They set off into the Frosthold the next morning.

Two days. Two very long days, it took, to get to where they were now.

Novarra looked at the snow, sitting down next to the Guide.

Leon spoke, suddenly.

"It's my job to lead people to themselves, Miss Ultra," the Guide said. "You — you think you have found yourself. I can see it in your eyes — you're willing to sacrifice yourself because you think your self cannot be damaged. Your boy has not told you what you have seen, correct?"

Novarra raised her eyebrows, but remained silent.

"Do you not hear the screams?" said Leon. "Your soul is screaming, Miss Ultra. You must not ignore it." The Guide smiled. "You are playing along. But this is not a game, it is a story. Whether or not you, as you, will see it end is your choice — the path that you tread, the path that you make, is the path to the end."

"The journey, not the destination, or any variant of that sappy proverb." Novarra smiled, wryly. "I prefer the character-glitching Leon much more than—" she waved, offhandedly "—whoever this cliche old fuck is this."

"You're trying to rile me up," the Guide noted, smiling. "That's a cliche trick, Miss Ultra."

"Is it?" the former heiress' eyebrows arched again. “I never knew.”

Leon smiled. "There is a path," he told her. "There is an end. You will end, and Evan knows why."

Varra blinked. "Right." This wasn't an effort at division. "I totally believe you," she half-lied, before she stood up without a word and left the Guide alone.

"Hey, Ev," she called. "Leon says that you've got something to tell me." The cold gnawed away at the layers of fabric wrapped around her, and Novarra didn't trust the Guide any further than she could throw him, but usually things like these turned out to be true.

In novels, Person A would tell the MC — right, calling herself the MC in this situation would be a tad arrogant, but who cared, anyway — that Person B did so-and-so, and that would breed distrust between the MC and Person B until it got to a point where it affected the entire trio. Then the trio would have the Trust Talk, and Person B would either admit that it was a misunderstanding and would spill their backstory; and Person A would apologize and spill their backstory.

Evan and Novarra hadn't had the Trust Talk yet, primarily because of the crappy dynamic they had between them — it was long overdue, anyway.

"What something?" the boy said, eyes narrowing.

"You know what it is." The former heiress tapped her brain. "You see something, don't you?"

Aidann — who had been pretending not to listen — raised his eyebrows. "Is there something you're not telling us, dear son?" asked the former idol.

"I get to not tell you things," Evan shot back. "Sibelius? And Novarra's probably not telling her entire life story, either."

"But this is important to our lives— my life." Novarra raised her eyebrows. "If you want to hear my life-story, all I need is an hour — I'm very good at giving crash courses. But if you're just bringing up the fact that we haven't told you about our entire lives to excuse the fact that you're not sharing vital information, that's a shitty way to convince someone. Logically speaking, it doesn't make sense. Logic aside, it's hypocritical."

Evan frowned, and was about to speak before the third transmigrator cut in.

"What she's saying," said Aidann, "is that you're being an idiot. Fork the information over, before this creates a division that we can't fix. It's cold out here, by the way — damn, can't we just discuss this by the fire, instead?"

That was a way to add seeming neutrality to the statement.

Manipulative. Varra smiled.

"Sure," she said. "Whatever's comfortable for you both — this'll be a long talk, won't it?"

Evan's eyes were unreadable. "[Maybe]," the former Kingbreaker said.

Player: Novarra Kiye Ultra Title: Incompetent Queen | Charlatan Role: Side Villain Unlikely Protagonist Type: ??? Affiliation: None Aliases Ingrid Signia | Novarra Ultra (current) | The Charlatan Lvl 233 STR 60 INT 70 SPE 50 SKI 70 Skills:

[Diversion] A Class

[Mockery] A+ Class

[Eye for Talent] B Class

[Strategy] D+ Class

[Malevolence] C Class

[Self-Preservation] A+ Class

[Janus-Like] B+ Class

Personal Attribute

[Immortality] SSS Class

Traits:

[Practical] believes only in the feasible

[Lofty] aloof when disinterested

[Stubborn] carries out her plans to the end

[Hypocritical] can be deceitful and insincere, but does not like it in others

[Adaptable] able to adjust to the situation extremely quickly

[Slothful] lazy

[Strategic Effort] puts seemingly customized amounts of effort in different categories.

[Thorough] performs and plans in great detail

[Talented] high potential in multiple areas

System Note:

(!) Warning, this player contains unauthorized information that [Player Evan King] is currently unable to access. Approach with caution.

"Unlikely protagonist," said Evan. He nodded at the invisible game status floating above Novarra's head. "That's what it says, now — I don't know the specific time it changed, but it did, after you set the fire. From 'Side Villain' to 'Unlikely Protagonist,' your role in the Story itself changed."

"That's why," the other mused, "when I told you about my suspicions, you didn't cast it off as paranoia — you knew something was up." The former heiress poked at the fire. "Well, it would've helped if you told us earlier, so we could sort it out— well," she said to herself, "technically, if you told me, the role could have changed into an obstacle, so I suppose it's understandable. Understandable, but a bit unreasonable, still."

Aidann held up a hand. "So you're saying," he said to Evan, "that you have a— what did Varra say — 'personal attribute'? And that my illusion ability...is mine? When we transmigrated, I did pay attention; and the System did say…"

Right, I forgot.

We're all pretending like we're from the same world.

Evan inclined his head. "My, 'personal attribute,'" he explained, using quotation marks with his fingers, "is to see people's status. Like game screens. Strength, intelligence, skill, traits, all that yadda yadda." He folded his hands inside his arms. "Fuck, it's really cold— damnit, at least Leon provided me gloves, unlike—"

Novarra raised her eyebrows, stopping the directed jab (a feeble attempt at a distraction) by cutting in. "So I'm the, what? 'Unlikely Protagonist,' now?"

Evan nodded. "And, for Aidann, it says 'Anti-Hero Protagonist.'"

"The System's fucking with us," the heiress decided, smiling while shaking her head. "It's obviously here to create that stereotypical party conflict, and this— Role, title, whichever — if you think about it, it wouldn't be just a shitty going-to-the-Everwinter, it's-fucking-cold arc. A good story is supposed to create tension in every journey, every arc, every act. This—" Novarra waved her hands at the surroundings "—is obviously our turn."

She scoffed while still grinning. "The System couldn't just dump a bunch of monsters, damn them."

It was Aidann's turn to raise his eyebrows. "You're speaking as if you think this is a story," he pointed out, a bit too casually.

The former heiress smiled. "In my perspective, that's the only logical assumption. This is, after all, a novel's world that we've all been transmigrated into — it wouldn't work the way our world does. We've tried our own ways, to circumvent its flow, but the war? Action? A bit of politics splashed hastily through the story? It shows the signs of a trademark transmigration story, through and through."

Her lips twitched. "I guess I'm the OP MC, then. Figures."

"Story lingo," Aidann said, sing-song-y. "Not a good sign."

Novarra winked. "If I was going insane," she responded, "you would be the first one I'd kill." I'm already insane, technically, but who cares?

"I appreciate the compliment; genuinely, I do, dear friend," continued Aidann, raising a hand, "but 'Anti-Villain Protagonist'? Really? When have I ever—" he stopped himself. "Ah. Wait. That. Right, I suppose you could call me an anti-villain, but wouldn't 'Anti-Hero' have a better ring to it? You know, doing wrong things for the right reasons?"

Evan scoffed. "What is your right reason?" he grumbled, before taking a breath. "Look, I'm sorry," the former Kingbreaker said. "Like you said, it was unreasonable; but I don't trust any of you further than I could throw you. I'd prefer to be honest on this bit — I've only known all of you for, what? All of a couple weeks? I trust all of you as travelling companions, but I withheld this information because I don't trust how this System...makes use of you."

"And that mistrust spreads," Novarra concluded. "Thus creating 'group friction.'" She clapped her hands together. "Right, so the next course of action would be a Trust Talk, wouldn't it? Share our dark backstories? Drink wine while wrapping each other in comforting hugs, and crying our past sorrows away, yes?"

"Our tears would freeze in this weather," commented Aidann, "but yes, if you're referring to the novel cliche, you would be right."

A silence.

"So, uh." Evan cleared his throat. "I see the sense in doing this — getting it all out there — but, uh, how do we do this? A trauma slideshow? Spin the bottle, again?" He rubbed his hands.

"I'll go first," Novarra volunteered readily, smiling. There has to be someone starting this, either way. "Since you guys already know half of it. My mother ran away to Macau from my father after she stole his money. My father...wasn't the most attentive father," she admitted cheerily. AN UNDERSTATEMENT, her head echoed. An understatement, she agreed.

"He was more like a person who was present in my life — he was responsible, monetarily; and he ran the company I would inherit — but he was not a father. I have no parents — both of them abandoned me, although I grew up with...quite a large amount of privilege," the former heiress continued casually, placing her indifferent mask over her expression. "I like to think I'm quite adaptable. If we're ever in a state where you think I'm in danger, we can use that word. 'Macau' — it's the most logical thing, something that 'only I know.'"

The information dump took Evan and Aidann a while to process.

"Right," said Aidann, slowly. "So, who's next?"

Evan cleared his throat, and Novarra partially zoned out (she already knew his backstory, but she did pay some attention just in case).

Evan...didn't trust both of them (she didn't trust them either, but that was besides the point).

Trust was, after all, A SILLY t##&$^HING TO DO.

It was Aidann, next.

The former idol rubbed his hands. "Er, wait, where do I start?"

"Sibelius," Evan proposed.

Aidann blinked. "Right. Sibelius."

Nervous, Novarra noticed - or at least, some form of anxiety.

"When I was young, my parents entered me in a music competition. It was before the doctors said I had synesthesia - I don't have it now, of course, the System took care of it - but I collapsed, that day. From a sensory overload, or whatever, but it wasn't really that. I hadn't slept for days at that point, because my mom and dad kept pressuring me to play and win the money - two thousand dollars, I think. It was one of those fancy comps."

Sibelius.

Novarra paid attention.

Aidann's voice was even, as always.

"My nose bled the entire day, and I was turning feverish. I couldn't tell the administrators, because everything was fancy and my mom told me to tough it out, because I would get disqualified otherwise."

He laughed.

"I played Sibelius on the violin. I think I was - what, twelve? If I'd done well, I would've been hailed a prodigy. And I did do well, but I couldn't finish the last note. I passed out, right on the stage, and hit my head on the floor. Spent a couple days in the hospital, and my mom and dad refused to let me get discharged for a while because they didn't want to see my face."

The atmosphere was silent.

The idol laughed. "I got disqualified, of course. Damn the judges - played really well, though." He tightened his fist, just unnoticeably. "Then my mom forced me to play piano, instead of violin. After I got officially diagnosed with synesthesia, they forced me even more to do music. They were alright with me doing art because it made them money, but yeah."

A long pause.

Novarra patted him on the shoulder.

A shadow of guilt passed across Evan's face.

Aidann cleared his throat. "But, so - we're all good now? Trust each other more?"

"Understand," Novarra corrected. "We understand each other more. And that's the first step."

The hike was long, cold, and irritating. Snow clogged the paths of Novarra’s feet, and empty promises of it ‘only taking a few more days’ continued to repeat.

“How can you tell the trail apart?” grumbled Aidann. “There’s trees, trees, and more trees.”

Leon shrugged. “We’re almost there,” assured the Guide. “Half an hour, at worst—a few more minutes, at best.” His eyes were closed, gloved fingers dancing over air as if tracing an invisible route. And then his dark lashes fluttered, revealing those amber irises, and he gazed through the underbrush—as if he could see something they couldn’t, piercing through every obstacle—in one direction.

“How do you know?” asked Evan, frowning.

Leon brandished his lute, strumming a chord as he led the trio further ahead. “I was, after all, Durendal’s first discoverer—would be stranger if I didn’t.”

There was a tension in the group that hadn’t been there before, but still Aidann made an attempt at conversation.

“First discoverer? And you didn’t Claim it?”

The Guide shook his head, amber eyes glinting.

“The punishment for stealing a Claim is far more dangerous than you’d think it,” Leon said. “See, Mr. King here can’t feel the change, since it’s gradual. But slowly, surely, he’ll become out of touch with this world. The longer he uses the blade, the more he’ll turn into something not quite human—he will be human, but his soul’s attachment to this world will loosen. That is Excalibur’s Brand.”

Evan frowned, as the Guide continued.

“Durendal’s Brand makes the bearer lose sight. Foresight, hindsight—unless the bearer has an ability, or in this case ‘Personal Attribute—’” Leon made quotation marks with one hand as he continued walking “—that combats the making of reckless decisions, it’ll consume the person who steals it.”

Novarra met the Guide’s eyes, and she smiled, her lips stiff from the cold. “Like immortality?”

Leon smiled back. “Exactly.” He strummed another chord.

“We’re not the first ones, are we?” asked Aidann, suddenly. The former idol’s eyes were fixed on the Guide’s lute, as if discerning a note played.

The first ones.

Leon raised his eyebrows. “The first protagonists? No, you are not. For every book written, there is an unwritten prequel—an unwritten sequel, as well. No world can simply be a standalone, but the plots—the Destinies—must be different.”

Novarra’s mind swarmed, as she looked forward.

Frost was glistening on the trees, hoar gathering on its branches and trunks—it looked unimaginably otherworldly, like someone had stuck the trio in virtual reality or a really well-rendered photograph. Crystal icicles dripped water on snow-covered underbrush, and it pissed Varra off to no end.

It was cold.

You would’ve thought she’d gotten used to it, but this kind of cold—

It was searing, unforgivable, and harsh.

An ice that felt like fire.

The Frosthold.

Novarra followed the Guide around a cluster of bushes and into a clearing. It looked just like any other clearing, and for a second Varra thought Leon was taking them for a rest. But then the Guide raised his hands up in a grandiloquent gesture, flourishing them in a mini-jazz hands over a—stem? A really ugly grey plant?

Varra squinted.

No, it was metal, she concluded. A metal stick sprouting out of the ground—

“Behold,” said Leon, “the Lost Sword of Souveraine de L’air, the Slayer of Many, the Cardinal Sword of Air—”

“There’s no fucking way that’s Durendal,” interrupted Evan.

“Seconded,” added Aidann.

“Thirded,” said Novarra. She squinted again. “Yep, still not getting any legendary sword vibes here.”

The Guide blinked, before laughing. “Yeah, I’m just fucking with ya,” said Leon. “That’s the contraption you need to pull to get into the legendary cave where Durendal’s in.”

Evan blinked. “Wait, really?”

Leon’s smile disappeared. “No, dumbass.” The Guide did the jazz-hands again more empathically. “This is Durendal.”

Novarra squinted, even further. “Come on, Leon.” She laughed. “Don’t lie to me, here—did you discover it by tripping on it, or something?” But still, she leaned forward and grabbed the hilt out of the snow. Yep—still not magical. It was rusty, she thought, as she heaved it into her hands—and heavy.

As the Queen’s hands tightened over the hilt, and the Guide’s eyes glimmered again as he opened his mouth to answer, the whole world flickered and all faded to black.

Well.

She wasn’t making that mistake ever again.