The wall was joined by another, and then floors, ceilings, and even openings for doors and windows. With the mixture of gemstones, the finished palace resembled a brightly colored polished marble rather than the translucent crystals most thought of. Perhaps due to the influence of Mr. Mischief himself, the main color was blue with other colors beautifully marbled inside it. After Storm’s addition of a crystilium coating it was a tantalizing but impenetrable fortress.

“Incredible,” Storm muttered, looking at the finished product.

“Of course,” Mr. Mischief replied with a smug smirk, “Now, you have some explaining to do. If I am going to rule a kingdom, I had better know how to rule it.”

Storm’s attention snapped back to him from the palace of gemstones. “A wise decision, but surprisingly not a common one,” he commented, before beginning his explanations.

“Qilin is a kingdom that was founded by an assassin and his master. Naturally, as all kingdoms in Althaedor, it follows all of Althaedor’s laws on the surface. However, the main difference in our laws is the existence of assassins, and the role of the ruler. Rather than actually running the kingdom, you have the right to forgive any crimes or transgressions, and punish anyone you see fit.”

Mr. Mischief noticed Storm skimming over the bit about how he became the ruler in the first place. “And how did I become this ruler?” he asked.

With some hesitation, Storm began to explain the Succession Rites of Qilin. “In short, you are Favored by the assassin that deposed the previous ruler.”

The word ‘deposed’ had a strong hint of death attached to it, but Mr. Mischief did not dig farther for now. “And I am your only favored?”

“You are,” Storm confirmed.

“Meaning that those vying for the throne are going against the laws of Qilin,” he finished, “Very well. Let’s do some cleaning. I can squeeze the rest of this information out of you later.”

“There is one more thing you should know,” Storm warned before Mr. Mischief could leave, “A ruler’s reign always lasts until their death.”

Was he trying to prevent Mr. Mischief from shoving the responsibility on someone else? He hadn’t even considered it. The drawbacks of ditching the responsibility were far greater than the relief he might get. Besides, he had taken his third disguise just for this. He couldn’t waste it.

“Lead the way,” he ordered.

Storm paused, then picked Mr. Mischief up. “You may wish to use magic to protect yourself,” he warned.

Mr. Mischief barely had enough time to conjure a shielding aura for himself before Storm took off at an impossible speed. Rather than himself, he was glad he had thought to protect his hat or he would have lost it in an instant. Just in case, he found himself holding his mask closer to his face.

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Storm stopped with just as strong of a jolt as he had begun, setting Mr. Mischief down on the paved road outside the castle of Qilin. As far as first impressions went, Mr. Mischief judged the area to be too dreary. There was a distinct lack of color in the surroundings, and what little decor there leaned more to the side of intimidation. Or perhaps he only found them intimidating because he knew the true nature of the place.

He poked one of the pointed gates to see if it was as sharp as it looked and came away with his finger bleeding. The burst of magic he felt course through him warned him that it was poisoned as well. “This place doesn’t seem very friendly,” he commented, “Are you even trying to hide the fact that you are assassins?”

“Most people don’t stab themselves on the first gate they see,” Storm pointed out, “It mostly protects the king.”

Mr. Mischief idly wiped his finger on a spare scrap of cloth from his pocket. “So where are these upstarts?”

“They are likely in the throne room. Most of them are useless rabble but there is one strong enough to have her own title among them. She is most likely the ringleader.”

“A title?” Mischief asked.

Storm grimaced. “Those assassins who perform flawlessly are often given names by their direct superiors, or even the ruler. They are all ridiculous, but it is a sign of a strong assassin.”

“So you have one?”

“Had one. I am Storm now,” Storm replied, and quickly tried to refocus on the would-be usurpers. “Hers is Lady Bracelets.”

Mr. Mischief immediately agreed with Storm’s sentiment that the names were dumb. Why even bother giving them a title if you were going to call them that?

“Why doesn’t she just go by something else too?” he asked.

“She does have a name, but she doesn’t go by it. What kind of assassin gives away their identity?”

Mr. Mischief almost said ‘You,’ but thought better of it. He didn’t need to turn his one potential ally in this situation against him. The poison immunity would certainly help, but he would have to work a lot harder if he wished to not die in a place like this.

Storm led the way to the throne room, where a woman boldly sat on the empty throne. Given how her arms were loaded with countless bracelets, Mr. Mischief assumed that she must be Lady Bracelets. Somehow this only made the name more lame. Had there been any imagination at all? Around her were a few others, but like Storm had said, they didn’t seem to be very strong.

“Well now, the mysterious Favored actually exists,” Lady Bracelets said with a smirk, “I was beginning to think that our Silver Devil was bold enough to claim the throne for himself.”

“My name is Storm,” he instantly corrected, “And I would never do something so bothersome. In fact, my Favored has graciously offered me the opportunity to retire.”

Mr. Mischief certainly did not remember doing that, but he wasn’t going to correct Storm here. An assassin retiring was probably a good thing. “That’s right,” he confirmed, “That was how I won him over.”

Lady Bracelets gave him a skeptical look. “Do you have any idea how things work in Qilin? No one retires here unless it is by death. Are you saying you are going to kill him?”

“Of course not,” Storm told her, “I found someone from the outside on purpose. As our new king, he will graciously allow me to ignore that little rule and I will be allowed to retire naturally. I think working for three hundred years was more than enough.”

Three hundred years?! Mr. Mischief failed to keep his shock in check. He wasn’t sure if he was surprised by the age, the lifespan, or the common life expectancy of an assassin. In retrospect, he definitely should have known that Storm wasn’t human, but the thought had never crossed his mind. He couldn’t just stand here and think about it, though. He needed to show his power as the new king.

“That isn’t the only change I will be making,” he announced, “I have built a new castle, one more suited to my taste. Feel free to play pretend here and waste all of your time. I have a new festival to invent.”

“A new festival?” Lady Bracelets asked, somehow more shocked by that than the castle declaration.

“Yes. I think this kingdom could use more cupcakes.”

At his second self-assured declaration, Mr. Mischief strode out of the hall with all the confident air of an emperor who had just conquered a small nation. While it was true he wasn’t particularly nervous, he was keenly aware that he had no idea how to fulfill the promise he had just made. How did one go about establishing a festival with brightly colored cupcakes in a kingdom so boring a drab?

Storm caught up quickly, bearing a wide grin of his own. “Now that I am retired as an assassin, I should work more closely with you,” he prompted.

He was probably trying to get hired at Soral’s clothing shop, but another idea occurred to him instead. “That’s wonderful news. Have you ever thought of joining a small mercenary group?”

“Mercenary?” Storm asked, taken by surprise again, “Why not? I can at least help you grow your little group until it gets large enough to stand on its own.”