Standing between a berserker priest and an assassin felt like being the wishbone at a Skullwarden feast. The rain washed over Desmus’s scars marks that looked like they were carved by Duchess Selkara Skullwarden herself during one of her "surgeries" while the argument for a "Trial by Combat" bounced off the wet stones, echoing like a bad joke in a crypt.

  Brandan laughed.

  It wasn't a nervous laugh. It was the sound of a man who just found a cold beer in a desert. He slammed his hammer onto the cracked cobblestones BOOM and rolled his shoulders. The blood on his armor cracked and flaked off.

  "A trial?" Brandan roared, grinning through his beard. "You want me to smash the Pretty Boy? Desmus, you old bat, that’s the best sermon you’ve ever preached!"

  He pointed the hammer handle at Alexander.

  "Get your sword, Shadowgrove! I’m going to cave that shiny breastplate in until you have to breathe through your ears!"

  Alexander didn't even flinch. He just looked bored. He took another bite of his apple. Crunch.

  "How rustic," Alexander drawled. He tossed the apple core over his shoulder. It hit a dead Angel in the face. "I suppose I can spare five minutes to butcher a usurper. Though, do try not to bleed on my boots. This leather is custom."

  "ENOUGH!"

  The scream didn't come from the men. It came from the girl.

  Malachia stomped forward. The mud splashed around her combat boots. She looked like a furious cupcake.

  "No!" she shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at Alexander. "He doesn't get to die by a hammer! That's too fast! That's too nice!"

  She turned to Desmus, her violet eyes burning with a hate so old it made the air taste like ash.

  "He killed him, Uncle! He killed Papa! He killed Pontifex Amorim!"

  The silence that followed was heavier than the concrete sky.

  Desmus blinked behind his thick glasses. His bayonets lowered an inch. He looked at the Child, then at Alexander, then back at the Child. His brain seemed to be short-circuiting.

  "My... My Flower?" Desmus stammered, his voice trembling. "What... what words are these? Ser Alexander is the Sword of Dawn! He is blessed! Look at him! He glows with the Enmagic of the Saints! A man touched by demons cannot glow so bright!"

  "He's a liar!" Malachia screamed. Tears were streaming down her face now, furious, hot tears. "I saw him! I was six! I was hiding under the desk! He used the Purple Mist! He laughed while Papa choked! He laughed!"

  Alexander sighed. A long, suffering sigh.

  "Children," Alexander said, examining his fingernails. "Such vivid imaginations. Trauma induces hallucinations, Your Holiness. It is a known medical fact. I was in the Firelands when your father passed. Slaying dragons. You remember the trophies."

  "LIAR!" Malachia howled.

  She ripped the platinum ring off her finger and shoved it into her pocket. She grabbed a sword from a dead Angel. It was too heavy for her. The tip dragged in the mud.

  "I invoke the Right of Fury!" Malachia shouted. Her voice cracked, but the magic amplified it. "I don't want Brandan to fight! I claim the duel! Me! Pontifex Malachia against the traitor Alexander Shadowgrove!"

  Wilhelm choked on his own spit.

  "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Wilhelm scrambled forward, hands fluttering like panicked birds. "Time out! Flag on the play! Malachia, Shortstack, listen to me "

  He grabbed her shoulder. She felt like a vibrating power line.

  "He is Level 1000," Wilhelm hissed into her ear. "He is the Archangel of Death. You are twelve. You have a heavy sword and a sugar addiction. This isn't a fight, it's a suicide note!"

  Malachia spun on him. "I don't care! I want his eyes! I want to hear him scream!"

  "You'll hear yourself dying!" Wilhelm shook her. "Think, Wrongling,Use the brain, not the anger!"

  Alexander looked at the girl dragging the massive sword. A slow, cruel smile spread across his face.

  "I accept," Alexander said softly.

  Wilhelm froze. "What?"

  "The challenge," Alexander said. "The Pontifex demands blood. Who am I to deny the Voice of God? If she wishes to die on my blade, I will oblige. It will be... tragic. But necessary."

  Alexander knows this. He wants to erase the witness.

  "You sick..." Wilhelm started, hand drifting to his rapier.

  "Wait."

  The voice was cool. Controlled. Like ice clinking in a glass.

  Lydia Ironvine stepped out from the shadows of a ruined archway. She wasn't muddy. She wasn't bloody. She looked like she had just walked out of a salon, holding a glass of wine that she definitely shouldn't have in a war zone.

  Beside her walked Vasco Vane. The little shopkeeper was wringing his hands, looking humble and dangerous.

  "My, my," Lydia purred, stepping over a severed arm without looking down. "So much testosterone. And estrogen. It’s ruining the ambiance."

  "Lydia," Brandan grunted. "Stay back. This is warrior business."

  "This is politics, darling," Lydia corrected, sipping her wine. "Which means it's my business. Desmus, you intend to sanction a Trial by Combat? Here? In the mud? Without the ritual?"

  Vasco cleared his throat. "A valid point, Your Holiness. The Cry of Lord Anu is required to sanctify the arena. The stars must align. The bells must be rung. If you hold the duel now... well... it's just a brawl, isn't it? The winner wouldn't be legally bound."

  Desmus twitched. He hated logic. But he loved rules.

  "The Cry..." Desmus muttered, scratching his scarred chest with a bayonet. "The Ritual of the Red Sand... yes. Yes. The Book of Law demands it. The eyes of the ancestors must watch."

  "Exactly," Vasco said, smiling his oily smile. "And preparing the Ritual takes time. Weeks, perhaps. In the meantime... the throne sits empty."

  Lydia stepped forward. She stood between Brandan and Desmus.

  "A compromise," she said. "Since we are all reasonable people."

  Wilhelm snorted. "Reasonable? Have you met us?"

  Lydia ignored him. "Brandan Stormsong is crowned. Tonight. But..." She held up a finger. "He is crowned Provisionally. The Church holds the Rite of Coronation. He wears the crown, but the Pontifex holds the leash. If he loses the duel later? The crown reverts. If he wins... he is King."

  "I don't want a leash!" Brandan roared. "I want to fight him now!"

  "And I want to kill him now!" Malachia yelled, swinging the sword and nearly taking Wilhelm’s kneecap off.

  "And I," Wilhelm interjected loudly, stepping between everyone, "Would like to not die today! I vote for the Provisional thing! The Lease! The Rental King! Sounds great!"

  He turned to Malachia, crouching down to her level.

  "Listen to me," he whispered, frantic. "You want to kill him? Good. Great goal. But you need to level up Wrongling.You need... I don't know... training montage? Magic steroids? If you fight him now, he wins. And your dad stays un-avenged. Is that what you want?"

  Malachia stared at Alexander. The Violet Eye was watching her, mocking, waiting for her to make the mistake.

  She dropped the heavy sword. Clang.

  "Fine," she spat. "Provisional."

  She looked at Desmus.

  "Crown the Oaf," she commanded, pointing at Brandan. "But the duel happens. As soon as the stars align. And it's me vs. the Murderer. I claim the Right."

  Desmus looked like he was in physical pain. He looked at Alexander his hero. He looked at Malachia his god.

  "It shall be written," Desmus groaned, falling to his knees and smashing his head against the cobblestones. "THE LORD TESTETH ME! "ANU!"

  "Good," Lydia finished her wine. "Now, can we please get out of this rain? My hair is starting to frizz, and if that happens, heads will roll."

  Wilhelm slumped against a pillar. He felt like he had just juggled live grenades.

  "Master of Coin," he mumbled to himself. "Easy job, they said. Just counting gold, they said."

  He looked at Vasco, who gave him a tiny, knowing nod.

  The game wasn't over. It had just moved to the next level. And the boss music hadn't stopped playing.

  The adrenaline was fading, leaving a taste in his mouth like old pennies and Brineshield salt. They picked their way through the cooling bodies toward the Citadel, passing under the looming shadow of the Shard Tower, a jagged monstrosity commissioned by Queen Seraphine Bladeblood, presumably because she hated the sky and wanted to stab it.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  The plaza was clearing out. Well, the living parts were clearing out. The dead were staying put, mostly because they lacked the motivation to leave.

  Alexander Shadowgrove paused at the edge of the darkness. He didn't look back at the carnage, or the weeping Malachia, or the smoking ruin of Baldur. He just flicked a speck of mud off his pristine white cloak.

  "Try not to stain the upholstery, Stormsong," Alexander called out, his voice smooth as poisoned honey. "The Shard Throne is notoriously hard to clean."

  And then he was gone. Swallowed by the shadows like he was never there.

  "COWARD!" Brandan roared, shaking his hammer at the empty space. "COME BACK AND FIGHT ME, YOU SHINY TOOTHPICK!"

  "The Lord has a plan!" Desmus interrupted, clapping a giant, scarred hand on Brandan’s shoulder hard enough to dent the pauldron. "And the plan is Coronation! To the Chair! We must anoint the knuckles of the King with oil! And blood! Mostly oil!"

  "Blood sounds good!" Brandan agreed, stumbling forward, drunk on adrenaline and the promise of a fancy hat.

  They marched off toward the citadel gates a bear and a fanatic, arguing about liturgical correctnes leaving Wilhelm alone in the mud.

  Well, almost alone.

  Baldur was still there. Sitting on a piece of fallen masonry. He looked... cooked. Steam was still rising from his left pauldron. He stared at nothing.

  And Malachia.

  The Pontifex was hopping from one cobblestone to another, avoiding the cracks.

  "Step on a crack, break the Archbishop's back," she muttered. "Step on a line, Alexander dies fine."

  Wilhelm swayed. The rush from the [Boots of Arestro] was fading, leaving a hollow, scraping feeling inside his chest. 3.3 liters. He was low. Not 'dead' low, but 'massive hangover' low.

  He tried to do a jaunty little hand wave to Malachia, but his arm felt like it was made of lead.

  "Right," Wilhelm wheezed, leaning heavily against a broken cart. "Just... resting the eyes. Checking the... the spiritual ledger."

  He closed his eyes.

  Usually, the System was just a vague sense of numbers. Spirit Power. XP. The fun stuff.

  But now? After the trauma? After the healing? After the jump?

  The System decided to get personal. It decided to show him the mechanics.

  Warning: Discrepancy detected. Your soul is a Ferrari. Your body is a rusty bicycle.

  Wilhelm groaned. "Don't sugarcoat it, love."

  A wall of blue text slammed into his mind. Not vague bars. Physics. Cold, hard, insulting physics.

  Wilhelm opened his eyes. He felt sick.

  It wasn't just the numbers. It was the absolute, crushing reality of them.

  He had 46,000 Spirit Power. He could summon ice and lightning.

  But his body? His body was a joke. A 400-Joule, 450-Newton joke waiting to be smashed by a world that operated in the thousands.

  "Depressing," Wilhelm muttered, rubbing his face. "I'm a glass cannon. A glass cannon made of cheap glass."

  "Hey! Wrongling-Face!"

  Wilhelm jumped. 250ms reaction time. Slow.

  Malachia was standing right in front of him. She had found a bag of sugared almonds on a dead merchant and was crunching them loudly.

  "You zoned out," she accused, pointing a sticky finger at his nose. "Your eyes went all swirly. Did you stroke out? Because if you die, I get your boots. That's the rule. I just made it up."

  Wilhelm looked down at the tiny, terrifying Pontifex.

  "I was... consulting the charts, Shortstack. Assessing the... structural integrity of the vessel."

  "You looked like a fish gasping for air," Malachia crunched an almond. "You're weak, aren't you? Like, physically? I saw you try to lift that shield earlier. It was pathetic. My grandma lifts heavier cats."

  Wilhelm bristled. "I rely on agility! And wits! And... panache!"

  "You rely on luck," Malachia corrected, merciless. She leaned in, her violet eyes scanning him like she could see the blue boxes too. "Uncle Desmus says true power is the body. The Temple. You? You're a shed. A leaky shed."

  She threw an almond at him. It bounced off his forehead.

  Wilhelm flinched.

  "Reflexes of a sloth," she giggled. "We have work to do, Shiny Pants. If you're gonna help me kill Alexander, you need to stop being so... squishy."

  Wilhelm sighed. He looked at his shaking hands.

  "Squishy," he agreed. "Yes. That's the scientific term. 400 Joules of squish."

  He pushed himself off the cart.

  "Right. To the throne room. Let's go watch a bear put on a crown. Maybe there's food. I need calories. I need... about ten thousand calories."

  "I have a dead guy's sandwich," Malachia offered, digging into her pocket.

  "Lead the way, Your Holiness," Wilhelm bowed. "Lead the way."