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A Kingmaker and his King,

A jeweler and his ring,

An odyssey of death does the Kingfisher sing,

A path of destruction laid out,

A General, Slaughterer of Many, set about,

Followed by the Duke's solemn route.

O, a Kingmaker and his King.

A King and her Kingmaker,

A funeral-bringer and her undertaker,

A ground of scarlet flame and the Kingdom's pathmaker,

A General and her vassal,

A Legacy won, winner of battle,

Lo behold as fate's tapestry unravels,

O a King and her Kingmaker.

A General of inferno does Destiny seek,

To plead for mercy, for Destiny weeps,

"King and Kingmaker," She looks up, eyes of hate, "of you I beseech,"

A response is unneeded,

For of glory and ruin, O, the King and Kingmaker speak.

- Kingmaker and King, King and Kingmaker, modern song composed by Canave the Bard

The System of Destiny frowned. {I do not weep}, they pointed out.

{According to this World's poem, you do}, replied the System of Fate.

Two presences were hovering above a battlefield, conversing as they watched the scene unfold.

A large man, bulky with scars criss-crossing his back, blood marrying his dark skin. The man was dressed in little nothing but a rag covering his legs, a large axe in his hands dripping with scarlet. His eyes were wild, like a starved animal, spiral tattoos creeping on his face and neck. Enraged, he snarled as he lunged at his opponent.

His opponent was a similarly tattooed woman, muscles bursting as she panted. A nasty, grotesque scar pierced into her back, a mess of organ and blood and bone. Her arm had been torn off, cartilage exposed as ink spirals shifted on her skin. The tattoos moved, like magic, as she nimbly dodged the axe with a-

{Boring}, the Fate System sighed, {Everything is ever so boring. Freeze}.

The Command was filled with Power, of a broken hourglass, and endless fjord. Of Time stopping, of old and of new, of movement and of grace, Freeze.

With the command, the figures of the battle froze. The cheers of the crowd, even the wind in the Plane and the blood in the air hung in the air like a moment suspended in time, a Scene upon a screen where the pause button had just been hit.

The Destiny System paused. {You find everything boring, Fate}, Destiny scolded before continuing Fate's command. {Erase}, they Manipulated.

The word was filled with power, of Ends and Beginnings, of a blank canvas upon which Worlds were created. Of Death and of Life, of the cogs in between, of mechanications beyond imagination. Of a blackboard, Erased.

The scene crumbled away like grains of desert sand, wafting away in the wind as the two presences watched silently. The Plane of Existence was no more, as if the scene had never existed.

{You should stop Creating new Planes}, Destiny chastised, {the Upper doesn't like us creating new Timelines. They might Withhold us from our next Authority Tier promotions}.

{Yes, yes}, Fate drawled, {I should refrain from messing with the World too much. Otherwise, They will Withhold me from Authority Tiers for a couple millenia. You've said this before.}

{There are a lot of Roles here}, Destiny frowned, ignoring Fate. {Kingmaker. General-King. Thief-Hero, Kingbreaker. Queen. Queensblood. Creator. Too many cross-players at play, too. Too many cogs, too much. You should-}

{What I should and what I shouldn't doesn't concern you}, Fate replied, blandly. {My Threads are mine. What I Weave also does not concern you}.

A word full of strings and music and tapestry, of screams and emotion and Life.

Destiny sounded bemused. {You're very touchy today. But then again you're always very touchy about your Threads.}

{Don't you have to Reunite with your Conscience soon}? Fate frowned, annoyed. {I only asked you here to discuss. You are technically my subordinate, Destiny. Do not Forget.}

Destiny paused.

{Alright}, they replied, a bit sulkily. {Do what you will.}

One of the two presences slowly vanished from the Plane, the other pausing at the empty space before Commanding, again.

{Reveal}.

Fate.

Immediately in the Plane of Existence were crimson strands, almost like papery blood-cobwebs, intercrossing the Plane like strings of a haunting viola. Some wove together in pieces of unfinished fabric, while others tangled and came undone. It was a beautiful sight, yet one that provided a reminder of danger, and death.

The presence's sights were on three unassuming strings in the center, glimmering with a golden sheen.

{Entangle, for all shall meet soon.}

Novarra was tired.

Very, very tired.

"[You melted quicker this time]," she accused. Well, croaked was the better term for it, but her legs felt like melting shit so who cared?

"[Well I'm sorry, for running out of magic WHEN I'M TURNING INTO A FUCKING ICE CUBE]," Evan snarled.

"[You hopeless Ivauhnking]." Novarra rolled her eyes, but she couldn't roll them any longer. She felt like mush, her body parts floppy from interchanging between air and human as she collapsed against the forest ground and fixed her gaze on the infernal bucket across from her.

"[Stop calling me that]," Evan replied gloomily, "[There's not even any Kings to break]."

"[You sound like a man in his late twenties tired of life]," Novarra commented.

"[Twenty-five isn't even late twenties, but still a low blow, Your Former Majesty, a low blow]."

Novarra did not reply, for the energy eluded her.

Prickles of grass were felt against the spine through her shirt as the pine trees swayed in the scented breeze. It was an idyllic sight, the Woods, sunlight streaming through the gaps like a bride's veil. Laying on the forest floor wasn't dirty, surprisingly. The moss felt almost clean, with no deadly animals in sight, apart from likely an odd bear or two. Chittering birds were a peaceful background noise - Novarra felt as if she could lay there for months.

The wayward plan that she had offered half jokingly, Evan had accepted without a second thought.

That crazy Kingbreaker.

Novarra cursed him internally. She was tired, she realized. Not just physically. After five years of not easy, but familiar work she was slipping up for all her stats were. Getting sloppy. The strategy Evan and Novarra had mulled over was haphazard at most, and the only advantages...Bloody Hero, what even were the advantages?

We have the advantage of time. We have the disadvantage of power, stamina. We can only afford a strategy within the limits of-

"[Thinking]?" Evan offered tiredly, in his pinched five-year-old voice.

"[Yes]," Novarra replied.

"[Of]?"

"[Advantages. Disadvantages. Limits]." An honest reply, as Novarra continued thinking.

Limited manpower - no, if we can garner enough support from the townsfolk there, enough manpower. If we can get the Lavers' merchant connections, probably some amount of resources, too. Information gathering. Find a headcount, a way to differentiate commoners in case Evan regrets action. A weak point, a-

"[I've changed]," Novarra concluded, musing out loud. "[My way of thinking, since I came here. I suppose life does that to you. Not a huge amount, but]-"

She paused, hesitating.

But she knew Evan was listening - the heavy breathing of the protagonist proved it. Everything was so real.

And so Novarra cracked open her charlatan's facade, just for a little bit.

"[The survival impulses that I've acted on, those thoughts have grown louder]." Novarra sighed. "[But the voice in the back of my head telling me what's wrong and what's right has gotten quieter, I suppose, Kingbreaker]."

Another, long pause.

"[Then ignore both]," Evan replied simply.

This would be the point where any sane person would say, it's not that easy, Evan. Life's never that easy, Evan.

But every sane person made things more complicated than it needed to be.

"Well, shyte, that's damn good advice," Novarra responded, somewhat frankly as she slowly got up. "Well, we've got a much-needed break. Let's go on."

And so the Charlatan and the Kingbreaker got up, and went on.

Guildmaster Yiala Kesse smiled.

She found smiling very tiring. Especially when she was smiling at a bunch of buffoons who didn't know what they were doing.

And especially when the aforementioned buffoons were her business partners.

Angelica Reye hissed. "Will you, or will you not, go after the Rebels, you snivelling bitch?"

One of her better insults, Yiala supposed.

She kept smiling.

Those gathered in this building were anarchists. They were all anarchists here, in Resilia, where there was order but there was not, where you could do anything as long as you had enough money to hire guards, but the guards could decapitate you in betrayal and no one would bat an eye.

Yiala heard the distant boom of an explosion.

No one blinked.

Probably around Merchan's Quarter. Nothing to worry about.

"Guildsmaster Reye, please refrain from insulting members of this committee," another guildsmaster reminded, "Cavailerre is doing everything they can, and so are we-"

Sonestra.

"You're only licking Yiala's boots because she's Cavalierre's Guildsmaster, Whittington," sneered Angelica. "Tell me, how's Carnage's Captain doing? Injured by Ace, was he?"

Sonestra blanched, pallid blue eyes blinking. "That's-"

"Crossing a line, Angelica," Yiala warned. "If you're going to be disrespectful, we'll have no choice but to blacklist your Guild."

Stop being so simplistic, you fool, is what others would've thought, but Yiala knew better. Well, at least she was more practical, anyway. The Committee was basically throwing a bunch of generals together and hoping for the best, and wasn't exactly renowned for its effectiveness. Guildsmasters weren't elected for their diplomacy or tact, but rather their power and leadership ability - or ability to bring order to Resilia, if Yiala was being honest.

The highest echelon of the Guildsmasters in Resilia was the collection of misfits surrounding this very table.

Angelica wasn't a bad person, Yiala supposed.

Although it didn't seem like it, the watery, bland Sonestra was known as the Ice Enchantress, capable of defeating a battlefield with a flick of her wrist, while the fiery Angelica was the Scarlet Demon, killer of many.

But of course, there was a reason Yiala Kesse herself was leader of the biggest guild around.

"Cut off your measly trade, see if I care, you ass-" Angelica lunged.

"Angelica." The deep voice belonged to Ulysses, of the Silent Assassins Guild. Their hollow eyes were deep-set into their face, dark hair and angular Resilian features clashing with their Evangelinese heritage. The only person Angelica Reye respected under the sky, Angelica's ex-lover.

Also possibly one of the more lethally dangerous people in the room.

"Cavialerre sent the Operative King on the mission," Yiala said with finality.

"The wild card?" Sonestra asked, somewhat incredulously. "You mean, the Ivauhnking?"

"A fancy name, that," Ulysses said. "Kingdestroyer. But can he handle evacuating hundreds of people while negotiating with the entirety of the Rebel camp? He's barely five years old, Ala."

"Ala?" Angelica burst.

"He is not a wild card."

Serratta the Seer.

He wasn't really a seer, per se - nothing close to a Meta.

But his prickly mysteriousness and uncanny ability of having a good gut had earned him his nickname - and his obsessiveness over magic research had added to that, Yiala supposed. Serratta was the ‘head’ of the Merchan’s Quarter, the Viers’ envoy, establisher of the Board and a mere twenty years old. Many had tried to bribe him to change their Guild’s rank on the aforementioned Board, but he was notorious for being stubborn.

He was mostly passive in these meetings, so his interjection was surprising.

“So you’re against my Guild’s designated Operative?” Yiala raised an eyebrow.

“No. I’m just saying, he isn’t a wild card,” Serratta insisted. “There’s two people Evan’s searching for, while at Elevyar’s capital - they’re the true wild cards at play.”

“Excuse me?”

“Xuena damn you, Yiala.” Serratta’s eyes were surprisingly passionate. “It’s because you’ve sent the Ivauhnking straight to the elfe’s den that Resilia shall fall once more.”

The town in front of Novarra’s was a sight so beautiful, it healed her sore eyes.

Huffing and puffing, and lugging the tired Evan King along, she collapsed on the cobblestone road near its entrance. After passing various small towns, sleeping in the woods, and turning into air at least a billion times a day, Novarra was grateful. So, incredibly grateful.

“Is that...Administrator Signia?”

So, so, so incredibly grateful that she passed out while kissing the damp stone ground.

“Just kill them all.”

Aidann Ehwa frowned.

“Excuse me?” he repeated.

“I said, just kill them all.” Marquis Vanahan blustered, “they’re not worth my time - and it’s just a couple hundred people.”

“The exact number remains unknown,” Aidann corrected, “and the killing of all would mean an international incident.”

Your lips are probably dirty from all the asskissing, bastard.

Aidann clucked his tongue. “Isn’t your boundless empathy for the Resilian people, many of whom are poor and helpless from the situation, so ever-so-present? Oh wait, did it disappear?”

“You-”

“Where do you think it went, Your Lordship?” Aidann widened his eyes as the hostile looks of the Vanahan Marquessate's members contorted further. Only Bertram, the Marquis' first son, was decent enough. The Marquis was an insufferable sort of person that reminded Aidann of his first manager. “Did it go up your ass - oh wait, your head’s already up there, so there’s probably no room.” He said it drily, watching Antonio’s disapproving frown deepen.

“F-”

Bertram Vanahan, the Marquis’ first son, tried to calm his father down. “You know, Father, Lord Aidann is slightly right, we have to take into account-”

“Bertram.” The Marquis’ face looked almost offended at his son’s betrayal.

“We’re still in the carriage,” Aidann reminded. “We’re not even at the border yet, and you’re this spry? Is that a midlife crisis, I spy?”

Novarra woke to Belluse standing over her.

"Administrator Signia's awake," the auburn-haired woman said. To who? Everything was fuzzy, probably from either dehydration, or just intense fatigue.

"Ah, she's awake." Novarra's gaze travelled to the source of the voice, a five-year-old boy. Evan?

"Is that you, Belluse? Or am I hallucinating?" she managed to drawl.

Evan snorted. "Yes, you're hallucinating. Everything's in a dream. Life's a simulation."

"Shut the fuck up, Ev." Novarra was now sure of the fact that she had passed out, and was even more sure of the fact that Evan was a whiny asshole. She tried to get up, but failed. "Souveraine, or Xuena, or whatever, I feel so weird."

Weird was an understatement. Even her bones felt tired. Her magic reserves were completely depleted.

She was thinking about another plan, Varra realized, before she hit the ground. A plan that would likely cause a diplomatic incident, and a plan she had mentioned before as a joke.

"Trojan Horse," she croaked. "Let's build an exploding Trojan Horse."