. We have noticed your country is at war. We have also noticed that, as of now, your young country hasn’t made a deal with any of the churches of the Gods. You seem to have refused every single one of them. Why is that?"

Alban shrugged:

"They offered assistance and power in the form of trained [Paladins], high level at that, but their conditions were quite unacceptable. Representatives in the war councils? Presence in the kingdom’s politics? Freedom of movement for the College of Memoirs? Too much power to them in the long term, for a small short term benefit."

Crem nodded.

"A good assessment. One that not many make. Most just accept the deal when it is proposed during times of war. Yet, now, your troops are helpless against the endless faith of those zealots. A [Mage]’s mana can and will end, their blind belief won’t."

"That is, indeed, the situation. Have you come here to make me face that reality? Because I have already done so."

"No, Alban. I have come with a proposal. A helping hand, to take you out of this pit of quicksand you’re sinking in."

Alban stared at the goblin for a short while. Then nodded slightly.

"Go on."

"A deal, signed in my presence as envoy of the Kingdom of Goblins, forced over both parties by my Skills and the Goblin King’s own. A pact of mutual help. We shall come for you in these trying times, and you will do the same when someone inevitably attacks us again. We will also give you a few units of our own [Paladins] to help balance the situation and, if need be, a few of our [Strategists]. At the same time, you will allow us to build temples in honor of the God of Dreams and Impossibilities under whose aegis we managed to win our freedom. Only that. No presence in war councils, politics, or such. Merely a reminder of who came in your time of need."

It seemed to good to be real.

Yet his Skills didn’t detect any lie or secondary goal. Only a genuine desire to help.

"Why me?" he simply asked.

The goblin’s smile became just a tad larger.

"Have you any [Diviners] in your court, Alban? Or a [Soothsayer]? Elders, even a two bit [Tea Leaves Reader] should be enough. A new age is coming. An era of change even greater than the Era of Hunts thousands of years ago. And you, Alban, seem like someone capable of change, of accepting and bringing it. We’d like the Era to change faster, and your death would probably make things more difficult."

That was it. Their reason. It was so simple and improbable Alban nearly laughed. Who trusted [Diviners]?

Yet these goblins did, and whether their beliefs were right or wrong, they were offering to help. And that was all he needed to raise himself from the throne, shake the [Diplomat] goblin’s hand, and leave the throne room to discuss things in detail.

So, the [Jester] was the only one left in the throne room. Overlooked. But that was alright. He wasn’t putting on a show, so there was no need for him to be noticed.

He walked behind the throne, and stared out of the grand window. Out and away, towards distant mountains and battlefields.

And all the while, his thoughts kept saying only this:

I’m glad the Brothers Two were dressed in white.