Commerce Emperor Chapter 38: Interlude: The Knights (Patreon)

A/N: Hi guys, for information, the first book of Commerce Emperor (covering the prologue to chapter nineteen) will go on KU in early march and is currently available for preorder. I'll do a larger post a bit later for more details.

---------

Previous Chapter

---------

The brave Knight marched into the throne room.

The faint moonlight filtered through the dusty black halls and reflected on his gilded armor. His footsteps broke the grim silence. The blade of his sword creaked against the stone floor. His lion-helm allowed his eyes to peer into the darkness ahead and its dreadful master.

The dark lord rested on a throne of rusted iron, his skeletal frame clad in pitch-black armor. Twin stars of ghost fire glittered beneath his horned helmet. Like all the soldiers of his cursed land, his flesh had long decayed to dust. Only his longsword, which rested to his right, remained clean and sharp.

The Knight’s eyes wandered to the dark lord’s left. Princess Aleria of Olerth sat there, her hands bound by chains. She remained a fair maiden in spite of her current accommodations, her fair face unblemished by bruises, her clothes cleaned of dust. Her captor at least retained enough chivalry to treat her well. The flame of hope glittered in her purple eyes. The sword of freedom had come to rescue her at last.

“I knew they would send you,” the dark lord said with scornful resignation. “Those rotten people, too fearful to wage their own battles…”

“Release the girl,” the Knight said, his voice booming like thunder.

“Is that why you are here?” The dark lord rested his head on his gauntlet. “Did her father offer you her hand? A duchy mayhaps? Your weight in gold?”

The Knight shook his head. Such promises did not appeal to him. “I seek no other reward than her safety.”

“Is that so?” The dark lord sounded vaguely amused. “What happened to my men?”

“Defeated, all of them.” The Knight’s blade had sliced through their old bones and returned them to nothingness. “Their souls have found rest.”

“By your sword alone? Call me impressed, brave Knight.” The dark lord’s praise sounded genuine enough. “Entire armies cower at the sight of the living dead. Perhaps you will be the true end of me.”

“It shall be my pleasure, and yours as well, I suspect,” the Knight replied. “Is that what you have been reduced to, Ser Garland? A fallen lord ruling a castle of the dead? There was a time when your name inspired trust rather than fear.”

“What is left other than fear, when the people deny you their trust?” The dark lord let out a deep, scornful grunt. “We have fought for the people of this land. Died protecting them. When we rose again in their hour of need, refusing the peace of the grave for the sake of the living, their fickle love turned to scorn. Instead of giving us our just reward, they cast us aside. Called us abominations bereft of the Goddess’ grace.”

Bereft they were. The dead were not allowed to linger among the living. So said the Goddess when she departed this world and entrusted it to her chosen. The duty of returning the departed to the wheel of souls now befell to them in her absence.

“Then allow me to return you to Her embrace.” The Knight raised his sword at the dark lord. “Your long vigil has come to an end, Ser Garland.”

“Or yours, mayhaps.” The dark lord rose from his throne, his hand seizing his sword’s hilt with the slow, cold movement of the living dead. “If you want your prize, Ser Lion, you may come and seize it.”

The Knight answered the duel request in a dash of speed, his adamantine claymore cutting through the air like steel through butter. The metal sang when it met his foe’s blade. Ser Garland was as slow as a glacier, but implacable in his offense. Each of his strikes carried the weight of his cursed soul. A single blow would cleave a horse in two.

But the Knight was no less determined. He deftly parried each and every blow, then countered with swings of his own. The swordsmen waged a duel under the moonlight with a single witness. The winner, however, was never in doubt.

Sharp the dark lord’s sword might be, it was only made of steel. Each exchange with the Knight’s adamantine blade left it a little bit more notched. To prove it, he briefly lowered his defense and allowed the dark lord to strike at his armor. The undead’s dulled blade bounced off his challenger’s gilded chest plate.

The Knight took a step back and lowered his sword. “If you have another weapon,” he said. “You should go pick it up.”

The dark lord’s hand tightened on his sword’s grip. “Do you mean to insult me, Ser?”

“Not at all,” the Knight replied. “It is hardly fair for me to win through equipment rather than skills at arms.”

“So talented.” The dark lord’s eyes burned with a cold blue light. “So naïve.”

His sword surged in a flash of blinding speed, its pointed end aiming straight for the narrow spot between his foe’s helmet and armor. A single slice to end it all.

The Knight stopped the blow with a lazy parry. His blade shattered the dark lord’s sword in two, one half flying across the room.

“I never pressed you once.” The undead lord let out a guttural laugh. “How frightful.”

“You are beaten, Ser Garland,” the Knight said as he struggled to hide his contempt for the cowardly move. “You were a worthy foe.”

“You lie poorly, child. You had strength to spare.” The dark lord mustered what dignity he had left and bent the knee in quiet surrender. “And yet, to expect honor from a foe and be angered when disappointed… how can a man so strong be so weak of heart?”

The Knight drove his sword into the dark lord’s shriveled heart and returned him to the dust from which he came. The black armor he wore collapsed on itself and fell to the ground with naught but a void occupying it.

The Knight offered one last prayer for his defeated foe, then turned to the hostage. She looked at him with stars in her eyes. Her relief was a reward enough for her savior.

“Princess Aleria, your father sent me to rescue you.” The Knight cut off the maiden’s chains with his sword, freeing her. “Are you safe and sound?”

“I am now, Ser.” The girl smiled sweetly at her hero. Her long silver hair glowed in the moonlight over her flushed cheeks. “If I may… What is my savior’s name?”

“Belgoroth, Prince Aleria.” The knight offered her his hand. A radiant mark burned beneath his gilded glove. “Though my friends call me the Lion Knight.”

The princess smiled like the sun and looked straight into her savior’s eyes, heedless to what expression the knight’s helmet hid underneath the gold.

A scowl.

—--------

Princess Aleria,

I hope you will forgive me for my sudden departure. A member of my order informed me of a dragon’s rampage in the south. I understand you wished me to be your partner for your birthday ball, but alas, I must dance with death.

I hope to return and visit you soon, if the opportunity allows it. The Kingdom of Olerth shall always remain my home.

Ser Belgoroth, Lion Knight, and Paladin of Olerth.

—--------

Once a year, the Heroes gathered at the apex of the world. The Priest called the meeting early.

Belgoroth always made it a point to arrive on time, but he wouldn’t succeed today. His steed Lionheart, a great winged manticore he had tamed in the southern islands beyond the sea, carried him above the sea of clouds. An endless expanse of white under a golden sun and a pure blue sky stretched before them.

Belgoroth never failed to find the sight soothing. None of the conflicts and injustices from the land below could reach him above the clouds. Though the Knight carried on his holy mission with the utmost zeal, he often found his burden heavy to bear; when it became too much, he would retreat to the heavens above and bask in the light of a landless world.

He spent more and more time in the sky lately.

A single blade of stone pierced the sea of clouds: Mount Erebia’s peak, where the Goddess originally descended upon Pangeal and then departed from. The First Temple loomed at its summit, its golden pillars akin to shining spears pointing at the heavens above. A great stone platform whose floor represented the symbol of the four artifacts glowed in their midst: it was there that Belgoroth received his Class and mission many years ago.

Ten years ago, the Goddess Arcane, in her infinite wisdom, entrusted mankind with their own fate as she departed to the stars. She bestowed the Seven Great Classes on the exemplars of their time as a final boon and testament to mortals’ achievements. Belgoroth would forever remember that moment, and the words they exchanged that day.

“Raise your head, Belgoroth the Lion Knight,” the Goddess had said, her mask a golden mirror. “To you, bravest among the just, I bestow the Knight Class, master of combat. The battlefield shall be your realm and justice your sword. Always wield it well in the defense of others.”

“I swear to raise my sword in righteousness’ name alone,” Belgoroth had vowed. “I shall not rest until I have purged Pangeal of evil.”

“Very well. Henceforth you shall strike down those who would despoil my creation. Let no sin go unanswered.” She had then put her marble hand on his shoulder, like a mother with her son. “Know that I shall return to Pangeal one day. I look forward to seeing the miracles you will accomplish in my absence.”

Belgoroth had held true to his vow to that day and he would die on that hill.

But as the years passed, he was starting to wonder how to best live up to his promise.

Belgoroth landed his mount at the platform’s edge and climbed down from its back. It was forbidden for men to sit in the Goddess’ abode, so the Heroes stood in a circle. His closest friend, Pazuzo the Bard, welcomed him with a bright smile. As usual, he was trying on a whole new set of clothes and hairstyle—a red and black doublet that meshed well with his silver haircut—which helped showcase his effeminate, handsome features. The eccentric Pazuzo always moved on from one flight of fancy to the next, even his own appearance, though Belgoroth could always count on him to look dashing.

“Bel, Bel, Bel, what’s happening to you?” Pazuzo asked with a slight chuckle. His voice at least remained as melodious as ever. “Don’t you know I’m the one who should be fashionably late?”

“It is rare for you to arrive last,” Daltia mentioned, her elegant figure draped in golden robes. Whereas Pazuzo never settled on a wardrobe, the Merchant always dressed lavishly. She had traded her black hair for silver and refined her face with creased cheeks. Belgoroth wondered whom she brought those features from.

She hasn’t aged a day. Belgoroth glanced at his allies and realized most of them remained as full of youth and vigor as the day the Goddess entrusted them with their marks. Only His Eminence and I bear the brunt of a decade.

Belgoroth pondered his words, as he always did. His power always suggested barbs and witty remarks when his friends teased him. It took him a moment to separate his Class’ proposals from his own thoughts.

“My apologies, my friends,” Belgoroth replied with a slight bow. “A forest fire delayed me. I had to stop to rescue people trapped by the flames.”

His Eminence Cipar let out a warm chuckle. “No harm done, Ser Belgoroth. No one ought to arrive early by sacrificing innocent lives.”

Belgoroth respected all his fellow Heroes, but even he admitted he was closer to some than others. He got along well with Pazuzo—with whom he had traveled with on many adventures—and Daltia, remained cordial to Belsara, hardly knew Shamshir the Rogue, and somewhat disliked Lahmia the Mage, whose obsession with witchcrafting often led her astray. Creating flying cities wouldn’t ease the lives of peasants.

Of all his colleagues, he admired His Eminence Cipar the Priest the most. The man had grown decades since he first anointed Belgoroth as a paladin twenty years ago, his trimmed raven beard and hair having long grayed into a silver mane. His sunken cheeks and dignified face bore the marks of time. The man’s stormy gray eyes had lost none of their wisdom, however. As befitting of the Goddess’ own prophet, he wore a majestic white garb adorned with golden embroidery and gilded leaves.

However regal his old mentor looked, Belgoroth immediately sensed his unease. His power let him detect the sublest shifts in the man’s body language; the faint furrowing of eyebrows, the slight tension in the wrinkled hands, the shape of a spine too straight…

Belgoroth had always known His Eminence as an unflappable and benevolent man, who understood the Goddess’ will best among all of mankind. What could weigh on such an enlightened mind?

Whatever it was, he would learn it soon. Lord Cipar swiftly opened the gathering with a question.

“Thank you all for coming today, my friends,” he said with the strong voice of one used for sermons. “I have called this meeting to ask you all a question.” His gray eyes appraised each of the Heroes in turn. “Are we doing enough?”

A short silence followed, which Belgoroth broke first. “No,” he admitted. “At least, not in my case. I endeavor to do my best, but I see injustices wherever I go.”

“If we heard you, my friend, we would sacrifice sleep and hunt for orphans to save each day of the week,” Pazuzu replied with a mirthless smile. He examined his nails with his purple eyes. “Alas, I confess a certain unease myself.”

“Unease?” Daltia coughed. “You?”

“I have lost none of my debonair charm, my dear, but I admit I am struggling with inspiration lately,” Pazuzo replied. “Since my beautiful muse departed this world, my new performances do not quite match my expectations anymore. I have tried to find new models, but none can match a Goddess’ grace. Except our dear Belsara, who keeps growling at me whenever I approach her.”

“I would gladly pose for you,” Daltia suggested lightly, while Belsara sneered in disdain at Pazuzo. “You will have to pay extra for the nudes.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Pazuzo replied with a shrug. A polite way to say he didn’t find Daltia inspiring. “I fear I am becoming insipid. Something is not right in this world.”

“The world is not right,” Belsara said gruffly. The Ranger’s voice was a whisper in the wind and a rustle in the leaves, the baubles and trinkets adorning her wild auburn hair jingling softly as she spoke. Her leaf-shaped emerald eyes sparkled with annoyance as her slim hands tightened tightly on her oaken staff. “The northern men cut down groves to raise houses, starve rivers to build dams, and infringe on holy grounds.”

Daltia let out a shrug. “Isn’t it man’s duty to bring civilization to the wilds, Belsara?”

“Should men steal lands they never owned?” Belsara countered with an annoyed scowl. Being one head taller than Daltia, she positively towered over the Merchant. “The Goddess asked me to represent her other children before the assemblies of man, but one side does not play fair. The dragons and beasts of the earth complain to me daily of human incursions into their territories. The Goddess awarded them with woods in which to live, but men keep cutting them down to fuel their forges’ fires. If this continues, I will have to retaliate.”

Belsara alone among the Heroes eschewed the company of her kind, except for the few druids and outlanders who lived by her example. Instead, she preferred to walk among beasts and befriend them. So great was her disdain for civilization that she wore a dress of flowers and leaves rather than silk and leather. The Goddess had tasked her with helping men find an equilibrium with her other creations, but Belsara’s bitterness had only grown year after year.

“It is true that blasphemous incursions into sacred lands have increased since the Goddess’ departure, among other troubling developments,” Lord Cipar confirmed with a saddened sigh. “As I speak these words, the realms of Ugallu and Nisroch have declared war on one another over some trivial border matter. I have done my best to convince both sides to reconsider for months and offered them a peaceful solution, which they both spit upon.”

“You want our help in settling the dispute? Is that why you gathered us?” Pazuzo asked with a shrug. “I suppose it would break my monotony, but my voice was made for greater deeds than reasoning with fools.”

Cipar answered the Bard’s cockiness with a faint smile. “Mayhaps you are right, Pazuzo,” he said. “Maybe we were made for better things.”

Something in the old man’s tone bothered Belgoroth. “What do you mean, Your Eminence?”

“A thought has crossed my mind lately, Ser Belgoroth.” His Eminence looked up to the heavens above. “The Goddess chose us to enforce her providence in her absence. To shepherd the world towards a brighter future. She endowed us with her trust and great powers so that we would carry out that holy task.”

“Thank you for the history lesson,” Pazuzo replied with heavy sarcasm, which drew a glare from Belgoroth. “But does your rambling have a point?”

Lord Cipar’s gaze hardened like steel. “Why must we suffer the will of fools?”

The sheer contempt in the holy man’s voice, so unlike his usually boundless patience, took Belgoroth aback. Even the likes of Shamshir the Rogue and Lahmia the Mage, who barely bothered to attend these meetings, turned their heads to listen.

“The king of Nisroch owes his authority to his bloodline, and the princes of Ugallu to the wealth of their aristocracy,” His Eminence said. “We derive our authority from the Goddess Herself. Hence I ask you, my fellow Heroes: why are they allowed to rule over the many and lead them astray, when people ought to follow our wisdom?”

“Are you suggesting we overthrow these nations’ rulers, Your Eminence?” Belgoroth asked, utterly flabbergasted.

“If necessary, yes.” Lord Cipar’s jaw tightened in resignation. “If rulers will not listen to reason, Ser Belgoroth, what other option do we have other than force?”

Shamshir the Rogue raised a gloved hand to their throat and mimicked a slashing motion. Even after all this time, Belgoroth couldn’t tell whether that black hood hid a woman’s face or a man’s; his own power kept sending him confusing signals when it analyzed their movements, and they never spoke. He hardly knew anything about the Rogue besides the basics either. They were one of the few people bold enough to steal from the Goddess, and the only one cunning enough to get away with it. Belgoroth never learned what they had taken exactly, except that they eventually returned it. Apparently, they had stolen from the Goddess to prove that they could. Their moxie impressed their divine patron enough for her to grant them a mark.

“Shamshir Blackfingers, you have reminded me of my own frailty,” he recalled the Goddess saying. “To honor your bravery and cunning, I bestow the Rogue Class upon you, master of secrets. You shall teach the powerful the sting of loss, so they may never grow overly proud.”

Belgoroth doubted the wisdom of empowering a thief with a Hero’s duties, even a talented one, but it wasn’t his place to question the Goddess’ wisdom.

However… Perhaps the current situation warranted their services. Belgoroth found the thought of an assassination dishonorable, but some careless rulers ought to be punished for their crimes. When they blundered, thousands suffered.

“I can think of a nation in need of a leadership change,” Daltia mused, her eyes sharp and calculating. “A coup or assassination might be a bridge too far, however.”

“Commoners besiege my groves, not kings,” Belsara added. “I do agree we aren’t doing enough. I will have to make them stop if they won’t.”

His Eminence appraised his colleagues one by one. “What of you, Lahmia?”

“I do not care for petty politics,” the Mage said. She was the most petite of the Heroes, a thin woman with crimson hair and pinkish eyes swirling with essence. Her wealth of runestones and the power suffusing her robes belied the strength hidden inside her frail frame. “However, you may count on my magic if you request my help.”

“I see,” His Eminence said before turning to the last of the Heroes. “Ser Belgoroth? Do you have anything to comment on?”

“You shall take no lover and father no children,” Belgoroth recited without hesitation. “You shall treat all fairly. You shall wear no crown and rule no land. You shall oppose evil great and small. You shall ask for no reward and accept none. You shall not compromise on your duties. You shall be the first to fight injustice and never shall you retreat.”

He knew these oaths by heart.

“I have sworn never to reign, Your Eminence,” Belgoroth reminded Lord Cipar. “While I agree these foolhardy rulers ought to be punished for their greed, it is not my place to sit on their thrones. I fight with swords, not with laws.”

His Eminence smiled warmly. “I understand your position, and far from me the desire to see you go against your conscience. However, I fear that in standing idle we encourage men to sin. To do nothing in the face of evil is no different than enabling it. Remember that, Ser Knight.”

Belgoroth pondered the wise man’s words, then offered him a nod. “I shall.”

“I will not push the subject further,” Lord Cipar said to the gathered Heroes. “Not until we all agree on a common course of action. I simply ask you all to consider my proposal. Until then, I ask for your support in preventing pointless bloodshed.”

“Pazuzo and I should be more than enough to make these foolhardy kings see reason,” Daltia said. None among the Heroes doubted that these two could persuade anyone of anything. “I have another matter to report to you, Cipar. My experiments on the soul have yielded interesting results.”

“Oh?”  His Eminence stroked his beard. “I am all ears.”

Daltia went into technical explanations about the nature of souls and perception, which Belgoroth quickly lost interest in. While he understood how to work essence, he left high-end metaphysical concepts to witchcrafters. Understanding the true depths of the Goddess’ work never appealed to him; learning which way the essence blew wouldn’t prevent peasants from starving or forbid criminals from thieving. Lord Cipar and Lahmia appeared highly interested at least, so at least someone listened.

Pazuzo appeared equally disinterested in the conversation. “Oh, that reminds me,” he said while searching under his coat and bringing out a letter. “Bel, I have a letter for you.”

“Is that so?” Belgoroth asked. He immediately recognized the pink seal and rose smell on the document. It made him nauseous for a reason that escaped him. “Princess Aleria sent it to me?”

“She couldn’t find you, since you keep hopping around, so decided to make me her messenger,” Pazuzo replied. “I tried to charm her, to no avail. Methink she wants your sword, and not the biggest one.”

“The princess is too well-behaved for such foolishness,” Belgoroth replied. He had grown used to his friend’s attempts at flustering him. “Moreover, I have no interest in romance.”

Whereas his friend Pazuzo delighted in sharing a bed with men and women alike, the pleasures of the flesh never appealed to Belgoroth. Countless maidens had thrown themselves at his feet, offering their hands and more. He had politely denied each of them. Of all the oaths Belgoroth swore, his vow of celibacy had been the easiest to keep.

It was for the best. Romantic love would distract him from his duties. A true knight ought to cherish all human lives equally.

However, something about Princess Aleria rubbed Belgoroth the wrong way. He couldn’t explain why. She was the fairest maiden he had ever saved and a kind, generous soul. His homeland of Olerth would grow prosperous under her care.

But the way she had smiled at him that day, with eyes full of hope and childish admiration… the memory sickened him.

“Ah, Bel. Why sweat so much to save the garden if you won’t even smell the roses?” Pazuzo shook his head. “Listen to your friend: you should stop answering her letters if you do not wish that one to grow thorns.”

“Thorns?” Belgoroth squinted at his friend. “Are you saying that my response might somehow offend the princess?”

“If you keep responding, she will believe that your relationship is deeper than it seems, and no one can stand to see their false hopes crushed,” Pazuzo explained. “Time and forgetfulness dulls pain, but closeness encourages fantasies. You know what they say: a snake has no venom like a woman scorned.”

Belsara, who had overheard the discussion, hastily mocked Pazuzo. “Perhaps I should bite you and silence your willy tongue forever.”

“You may bite me anytime, my lovely Ranger,” Pazuzo replied shamelessly. “Hopefully atop a bed of leaves and roses.”

“Unfortunately for you, unlike Daltia, I do not buy used goods,” Belsara taunted him back.

“Has someone spoken my name?” Daltia asked, interrupting her conversation with His Eminence. She cackled upon seeing Aleria’s letter. “Another one?”

Belgoroth died a little inside. “Another?”

“Alas,” His Eminence replied with a sigh. He teleported away with an apology, and then reappeared just as quickly in a puff of golden smoke. A small chest sat at his feet. “Ser Belgoroth, your correspondence.”

Belgoroth carefully opened the chest and squinted at its content. Hundreds, if not thousands of letters spilled out of the container. A paper testament to all the lives he had saved.

“I have taken the liberty of separating the letters from those you had saved from lesser admirers,” His Eminence said. “However, I would suggest hiring a scribe to answer them.”

“There were more?” Belgoroth asked in disbelief. He hadn’t checked his correspondence in months.

“Countless,” Daltia said with a laugh. “All the women in the realm want to bed you, and half the men want to be you.”

Belgoroth suppressed a surge of anger. “Why don’t they become me then?”

Daltia tilted her head to the side in confusion. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Belgoroth replied as he searched through the letters. He noticed that Pazuzo sent him a quizzical look, but ignored it. “Nothing…”

Belgoroth had helped countless people across the last two decades; first as a wandering knight, and then as the Knight. He always endeavored to keep in touch with these lives he had touched. He usually looked forward to answering their messages.

Now though… Now that task brought him little joy.

“Why do you insist on answering letters yourself, my friend?” Pazuzo asked Belgoroth. “If I spent my own time answering my countless admirers, I wouldn’t have hours left for anything more productive.”

“To ensure they live happy and worthy lives,” Belgoroth replied calmly.

“Your generosity honors you, Ser Belgoroth,” His Eminence said with a hint of compassion. “Alas, no man can stay in contact with so many thoughts at once. You ought to learn to be selective.”

While he would have usually brushed His Eminence’s concern, Belgoroth wondered if he should heed the advice. He gave the letters a cursory read. Each new word felt like a dagger in the back.

A woman he had saved from her abusive husband now complained of the new one.

A village he protected from bandits now struggled with a dreadwolf.

A family in Nisroch asked for his help in striking down Ugallu.

He had left each of them devoid of problems, yet more kept cropping up.

Do they have nothing else to do than write me letters and call for help? Belgoroth shook his head and put the letters back in the chest. I need to return to the field. Such vile thoughts are unbecoming of a Hero.

“I shall take the chest with me,” Belgoroth said. He would do his best to write responses, if he had any time.

“You should take some of my years and youth with you too,” Daltia said. She joined her hands together, clearly considering her next words carefully. “You will reach forty soon, Bel. Men slow down at that age, and you’ve been clearly burning the midnight oil. You need either a good rest or new vigor.”

Lord Cipar, the only other Hero to have denied Daltia’s offer out of moral concern, looked at her in disapproval. “We will die when the Goddess wishes us to, my friend.”

“I appreciate your concern, Daltia, but I am well,” Belgoroth lied.

“A good merchant can smell deceit, Bel, and I am better than most.” Daltia shook her head. “You are breaking down.”

Breaking down? Belgoroth found the idea absurd. His body was a weapon refined by his Class. He wielded the strength of a hundred men and the speed of the wind. What pressure could hope to shatter him?

“You know what, old friend?” Pazuzo patted Belgoroth on the back. “How about we leave the mountain together? The sight of the sky will help my inspiration, and you certainly do need a friend.”

“Your presence is always welcome, my friend,” Belgoroth replied graciously. He had missed Pazuzo’s lighthearted attitude as much as it annoyed him.

The meeting concluded soon after, with Daltia offering Cipar her assistance in handling the border crisis and Lahmia promising to support Belsara’s lands with new enchantments. Lionheart carried the chest of letters in his mouth while Belgoroth and Pazuzo climbed on his back.

“Now that we are alone, my friend, will you tell me what bothers you?” Pazuzo asked the moment they took flight. “Daltia is not the only one to worry about you.”

“Is it so obvious?”Belgoroth let out a sigh. He hadn’t dared to breach the subject at the meeting for fear of disappointing His Eminence, but he had indeed been struggling with a problem lately. “Over the past year, anger has threatened to overwhelm me many times.”

Pazuzo coughed in amusement. “My beautiful Knight, I would be surprised if you felt no disdain for the countless villains we’ve encountered.”

“I am not angry at them.” No more than usual at least. “I feel anger at the victims.”

His confession echoed across the clouds, the silence of the sky hardly broken by the flap of Lionheart’s wings. Pazuzo’s arms closed around Belgoroth’s waist, his friend listening with rapt attention.

“I know I should not, and I cannot explain it,” Belgoroth admitted. “I do not regret saving maidens from bandits or men from fires, but wherever they looked at me… I found myself overcome with loathing.”

It first began with Princess Aleria. He couldn’t escape whatever curse she had cast on him.

“You know what artists fear most?” Pazuzo asked after a moment’s consideration.

“Being ignored?” Belgoroth guessed.

“Being misunderstood.” When he realized Belgoroth did not understand his point, Pazuzo provided an example. “Do you remember my play, The Lovebirds? That one with two scions of feuding families falling in love and dying a pointless death?”

“Yes, I do.” Belgoroth had witnessed its early rehearsals. “A beautiful tragedy.”

“Indeed, it is a tragedy! I wrote the scions’ romance as a foolhardy, irresponsible act of rebellion that ended up causing the death of innocents!” Pazuzo let out a roar of annoyance. “You can’t fathom the number of admirers who mistook it for a love story!”

His friend’s reaction brought a smile to Belgoroth's lips, though he remained confused. “What does it have to do with my situation?”

“These so-called admirers watched me, but they did not see me. Instead, they saw what they wanted to see, and then expected my work to conform to their expectations. There is nothing more insulting, more constraining, more dehumanizing!” Pazuzo glanced at the distant sun once he finished his tirade. “You, my friend, are chafing under others’ expectations… and yours too, I suspect.”

Belgoroth mulled over his friend’s words. He sensed the wily Bard had hit a nerve, but he couldn’t vocalize the problem clearly. “Others’ expectations?”

“You no longer help your fellow man because you want to, but because they want you to.” Pazuzo pointed at the chest in Lionheart’s mouth. “You carry those letters like a burden rather than a badge of honor. So let those prayers go. You can’t fulfill them all.”

“I have sworn an oath to deliver Pangeal’s people from evil,” Belgoroth insisted. “If I do not save them, who will?”

“They will save themselves,” Pazuzo replied with a snort. “If they dare.”

For the first time in a decade, Belgoroth’s power offered no barbed retort. The Knight inside him had become silent as a tomb. No lie could withstand the truth.

They watch, but they do not see. Belgoroth considered these words carefully. Why did he become a paladin? What message did he hope to send the world? I became a knight because I wanted to inspire others. To see more follow my path.

What was wrong with that?

“It’s a beautiful sight,” Pazuzo commented as they sailed the sea of clouds. “With no man to despoil it.”

“Yes,” Belgoroth conceded. “Yes, it is.”

—---

My fair Knight,

Your absence was forgiven. How could I blame you? Words of your glorious deeds have already reached us. You are the pride and joy of this country.

Still, the sight of your fair face and gilded smile lingers in my heart. I hope you think of me too. I have added a handkerchief which I have embroidered myself with this letter. Let it keep you warm at night, and remind you of home.

Yours always,

Princess Aleria of Olerth.

—--

The night was dark, its air choked with the foul smell of death.

The inn’s wooden door split open with a single kick. Its frame fell onto the timbered hall with a loud noise strong enough to wake the dead. Belgoroth heard grunts and shouts from the upper floor. The owner no doubt. According to travelers, the place could hardly welcome more than a dozen or so journeymen at once; and most avoided the trail with the recent disappearances.

An unassuming man climbed down the crampy, narrow staircase in his nightclothes. He held an arbalet in hand; a pointless defense in the face of judgment.

“Who’s there?!” he snarled, his eyes widening upon seeing the intruder’s sword. “Back down! Or I’ll sho–”

Belgoroth closed the gap between them in an instant, cutting the arbalet with a swing of his sword, his armored glove closing on the man’s throat and lifting him above the ground.

“Where is he?” the Knight asked, his prisoner’s legs dangling over the floor. When he received no answer, he slammed the man against the nearest wall. “Where is he?”

“I don’t…” The man rasped, his cheeks growing red. “I don’t under… stand…”

“Julian Rochette, a horse-peddler, vanished around these parts,” Belgoroth replied angrily. The man’s guilt showed on his terrified face the moment he uttered the name. “From what I heard, he wasn’t the only one.”

Belgoroth hadn’t given the report much credit until he arrived on the scene. Rumors of missing travelers were common in the countryside, but this inn was built on blood. Any witchcrafter could have noticed the foul shroud of corrupted essence stinking of pain and fear hovering off its roof.

Dark things happened here.

Belgoroth heard steps coming from the stairs above. A pale, thin woman in her forties climbed down the stairs with a candle in hand; the landlady no doubt. She looked at Belgoroth with eyes full of resignation, as if she had prepared herself for such an eventuality many years ago.

“In the kitchen, M’lord,” she said with a tired expression. The ruckus probably woke her up in the middle of her sleep. “They’re in the kitchen.”

They. Belgoroth did not like the implications.

“Show me,” he ordered after throwing the innkeeper to the ground and keeping him at swordspoint. “Do not dare to run. My blade will be quicker.”

The man massaged his throat and moved to the back of the hall, to a door near the chimney. Belgoroth and the landlady followed after him until they entered a rusty kitchen of old wood and cracked stones. A set of meat pies lay near the oven, ready to be put to the fire come morning.

“I see nothing,” Belgoroth said. “Where is the victim?”

The landlady chewed her lips and pointed at the oven.

Belgoroth’s hand tightened on his sword’s hilt. An oven was a horrendous, if effective, way to dispose of the corpses. He was starting to wonder what meat these people put in their pies. The very thought made him nauseous.

“What of the others?” he asked, his patience running thin. “Show me their remains.”

He watched on as the foul couple searched the kitchen. They had hidden quite the vile bounty under the planks and stones: jewels, full purses, golden teeth, boots taken from honorable citizens… and bones. So many cleaned bones, and the clothes the victims used to wear.

“These sandals…” Belgoroth suppressed a shiver of disgust. “They are too small for an adult.”

“It was her fault!” the innkeeper said, his voice dripping with fear and cowardice. “Her father wouldn’t tell us where he hid his money, so she started crying and biting and–”

He spat blood instead of words. A slash split his gullet open and silenced him forever.

His wife let out a scream of fear and dropped the candle. Belgoroth caught it with one hand before it could set the kitchen on fire; he did not show the same care for the innkeeper’s corpse, who fell thrashing and squirming among its victims. The woman crawled back at his approach, her back hitting a wall.

“I swear to the Goddess,” she said, crying. “I did nothing. Nothing!”

“Nothing, you say?” Belgoroth repeated. He observed the woman’s terrified face, his power failing to pick up on hints of a lie. “All this pain and suffering, and you simply watched?”

The woman fearfully removed the sleeves of her gown. Belgoroth half expected her to draw a knife; instead, she revealed a set of fresh bruises.

The Knight would have felt a pang of pity for her once. But he felt greater sorrow for the dozen or so victims whose remains this foul couple stashed under their home.

“You slept in his bed,” he said. “You could have bound him with ropes, or warned travelers. Gone to the nearest village or reported to your lord. Instead, you did nothing.”

“He… he would have beat me if I did.” The woman crawled at the Knight’s feet and embraced his armored ankle. “Please, M’Lord…”

“What were you waiting for?” Belgoroth snarled, implacable and unmoving. “A miracle?”

She looked at him. She looked up at him with those eyes, which he had grown to loathe with every fiber of his being, and then she opened her dirty mouth to poison his mind.

“Someone like you,” the wench whimpered.

Her words hit Belgoroth like a curse.

Something broke inside him. He felt it deep within his soul. A bowstring stretched thin snapped in half. A truth he had tried to bury became impossible to ignore. The flames of anger burned within his heart, stronger than ever.

“Someone like me?” A bitter laugh erupted from Belgoroth’s throat. “You were waiting for me to solve your problems?”

His hands trembled with rage. The fury he had tried to suppress for so long surged to the surface. This time, he did not ignore it.

“You are guilty of moral weakness and of closing your eyes on injustice,” Belgoroth said, the flame of the candle flickering in the dark. “Henceforth, I shall take them from you.”

She looked up at him in confusion.

In response, he poured the molten beeswax onto her face.

Her shrieks and screams filled the inn for hours, but Belgoroth did not relent until he ensured she would see no evil anymore.

He almost envied her.

Belgoroth left the inn short of an innkeeper and its landlady short of two eyes. Lionheart obediently awaited him outside, a paw on the letter chest. Belgoroth hadn’t found time to pen a single answer. When he looked at them, he realized all that paper would serve a much better purpose.

“Spill them over the ground,” he told Lionheart. “Those letters will make for a good campfire.”

He would carry that burden no longer.

—--

My fair Knight,

Worrisome rumors have reached my ears. About how…

No, I will not sully this paper with malicious slander. The acts they say you have perpetrated… they cannot be yours. It must be another villain trying to sully your name.

I will do my best to clear your name. I, and the good people of Olerth, believe in you.

Yours always,

Princess Aleria of Olerth.

—--

The Knight’s mark burned on his skin. His blade hungered for blood.

The castle’s lord crawled on the ground, his mace broken and the severed hand that held it bleeding nearby. His throne room was drenched in blood. Most of the man’s guards had fought to the last to defend their wicked lord, and Belgoroth struck down those who tried to flee nonetheless. All of them deserved to die for ever serving the criminal.

“Lord Mulciber, you stand accused of raping twelve women on their wedding night and murdering five brave men who dared to stand up to you,” Belgoroth recounted the man’s crimes. The scum appeared to be in no shape to listen, but Belgoroth did not care. He came to kill, not to speak. “The punishment for rape is castration. For murder, it is death.”

“Wait, wait,” the worm pleaded. “You’re a knight of Olerth, you can’t–”

Belgoroth drove his sword through the man’s skull, smashing bones and staining the throne with his brains. The adamantine edge drank the blood of the dead. Belgoroth could feel its hunger, its desire for death and destruction.

The last weapon exorcist Belgoroth encountered had urged him to destroy it, as all the wicked blood he shed with it had borne a curse. Belgoroth had ignored the warning. He was the Knight, master of weapons. The power within was his to command, and his burden to shoulder.

Once Castle Mulciber fell silent at last, Belgoroth walked out of its throne room. Corpses littered the entrance hall’s floor. Maids, servants, cooks, squires… no matter their station, all humans looked the same in death.

Belgoroth felt no pity as he stepped over their remains. They had made their choice.

“You served your lord’s food for years,” he recalled telling them. “You must have bore witness to his crimes. Why did you not report him earlier? Or better yet, poison his food so that he would never hurt anyone again?”

Instead, these cowards had closed their eyes and enabled their master’s evil ways. A man alone could not go far without the complicity of others. That was why injustice continued to prosper; because mankind tolerated it.

If Belgoroth didn’t hold everyone accountable, then how could he do it with anyone?

You shall treat all fairly. Lords or peasants, all would face judgment.

You shall oppose evil great and small. Closing one’s eyes on a crime was no different than covering it up.

You shall not compromise on your duties. He would not let his doubts weaken his hand.

You shall be the first to fight injustice and never shall you retreat. If none would make the hardest decisions, then he would.

His mind was unclouded, his heart was pure, and his hand was steady.

The foul essence of death pervaded the air and twisted the walls into faces. The entrails of the dead shifted, their remains gathering into stuffed, squirming masses of flesh. Belgoroth would have to burn the place on his way out. Ensure these wicked spirits would not give birth to a Blight.

He stepped through the bloody gates and found an army waiting for him.

Hundreds of riders encircled Castle Mulciber, backed by ten times as many men-at-arms. A tide of steel surrounded this tomb of stone. Spears, bows, swords, arbalets… men had found so many ways to kill one another, and all of them had gathered in this cursed place. Belgoroth even noticed a few witchcrafters among them with a wealth of offensive runestones. Their dragon heraldry identified them as the knights of Olerth. Had they finally come to execute the felon Mulciber?

Better late than never, Belgoroth supposed. This gathering failed to impress him. His power sensed their terror, their disquiet, their shaking knees, and fearful stares. He had cleaned this castle of its sinners, and yet they still trembled at the sight of it. Despicable.

The army’s leader, a paladin in gilded armor riding atop a white horse, stared at Belgoroth with what could pass for disbelief. “By the Goddess,” he said, his blue eyes squinting behind his helmet. “Ser Belgoroth, is that you?”

“It is I, Ser,” Belgoroth replied politely. “Did you come to help me purge this den of iniquity? I did not need such a large force. In fact, I need no help at all.”

None could match him. Whether armies or dragons, he could slaughter them. The Knight had never known defeat.

“I had hoped the reports were wrong,” the gilded general said. He appraised Belgoroth for a moment, a hand on his sheathed sword’s hilt. “I am not here to assist you, Ser Knight.”

“You were too late for it anyway,” Belgoroth replied with a shrug. He took a step forward, only to immediately sense danger. His power detected the archers drawing their bows before their hands even reached the strings.

What… Why were they pointing their weapons at him? Why were they all looking at him with such frightened eyes?

Their leader unfolded a document bearing a familiar pink sigil.

“Ser Belgoroth,” the gilded knight said atop his white horse. “By orders of His Majesty, you are under arrest for murder, arson, and sedition.”

What? Belgoroth mistook it for a jest at first, but the twitching fingers of the men around him felt real enough. It wasn’t the castle that they feared.

“This order is a forgery,” Belgoroth replied, incensed. “You were deceived. The king and princess–”

“The order came from her.”

The lie—it had to be a lie—struck Belgoroth like a slap to the face. The mounted knight tossed him the scroll with the message, which he read. He immediately recognized the handwriting.

I saved her life. No matter how many times Belgoroth read the accusations, or the gentle prayers to surrender peacefully, he could not find the strength to believe in them. I saved her life.

You shall ask for no reward and accept none. Had it been too much to expect a little gratitude?

“Ser Belgoroth, we have been asked to peacefully escort you back to the capital,” the mounted knight said, his voice shaking but resolute nonetheless. “You stand accused of murdering hundreds across the Kingdom of Olerth.”

“Criminals, all of them!” Why couldn’t they see? Why could nobody see? “I have acted within the bounds of my duties!”

“The princess convinced the king to give you a fair trial, and you will have the opportunity to prove your innocence,” the lesser knight replied.

“Trial?” Belgoroth’s hand clutched the scroll in his fury. “Me?!” His roaring voice caused a dozen men to step back in fear. “The Knight chosen by the Goddess Herself?! Which men would dare judge me?!”

The mounted knight reeled back in fear, but did not flee. “Ser, please take a look at yourself!” he said. “You are unwell! You need to let go of your sword! Its curse is poisoning your mind!”

Not well? Nonsense. Belgoroth had never been more in tune with his mark. He no longer fought its instincts. He embraced them. Wielded them. Take a good look at himself? Belgoroth looked at his hands who had slain so many foes.

He froze in place.

When…

When did his golden armor turn crimson?

His gilded gauntlets were covered in rust and drenched in blood, old and fresh. A stain of dark red filth covered his metal hide. Pushed by an instinct stronger than his reason, he started scrubbing. He scrubbed with all his strength under the mesmerized eyes of Olerth’s knights, furiously trying to get the filth off him.

He knew there was gold somewhere there, beneath the blood and the screams and the pain…

“What have I…” Belgoroth mumbled in shock and disbelief. He ignored the soldiers’ whispers, who called him mad and feral. “What have I…”

But it wouldn’t come off.

It wouldn’t come off.

It would never come off.

“What have they done?” The Knight stared at his crimson, rusted hands. His fingers trembled with impotent rage at his lost purity. “They have stained me with their filth… their stench… their corruption…”

He let out a roar of rage and anguish, a wail of absolute fury and despair. The archers fired their bows—whether out of fear or shock, he would never know—and rained arrows upon him. He deflected them all with his sword on instinct. The Knights of Olerth roared and charged on their horses; those brave enough to die at least. More fled, but none would run fast enough.

“I was pure gold!” Belgoroth snarled at the brave fools charging at their doom. “Shining like the sun!”

He leaped into battle, and he did not retreat.

—--

Bel,

About your question, Soulforged Adamantine requires forging adamantine in a place sacred to the Goddess and tying it to a key concept of the world.

However, for my plan to work, I will have to tie your soul to a concept with which it resonates. A cowardly soul can’t exactly come to embody the concept of courage, you understand? According to early experiments, the soul bound to the object will naturally resonate with a concept by itself, which will then be tied to the Soulforged Adamantine.

In your case, I would bet on ‘valor.’

Your true friend,

Daltia Eris Belarra.

—----

Olerth burned like the heart of the sun.

He was fire. He was anger. He was hatred, whose heart shone with a berserk flame and whose sword had cut short countless lives. He was a tornado that slew all that stood in his path, the blaze that consumed life.

They first called him Bel the Merciless, then Bel the Mad, and finally, the Lord of Wrath, who took no sides, reigned over death, and wore a crown of blood. He had murdered those who besmirched his name, and those who did not. He had slain kings and peasants, the old and the young, knights and villains, the fair and the foul. Humans were equal in one thing only, and that was death.

He was the god of fury who heard all the world’s curses, all demands of pain and retribution, all promises of revenge, all insults spoken in anger, all calls to murder and extermination, all acts of violence. To these myriad prayers, he would answer with one gift alone.

Death.

Death to all.

Death to the last believer.

He walked through a corridor of burning flames paved with maimed corpses. His crimson boots echoed on the cracking floor and then shattered the last door with a kick. A smile crept up on his face, full of bloodthirst and hateful joy.

Princess Aleria hid behind the wood, her lovely dress covered in the ashes of her kingdom. She crawled up to her feet and knelt before him with a face full of tears. She wept and begged in words Belgoroth’s clouded mind could no longer understand. He had heard a thousand prayers for mercy and answered none.

And yet, his smile faded away when he looked at her fair face. Instead of crushing her skull, his hand stroked her cheek. Her tears turned to steam on the crimson gauntlet. Somehow, the sight filled his heart with something else than anger: joy, sadness… and pity.

Pity for that relic of what he had lost and would never regain.

The sorrow almost soothed the berserk flame in his heart. Almost.

“Lord Belgoroth, please…” The princess’ hands moved to his legs, imploring his mercy with those eyes. “All I have done… was out of love–”

The fury returned in a flash of blood, stronger than ever.

He hacked her skull open with his sword. He roared as his adamantine cut her down and spread the flames over her smooth flesh. She was dead already—so mercifully quickly—but he couldn’t stop. The fire inside him fueled a thousand more strokes. He hit and snarled and sliced, until nothing remained but charred pounds of flesh and bones. His sword gorged itself on the blood, until at last, Belgoroth had nothing left to slice. He washed his face with his bloodsoaked fingers, basking in the smell of death and roses.

For a brief instant, he felt pure again.

“They’re all dead now…” Belgoroth muttered to himself as he looked through the royal bedchambers’ windows, staring at the city he had once helped protect and then set ablaze. “The traitors, the betrayers, the fools and the wicked… all dead…”

The kingdom which had turned its back on him—and adored him—was gone. Its towers—which he used to admire—burned like candles, and its castles—which he once protected—had been reduced to dust. Darkened skies rained ashes on bloody rivers; streets where thousands came to acclaim him.

“At long last… everyone is dead, dead, dead…”

But his smile did not last long. The satisfaction he felt at this gruesome spectacle was soon swept away by the tides of shame and loathing. He had tried to bury these old memories, but when he dug their graves, he could feel pain, raw and eternal.

“Grotesque, is it not?” Belgoroth straightened up, the fires of his youth dimmed by age. “She said she acted out of love, but she never truly knew me. She loved my shadow. What she wanted to see in me… what she hoped me to be.”

He peeked over his shoulder and looked at the observer. “Much like you loved your squire.”

Silence answered him. But he knew. He sensed the foreign presence here, in the heart of his chaotic memories.

“For a long time, I wondered what about her eyes infuriated me so deeply.” Belgoroth glanced at the stain of blood that used to be Aleria. “She wasn’t special. I had met countless maidens, some more fair and wiser. So why did I loathe her in particular? That night at the inn, I finally understood.”

A truth he had despised from the bottom of his soul.

“It wasn’t the eyes I hated, but what I saw in them: my own reflection, twisted by her hopes and expectations. The failure.” His mouth twisted into a sneer of hatred and disgust. “I became a paladin to drive evil from the realm and inspire the people of the world to do good. And when Aleria looked at me with those eyes, I knew, deep within myself, that I had failed. That my acts would not inspire these cowards and weaklings to become brave.”

Instead, men had come to rely on him to solve their problems instead of holding themselves accountable. They had enslaved him with their prayers and chained him to their mediocrity, and when he disappointed their false expectations, they turned on him just as swiftly.

“I understood that men would never live up to the standards to which I held myself. That Pangeal would never become the paradise the Goddess tasked me to create. That I had dedicated my life to a lie.”

And it drove him mad with rage and bitterness.

“I loved the mirage of humanity too,” Belgoroth confessed. “What I hoped it would become; and when I finally accepted that men would never live up to my ideal, only hate remained.”

Belgoroth’s hands tightened on his bloody sword, the vessel of his blackened, ash-tainted soul, his mark burning with all the world’s wrath and fury.

“Are you content, Roland? Has this journey into my past given you the answers you sought deep inside yourself?” Belgoroth turned back to stare at the observer. “Do you feel the call of our Classes, who so ardently wish to fight one another? Knight to Knight, sword to sword?”

Yellow flames spread around the Lord of Wrath, swallowing remorse and memories.

“Ready your weapon, false Hero,” he said with burning resolve. “For the true Knight comes for you.”

—---

The flames burned the dream away, and Roland woke up sweating.

A terrible pain surged in his hand. His Knight’s mark burned on his skin so much it stained his fingers with blood.

“Roland?” Therese woke up on the other side of the bed. Her eyes widened in alarm at the sight of his bleeding hand. She immediately reached for a poultice and set of bandages on the bed table.

She was used to these traumatic awakenings.

Though he had tried, Roland couldn’t bear to touch her the way a man ought to with his future wife. Still, he found the warmth of his fiancé’s hands comforting as she treated his wound. The poultice steamed at the contact of his mark, but it held nonetheless. Colmar had brewed it himself.

“This is getting worse,” Therese warned him after she finished bandaging his hand.

His power interpreted her worry as a reproach and suggested a thousand barbs: ‘your sister banished you,’ ‘Alaire resents you,’ and worse of all ‘I will never love you like I loved Sebastian.’ The same bloodthirst that led Belgoroth down the path of madness inhabited his own mark.

No, it is worse with mine. Belgoroth’s mark possessed the power of the Monk, whose understanding of motion let him tell a threat from an objection. Roland’s weakened class failed to notice such subtleties and interpreted almost everything as a threat. Which makes his fall all the more sadder.

“He was never worthy,” Roland muttered under his breath. “Too pure by half.”

“Whom?” Therese squinted at him. “Belgoroth?”

Roland nodded slightly. His future queen was sharp. So sharp that she had all but taken over the administrative duties of the kingdom since he retook the capital. Not that he minded. He never had a mind for politics, beyond what he had to do to secure his life and throne. He was happy to fight at his men’s side in the mud while Therese handled the velvet diplomacy.

“I saw his memories,” Roland said while gathering his breath. “Parts of them at least. Blurs of his past.”

Roland started having nightmares since the battle with Sebastian—may he rot in whatever golden hell he gave himself to—but they had grown more vivid over the last few nights. He suspected the attack on Walbourg broke a dam of some sort. Now that Belgoroth had gotten out, however briefly, his malice poured between their connected Classes.

Therese stared at him with a worried expression, then left the kingly bed. Her white nightgown shimmered as she opened the windows and let the light in. Dawn was rising on the capital of Whitethrone.

“How did he look?” Therese asked once her fiancé had recovered.

“I don’t know. I only saw through his eyes.” Roland wiped the sweat off his brow. “His hands were drenched in blood.”

“I would expect a Knight to wash them often,” Therese replied with a sarcastic smile. Roland once again squashed a thousand hurtful jabs. “Did you gather anything that could help us stop him?”

“I don’t know,” Roland confessed. “The dreams were a chaotic mess.”

“Then write it all down. It will help you put your thoughts in order.” Therese moved to the bedside and served him a cup of honeyed milk. “As will the sugar.”

Roland accepted the cup with hesitation. “Why do you prepare our drinks in advance without consulting the staff?”

His fiancé raised an eyebrow as she returned to the bed with a cup of her own. “Why don’t you call the servants, my lord?”

“Safety,” Roland replied as he sipped the drink. It was cold, yet pleasing to his lips. “I almost died from a poisoned cup when I was nine.”

“And here I was told Archfrost’s politics were less fierce than in my homeland.” Therese stared at the cup with curiosity. “You did not test that one.”

“Perhaps I should have,” Roland replied, slightly amused. Indeed, he hadn’t even considered checking the cup. His fiancé had grown on him. “I’ve heard an Everbright Empress murdered three of her husbands.”

Therese smiled in amusement. “We aren’t married yet, my lord.”

The pain in Roland’s mark returned in a flash. The poultice soothed it slightly, but it had been made to cure his flesh and not his soul. The Knight Class urged him to counter the joke with an insult, a slap, a punch, anything. Words were weapons, and Therese used them expertly. Each conversation was a challenge to overcome.

Maybe that was why Roland was starting to appreciate her. She forced him to practice his self-control, to stay on the narrow path of discipline. His fiancé did not hesitate to speak her mind in his presence, unlike many sycophants and loyal knights.

Roland didn’t think he had the strength in him to love her the way he loved Sebastian, but he respected her. Nay, he trusted her. They could overcome the issue of the heir in time. With all the Heroes in their entourage, Roland strongly believed they could find a novel solution.

A cloud of white smoke erupted in the bedchambers. Therese hastily pulled the sheet closer to hide her modesty while Roland’s hand reached for the sword hidden under the mattress; he never went to sleep without a weapon.

“Oh my, am I interrupting something?” Eris smiled in amusement at Therese. “Alaire will be jealous.”

Roland let go of the sword, but he did not relax. He remembered the words signed on that cursed letter inside Belgoroth’s dream: Daltia Eris Belarra. The Wanderer did not look exactly like the Devil of Greed, but now that he looked at her, Eris bore a remarkable resemblance to that woman…

Roland did not trust dreams, let alone a Demon Ancestor’s memories. For all he knew, Belgoroth could have altered them to deceive them and sow distrust.

So he kept his mouth shut for now. Staying on his guard around friends and foes had become second nature to him. Robin had taught him the value of corroborating information. He would wait for his comrades’ return to share his intel.

Comrades. The thought made him smile. A king has no friends, or so I was told, but can a Hero?

“Should we get dressed?” Therese asked with a sigh. “These visits of yours always manage to catch us at the wrong time, Lady Eris.”

“I bear good news this time,” Eris promised. She presented the royal couple with a scroll. “Walbourg signed the treaty.”

“They did?” Therese forgot her modesty and all but snatched the document out of the Wanderer’s hands. “Finally.”

He did it. Robin did it. While his future queen read the document, Roland did not bother to take a look. He trusted the wily Merchant to have negotiated favorable terms. I hoped he would succeed while still expecting him to fail. Yet again, he proved me wrong.

Peace. Peace had come to Archfrost.

“This is great news,” Therese said upon folding the scroll. “Archfrost can finally heal its scars.”

Yes, it could. Roland should rejoice. No one would lose their father to their fellow countrymen as he did.

So why did this news leave him feeling empty?

His Class had urged him to take the field to Walbourg, to shatter their walls and bring them back into the fold the knightly way. Roland had hoped for that outcome since his childhood. He had dreamed of dragging Griselda out of her duchy and carrying her back in chains to the capital, to stand trial for the death of his late father.

For the sake of peace, he had to abandon those fantasies. To welcome back rebels, and forgive many crimes. That compromise left him with a bitter taste in his mouth.

But Roland felt no anger. He had seen the alternative last night and witnessed where it led Belgoroth: nowhere.

Once you refused to compromise, the only path was war; a sterile battle that ended with annihilation, either for oneself or the other side. And war could not build a future.

“There is still work to do before Archfrost can rest,” Roland said. “The coronation, the beastmen…” His gaze turned to his bandaged hand and the mark underneath. “And him.”

“About that…” Eris straightened up. “I have been running from one Hero to another. We’ve been discussing ways to neutralize Belgoroth, either temporarily or permanently.”

Roland’s head snapped in her direction, as did his future wife’s. Both had been taught since infancy that the Demon Ancestors could only be sealed away and never destroyed.

“Permanently?” Roland asked in disbelief. “Is such a thing possible?”

“I do not know. Some of the ideas Robin and the others suggested sound technically possible… if flawed and extremely risky.” Eris squinted at Roland. “Especially for you.”

“For me?” Roland scowled. “Am I to play a key part in your schemes?”

Eris nodded sharply. “I won’t lie, Roland, our next battle might cost you greatly,” she warned him. “Only the Knight can defeat the Knight, and even if any of our plans work, we will have to adapt on the fly. We won’t proceed with some of the suggested strategies without your approval.”

Another man would have hesitated, but the thought of refusing never crossed Roland’s mind. He didn’t even need to be told the risks. If there was the slightest chance to end the Lord of Wrath and secure his kingdom’s future, then he would gladly pay any price. His power rejoiced within him, and for once Roland found himself fully in tune with his mark.

“Then let the Lord of Wrath know,” Roland declared, “That the true Knight comes for him.”

--------

Next Chapter 

---------

A/N: phew, that was an interlude and a half... and the last one of the volume. The next six or so chapters are the final dash to the finish.

For Belgoroth, I take the position that he was a flawed choice from the start: the perfect knight on paper, but whose stubborn adherence to his oaths and impossible ideals made him susceptible to anger and disappointment. He's very much a dark take on the paladin archetype, while Roland embodies its best.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the interlude. I went for a 'dreamlike' feel to it (due to it being actually Roland's dream), so not sure how it translated for you.