After Elin nodded, Princess Roselynde motioned to a box. Its heaviness almost caused it to slip free of Walter's hands. The contents clinked, and he recognized the sound. Coins.

"As per the bounty on the Duke of the Rotting Garden, we award Lady Elin, or, it seems, her squire, eighty gold coins."

Walter balked at the box. Inside, it contained the equivalent of an entire retirement fund. No, more than that. I'm sure anyone that risked defeating a Nosferatu would want to be taken care of for life. He reminded himself people in his world retired later. Mentally, he reviewed his parchment spreadsheets and tabulated how far the gold would take them.

Not even halfway. Considering the cost of our bed, properly furnishing the main house, Sister Lora's cottage, and buying religious supplies, our current needs will spend over half of it. Reality tempered his excitement. No joke, you will wear a French maid's uniform to pay me back, because this job made me depressed to hold hundreds-of-thousands of dollars, maybe a million. Every freaking night, Elin. You kept asking me to, 'Show you everything,' that I like, so now you're gonna get it!

Wait, I hope a French maid's uniform isn't too expensive. Damn it.

Elin bowed her head, "Thank you very much, Princess Roselynde."

"Well, the oversight for not rewarding you earlier is ours," the princess said, "I hope you understand. Charlatans and the deluded claim to be heroes often, and if we investigated every claim, we would have no time to rule. Unfortunately, for other reasons, we can't award you publicly. Even our appearance can be misconstrued as tacit approval."

Prince Peterby said, "War is inevitable. Our elder brother hoped to quell the situation at the Five Kingdom's Congress. Your ascension proved to be more destabilizing than anticipated." Once he made his point, he returned his attention back to the window.

"Can we count on you, Lady Elin?" Princess Roselynde said.

"As a landholder, I am obligated to perform military service in defense of the kingdom. I will do my duty," Elin said, "It is already decided."

"'It is decided,' not, 'I have already decided?' I see," Princess Roselynde cleared her throat, "Then, as your princess, I must ask, how did you obtain your strength? Are the results reproducible? If so, I implore, nay demand, you share the method."

Elin's stare bored a hole into the carpet.

She wants to glance at me, it's obvious, but she doesn't want to reveal me. These two already sussed out Elin's motivation, me, and they worked out my cover story is fake. It wasn't ironclad, to begin with. Now, Elin is on the spot, and they're going to keep her there. This feels like they're building a legal case against her.

Walter huffed, stood, dusted himself, and sat on the bench opposite of the prince and princess. Elin twitched and continued to kneel until Walter tugged on her arm.

Prince Peterby closed the window.

"Nice to meet you, Sir Walter," Princess Roselynde hid her face behind her fan, "Is it 'sir?'"

"Not where I'm from, no."

Prince Peterby leaned forward. "And from which nation do you originate?"

"None in Eovamund."

The royal brother and sister both leaned back after confirming the truth. All cat-and-mouse games abruptly ended. Elin's hand gripped his, and he squeezed it back. A minute of silence passed by in the carriage.

With the stark truth brought forth, games of conspiracy and double-talk faded like a mist under the morning sun. The royal siblings gawked, they looked like awed teenagers.

That's the intensity of hero worship in this world, it's the core of some religions. That also explains their scornfulness towards Elin. No matter how strong she becomes, she'll never be considered the genuine article. It's like selling a photocopy of the Mona Lisa as the real thing. It might be a faithful reproduction, it might invoke the same feeling, but it's not the original canvas.

It's not their fault, they were raised this way, but it kind of pisses me off.

"For the record," Walter said, "I'm not strong. When I arrived, I thought I was level zero. With help, others hid my presence to keep me alive."

The princess and prince shared a look before they fixed their gaze on Elin.

Elin volunteered the answer, "I unintentionally siphoned his power because of a curse."

Princess Roselynde whispered, "Will you help us, as well, Sir Walter? Name it, and it's yours. Title and land, gold, a harem, myself even--"

"All I want is to help Elin. She saved my life. If she is happy, then I am."

Elin followed up on Walter's statement, "There is no reason to disrupt politics any further. Every silver coin is a day of food taken from another. We will keep what we earn. I am too jealous to share, even with a princess."

Princess Roselynde cleared her throat under Elin's stare.

"Everything makes sense now," Prince Peterby said, "Priestess Evelyn reported, 'No hero summoned.' Yet, at the same time, the priestess rescinded Lady Elin's paladin-hood and banished her to Letun, under suspicion of corruption. You were the reason, all along."

"You were aware of that?" Walter asked.

"We arrived here, incognito, after we learned a Hero's Summoning was attempted, investigating everything. It is our duty. Considering our behavior, I understand your poor judgment of us. Our actions are for the greater benefit of Wilmand Kingdom."

"Ah, I get it, an act: speechcraft."

"It worked, did it not? You revealed yourself, and now we know where the kingdom stands. It's a comfort to learn you're fairly reasonable."

For some reason, though not an avid player, Walter wanted to play chess against Prince Peterby.

"Are you sure about this, Walter?"

Walter turned away from the departing carriage and met eyes with Elin. "When I defeated Sir Eugene, I decided it was time to take care of myself. You, and Priestess Evelyn, have covered for me enough, and, the more they attacked you, the more guilty I felt. You've suffered enough because of me."

The reality is: they figured me out before they visited. The prince and princess risked their lives for vital information. What did Elin call it? 'The Qualms of Heroism.' It's clear most of the heroes summoned during the Bloody Crusade absorbed the immaturity of their players, and they did whatever they fantasized about. Some transformed into vicious tyrants, some captured entire armies of concubines, and some killed for sport. For the safety of the kingdom, they had to know.

I know I don't have to feel responsible for it, but--

Elin nodded. "You'll have to fight, too."

"If you are, then I want to. I wasn't going to let you go alone. I know you'll do the right thing, and I want to do it with you."

Elin smiled and clasped his hand.

"Also, how much does a French maid uniform cost?"

The bed creaked because of a continuous rocking.

Months passed since Prince Wilhelm Tacitus III, son of King Wilhelm Tacitus II, heir to the throne of Wilmand Kingdom, arrived at the Five Kingdom's Congress. He agonized through the tedious downtime with recreational sex with his elf mistress, Nix. During this time, they intertwined, the polite word elves use for it, more times than the start of their relationship two years ago.

The precipitating cause: they escaped the supervision of his mother, Queen Vixandra, a woman with a strong personality. At every turn, she attempted to ruin their fling, stopping short of creating false charges against Nix. Prince Wilhelm understood her frustration. Despite legends of half-elves, a human and an elf cannot bear fruit, so the future of the kingdom rested in another's womb.

The queen's exact words, the day he departed, was, "Look, you do what you need to do. Sow your wild oats, let her suck all the air out, I don't care. When you come home, discard that tramp and marry a noble lady. No proper lady is going to play second fiddle to a mistress and an elvish one at that!" The facts stood evident, he was overdue to find a fiancee.

"You know why I like you?" Nix panted, "You're strong for a human."

Red-faced from exertion, Prince Wilhelm pinched and tugged her pointed ear. She kicked and squirmed. His grinding transformed into something more audible.

"Damn you! Not the ears! Why do humans do that?!"

In terms of physique, elves held the advantage over humans. They were naturally more athletic, enjoyed overwhelming reflexes, possessed extraordinary visual acuity, and lived much longer. An average elf woman could pull back a one-hundred-pound war bow without strain. The only ones capable of keeping pace with an elf woman was an elf man.

Their glaring weakness, the reason elves and dwarves did not conquer Eovamund instead of humans, was their complete absence of mana. No elf or dwarf could incant a spell, nor could they invoke the power of most enchanted items. The human military advantage overwhelmed them. Elves themselves suffered a curse from Hera, herself, which compounded their situation.

Prince Wilhelm's tension flooded from him like a released dam.

Nix grinned while he collapsed on top of her. "You're in a mood. Did Prime Minister Asibridel's tits turn you on that much?"

"Your breasts are better."

"Well, I appreciate the lie." Nix twisted under him and shoved him back, so she could lounge. "Another meeting with her? Please say yes. You always come back so horny."

"Why do you always talk dirty like a Disciple of Venus?"

Her eyelids half-closed, and she continued her bedroom talk. "Because I am a Disciple of Venus, silly. At least, while I'm in the Wilmand Kingdom. That's why we little-ole-innocent elf maidens come here, to be taken advantage of by big-old-scary human men. Sometimes, when it suits me, I pray to Gaia, or when I'm feeling romantic, Aphrodite. When I visited the United Barbarian Territories, I chased dragons and danced to ancestor spirits. I beat my chest to Ares in Rangville. In Bartgoria, I worshiped coins, and so on. We live too long to suffocate under one principle."

Prince Wilhelm rolled his eyes. "What about the Alune Theocracy?"

"They can burn to the fucking ground." Nix curled her lip. When she calmed, she scratched his scalp. "How did the meeting go?"

"Well, she only ever has one request, though I should call it begging."

"You know, she'd fuck you to obtain more crates of food."

"Well," Prince Wilhelm sighed, "I already have the perfect elf mistress. You should be my wife, forget what the queen thinks."

"You're missing the point, stud," Nix said. She rolled over and straddled him. "She wears those shear easy-to-removed dresses to get you in the mood, and then I take over, so now I ask. I know you're a good man, despite your fetish for elves, part of the reason I like you. You don't want to take advantage. I get it. But, we're going to anyway, so wouldn't it be nice if you could use it as an excuse for some charity? The corrupt nobles would approve of it, a little tail for a little favor. Think about it! The dick that fed all those elf women!"

Prince Wilhelm cringed and held back a laugh. "What a horrible phrasing."

"Yet, I feel your thing agreeing with me." Nix rocked her hips to prove her point.

"Aren't you humiliated? Trading your body for political favors?"

Nix blinked and then giggled. "Maybe back when I was eighty. Look, shut up. I'm rewarding you for helping."

"We've covered this subject three times, General Tybalt," Prince Wilhelm sighed, "The tracts will not be renegotiated on the mere accusation. Even if it were true, and I'm not saying it is, the presence of a hero in the Wilmand's care would encourage us to take, not maintain."

General Tybalt, the representative of the Rangville Empire, flipped his palm up, "When are these slow-moving investigations going to finish? Give us permission to send our own investigators."

General Tybalt loved to wear his medals and a groomed beard. When Prince Wilhelm attended the conference, he wore the expected ceremonial armor. But, he could not remember a single instance of Tybalt out of uniform and concluded he lived in it.

The prince lamented traveling so far north, to this neutral ground, of the Necropolis to deal with tantrums. The historic building, filled with decades of peaceful meetings, endured the bickering immature leadership.

Prime Minister Asibridel, the elected leader of The Sanctuary, cleared her throat, "I cannot support a motion, to prevent the precedent. Let us maintain the sanctity of nations."

She appeared the opposite of General Tybalt, serene and voluptuous. Her clothing, a thin spider-silk her nation was famous for, hung from her breasts. No doubt, an attempt to entice looks. Her angelic face never fluctuated.

Chief Bloody Minotaur Horn and Don Undmith did not attend. Pope Althonbright, the spiritual ruler of the Alune Theocracy, remained silent, as he ever did, leaning on his holy staff and staring over his spectacles with wrinkled eyelids.

The argument followed the same tedious pattern as before. General Tybalt pointed out a deficiency, imagined or not, in an agreement between the Wilmand Kingdom and the Ranville Empire. Once denied, he'd bring up the broken Summoner's Treaty, and demand results that Prince Wilhelm could not produce. A third party would mediate the dispute, usually Prime Minister Asibridel because she secured a favorable trade agreement.

It felt like the advancing of infantry, a clash, and then a clean-up of calvary, repeated ad nauseam.

The arguments always came down to food. Arable land existed aplenty, but growing on it without being killed was the problem. The Golden City of Summersheaf, now known as the Necropolis, once exported an abundance of wheat. The War of the Long Night, the failed military campaign to retake the city, still secured ground, enough to justify the quarantine. The Wilmand Kingdom built Camp Wolf, the Rangville Empire built Camp Bear, and the Alune Theocracy established the small, yet potent, Camp Eagle. They defended and split the wheatfields.

Since then, the kingdom and the empire squabbled over tracts.

After a day's worth of arguing, nothing changed. Again.

Meetings adjourned, the prince sighed and exited the building. After the initial panic following the alleged violation of the Summoner's Treaty, representatives from the six nations pitched tent-cities nearby. The visit extended and continued extending, while demands for a definitive result carried on. No one had an answer to the pointless investigation, so the prince suffered in waiting.

One of his servants dashed to him and extended a roll of parchment. "Prince Wilhelm, a messenger pigeon from your siblings."

He read the letter, and then re-read it. Sweat beaded on his brow despite standing in a field of trampled snow.

When he spoke, he hissed a whisper. "Tell the others, quietly, to prepare to leave! Ready for combat!"