The Chancellor flipped through a pile of reports, each one bearing worse news than the last. A Madman tore through the countryside, burning villages as he pleased. The casualty counts were beyond belief. None of the soldiers or bounty hunters sent to stop the Madman had reported success—in fact, many had either deserted or disappeared entirely. Of the few who still dared return to the major cities, none could be persuaded by either force or fortune to continue the search.

Far in the distance, a bell tolled: high noon. The Gold King would be waiting for their daily lunch meeting. A shadow passed across the Chancellor’s face as she pointedly focused on the reports. Hunger was too base a sensation to cloud her judgement. The Gold King could wait about idly all day if it pleased him, but a Chancellor had more important matters to consider.

A royal attendant burst into the Chancellor’s office and bowed low. The Chancellor glared at him, eyes flashing with an unnatural light.

“Begone. I gave orders not to be disturbed,” the Chancellor said.

The attendant went very pale. “Forgive me, Chancellor, but the Gold King said to invite you—”

The Chancellor’s hand twitched toward the door. The attendant scurried away, and the Chancellor returned to her work.

Head in hands, the Chancellor stared at the sheets of paper until the words blurred together. Rumor held it that one Bounty Hunter, a former Sheriff of the Capital, yet pursued the Madman. Still other rumors claimed that this Hunter was not a living man but a vengeful ghost. However, these were the folk-tales of superstitious farmers and woodsmen; not one reliable source offered a single solution to the danger rampaging through the countryside.

Scarcely a minute later, the door opened again. The Chancellor slowly put down her pen. Equally slowly, she raised her gaze from the reports to the entryway. The Gold King himself stepped into her office, clad in decadent yellow fabrics with gold-thread embroidery.

“My dear Chancellor! You were too busy to visit me for lunch, so I’ll just have to bring lunch to you.” The Gold King clapped his hands.

A long line of attendants entered the office with an elaborate wooden dining table, crockery, and several courses of food. The table was placed parallel to the Chancellor’s own desk, and the Gold King seated himself directly opposite her across the two tables. He placed a sampling of food onto one plate, offering it to the Chancellor with a hopeful smile.

A careful neutrality came across the Chancellor’s face. She unfolded another report, spreading it across her desk. The Gold King’s hand and attached plate slowly sank back to his table. He began to eat alone, chattering to himself on whatever topics crossed his mind. The Chancellor tuned out most of his chatter, but one minor comment caught her attention.

“The Marshal of the East was seen in the northern forests? You let the Traitor live?” Her full focus shifted from the reports to the Gold King.

“I remember my friends.” The Gold King’s grin grew as wide and guileless as that of any overly sentimental fool—yet even a fool could be made useful when properly employed.

Every child in the land knew the stories. The Marshal of the West had but one equal in all the land: the Marshal of the East. The Chancellor had once taken advantage of the latter to rid the kingdom of the former at the cost of both; yet now, both still survived. This time, the Traitor could rid the world of the Madman, once and for all. He only needed the proper nudge in order to return to his former rage-filled revolutionary status.

The Chancellor dispatched scouts to seek the retired Marshal of the East among the northern mountains. Months passed, and the scouts returned one by one, each weary from long travels and burdened with a gloomy air of defeat.

“The mountains hold nothing but deserted homes and destroyed villages,” said the scouts again and again.

Though ash, stone, and forest abounded among the volcanic ranges of the North, the scouts could find no human life. The last scout, however, did report a strange encounter—not in the northern mountains, but rather in a small wayfarer’s inn near the borders of the Empire.

“There was a kind old fellow with a walking stick. Reddish hair, long beard. Wore a hood and shabby robes like the homeless, but he spoke like an educated fellow. Looked a bit like a Sage from the old tales,” the scout reported, shifting uneasily under the Chancellor’s unblinking stare. “He told me to thank the Cloud Scholar for opening his eyes to the truth.”

The Chancellor seized this hint as proof of the Marshal of the East’s presence. Desperate for a solution to the Marshal of the West’s rampage, the Chancellor journeyed to the northern forests herself.

Following a trail of rumor, the Chancellor and her elite escort unit tracked down one Marshal of the East, now turned into a humble Sage. They finally cornered him at a small abandoned hut in the wilderness. The escort soldiers surrounded the hut, while the Chancellor herself went forth to confront the Sage.

“Return to the Empire, and all records of your crimes shall be expunged from the historical archives. Your honor will be restored and your exile lifted. You may even have your old station back, should you wish it,” offered the Chancellor.

“No,” said the Sage. His voice was subdued, far from the commanding roar that the Chancellor remembered, and weary lines crossed a face that had once shone with ageless vigor. The Sage looked as though he had weathered long decades since his time as the Marshal of the East, yet he carried himself with the same resolution and dignity.

“No?” The Chancellor floundered for a moment. She had been certain that the previous offer could not be refused, yet here the Sage had done just that. “What do you desire, then? Fame? Riches? Name anything, and you shall have it when you return to service.”

“What need has a humble Sage for wealth? Of power and knowledge I have tasted more than enough; of masters, I have served many and no longer desire another. I already possess all that I need, as do you.” Flickers of memory and regret passed across the Sage’s expression. “What one begins, one must end. I have helped in the ways that I can. This path is the Sheriff’s to seek. Farewell, Cloud Scholar.”

The Sage bowed to the Chancellor, leaning heavily upon his staff. He walked out the hut, motions graceful but slow. The Chancellor followed him as far as the door. The Sage was as stubborn as his brother; by the finality in his words, the Chancellor knew that he could not be swayed either. She watched the Sage hobble through the underbrush along mountain roads known only to him. Foliage soon consumed the Sage, hiding him from the Chancellor’s displeased gaze.

When the Chancellor returned to the Capital, she was no closer to a solution than before.