He begged for food along the streets of Sitchan.

The city was unclean, littered with feces and piss, and it stood on no rivers to cleanse of its refuse. Fermboi had no choice but to sit on the corners of the central market, where the filth was most oppressive but still clean enough that he would have no trouble earning a less dirt-covered meager meal. Most of the time he sat under the Pole of Sitchan, the wooden spear that was about a tall tioburoma tree’s height plus a tall man. It stood twice the height of most houses in the city and the only structure erected higher was the king’s winter palace in the northern fringes of the city.

On some days he would have the rare passionate nobles give him a small bag of silver or two, and on other days he would have the vain peasants spit upon his face. The situation was similar with his fellow orphans: unkempt with their dirt-dappled faces and clothes, they begged out on the streets and sat for the whole day until they were required to give a common sight to beatings when the melancholic atmosphere of the city needed more appurtenance. Fermboi had kept his distance away many times, but the people seeking a dribble of retribution against the world still found him clutching his knees in the smallest of crannies. What he kept as a clean white shirt would be brown by the week’s end, not through the gradual gathering of dust, but through the acrimonious orders of people to throw him into the mud and be left to the gust. Fermboi did not covet the life; he was not fond of sitting around and waiting for someone to tend him. So he endured.

When enough coins had been laid upon his dirt-spotted hands, Fermboi would go to the merchant selling the cheapest stale bread. It was not good for his teeth, but it was all that he could eat to breathe. With the usual one meal, Fermboi would wander around the city searching for work. Often he would get none, and the week would wilt without weaving what Fermboi considered as the world’s “responsibility.”

Fermboi recalled the days his father ordered for him to look after the farm. Signaled by the roosters’ cawing, he would leave his straw bed and head out into the small fields his family tended. In the fields were several cows, erethadawns, boardawns, and chicken alongside with thousands of eteroneys.

First he would tend the boardawns as those sold the most and needed just a little bit of work: a mere handful of the grain feed from the left side of the door to his house with the follow-up arced throw toward the inside of the boardawn pen was enough to get the boardawns squealing at the rain of grain and rush with their wide hooves at the spots that were blottered. With the close proximity of the pen to the feed supply brimming with crushed grain, the boardawns would give him pain when it comes to making sure the timbers still had the ability to keep them reined. He would often need to fell a tree from nearby and that meant being near the erethadawns.

The way Fermboi liked dealing with erethadawns was by not dealing with them at all. He would do the same as he did with the boardawns, and then move on to getting fresh water. He did not like the way erethadawns exceeded the already-somewhat problematic tusks of the boardawns. His father had been skewered many times before by the long ivories and forced Fermboi to do more labor than he wanted, but when they did sell, the erethadawns made more than enough to compensate for complaints.

When the cisterns were dry due to his father being lazy, or the well filled with rotten arisus that somehow hit the metal bucket above and never made it back to their caves, Fermboi would walk several thousand steps north to the nearest stream with two empty metal pails, one on each hand. There were no trees in the plains outside Sitchan as farmers cut them for higher crop yield. The lords demanded more grain and so the peasants had to remove anything that would not attain the pain that was deemed even too harsh by those insane. Some people would murder their farming family and either join the robbers of the roads or they would would surrender themselves to the city guards and be put in prison. Many people had already seen the way robbers of the roads were dealt with: their heads on a spike along the roads they robbed. A lot of people found it so off-putting that they started making their own roads instead of using the ones maintained by the king. The same situation would happen and in the minds of the people, it would ring: thievery and murder are not to be tolerated. So those looking for a way out of the back-aching tending of harvest murdered and acquiesced to the city prison.

Fermboi would take the most direct path from his home and not venture into the roads that were sometimes filled with brigands. The rare thieves could not hide in non-existent trees, so they would lie down near the bases of the torso-high crops by the road and hope that when they jump on an approaching being, they would not be met with armed groups. It did not take a saurdus to see the glint of a man’s eyes and so the brigands had to hide with their eyes not being right at the front of the roads. As his family needed his hands, Fermboi did not wish to endanger his life, so he did all he could to make the path to the stream a unique non-royal road and to his luck it happened to be the most direct one.

By the time Fermboi would return after his trip to the north, it would be the fourteenth hour of the day, about two hours after leaving to fill up the pails at sunrise. He would fill not the wooden trough that was on the east side of the boardawn enclosure but the overall ground inside it. He would throw over the tall wooden fence and let the dozens of boardawns clamor to wallow and drink. The last time he had concentrated the water, several of the boardawns had slashed each other’s bodies with tusks, causing even more frenzy to those awaiting the second grain hurl of the day. Fermboi did not dare open the gates and he had kept forgetting to ask his father to remove the unused trough.

Fermboi would do several more trips to the stream up north for the erethadawns and cows, and by the time the twentieth hour was near, he would have finished rounding up the hens’ regular lays. He would take a break for a short hour and start heading towards the eteroney hives on the leftmost side of the land his family rented. Midday was the time of the day when most of the eteroneys were out on the fields and grazing upon the sweet juices of flowers. This meant that it was the safest time to look inside the hive and check if the honeycomb was ready to be harvested. Fermboi had been stung so many times that he had, in essence, become immune to the eteroneys’ rather painful weapon.

Then Fermboi would return back to where his family of five resided—a small one room stone house. His oldest sister would sometimes be out there, waiting on the front door.

“You forgot to tend the cows again,” Fermboi’s sister once stated, tilting her chin behind him.

Fermboi looked over his left shoulder. He could see three black and white spotted cows walking back and forth in their pen. “Well, papa says they don’t really sell much, and besides you milk them later though.”

His sister kissed her teeth. “Ferm, you know that’s not what we’re talking about here. You need to feed the cows.”

“Well, I’m not going to cut grass for several hours just to feed those dumb animals,” he replied, his eyebrows touching together. “Who needs milk anyway, we already have water from Uncle Satrius.”

His sister shook her head to the left and then to the right, her blonde hair swaying like an inebriated man trying to walk. “Ferm, water doesn’t make you strong, not even with the alcohol added in it,” she lowered herself to level her eyes with Fermboi’s. “But milk does, it’s what our mother gave us when we were young, don’t you remember?”

“You mean the cow milk is like mother’s?” Ferm asked, his eyebrows ceasing to touch each other.

“Yes,” she said, cupping Fermboi’s chin with her left hand. “You do remember mother’s milk right? You were seven when she died, so I’m sure you would remember.”

Fermboi lowered his gaze. “Why do you always have to remind me of that?”

“Of mother’s death?” his sister asked.

“Yeah,” Fermboi replied in a soft tone, eyes glooming.

“Well, I try not to,” she said, taking her right hand to Fermboi’s left cheek and pinching it. “But sometimes it’s hard you know? I mean father doesn’t want to talk about her and I can’t talk about it to our other sister because she probably doesn’t even remember her at all. I just want the memory of her to stay with me, that’s all.”

“But father said that mother’s never coming back anymore,” Fermboi stated, tears forming in his eyes. “He said she’s dead forever.”

His sister placed her thumbs at the outer corners of his eyes. “Don’t cry Ferm,” she said, pushing the tears away. “You’re eleven already, nearly a man, you’re not suppose to cry anymore.” Fermboi’s tears started to flow onto his cheeks and his sister put him on an embrace. “I’ll tell you what, when you come back after feeding the cows, I’ll have a surprise for you.”

Fermboi stopped crying and his eyes lit up, forgetting for a moment about why he had cried in the first place. “What is it? Is it another candy apple from the town?”

“Nope,” his sister said with a smile Fermboi had not recognized before. “It’s something much better. You’ll like it.” Fermboi’s sister stood up and turned for the door. “Alright Ferm, just cut enough grass and throw ’em to the pen, then come inside for your treat, okay?”

“Okay,” Fermboi said, grabbing the cutting tool underneath the grain feed trough.

He cut the long grasses until the twenty-seventh hour was over, tossed them inside the grassless cow pen, and then headed back inside the house.

When Fermboi arrived, his sister was adjusting the little decorations that populated the room. A couple were small pottery, but the most prized was a tiny glass statue of the goddess of grain that stood centered on top of the table. Like most farming folk, Fermboi’s family believed it gave luck with the harvests.

It was quiet with the soft setting sounds of the pottery and the dull squeaks of the wind that encouraged unperturbed archery.

“Sabrina, I’ve returned home!” Fermboi announced as he walked towards his sister who had stopped moving the decorations to face him. “Where’s my surprise?”

His sister started unveiling her clothes, letting them drop on the straw-filled floor. “Sabrina, what are you doing?” Fermboi asked with a wavering tone. It was the first time he had seen a woman without clothes. “S-Sabrina?” he stammered as she advanced towards him. Fermboi was a little bit shorter than his older sister and he could not help but feel threatened as she walked towards him. Yet he stood still, dazed and confused.

Fermboi’s particular relationship with his older sister did not stop until she was taken away from him. His family’s land bordered the realm of the Magiars, and although they gave most of their crop to the baron, some of it went to the neighboring Magiar chief in the west.

Several months before, a band of Magiar men entered Fermboi’s home and brought his current situation.

Fermboi allowed his eyes to open, but at a snail’s pace. Then he sighed.

There were no orphanages in Sitchan, as the houses for homeless children were more often found in the northern cities. So when news of the king’s orders to start a personal orphanage reached Fermboi’s ears, he hurtled for the city square for the gathering of his fellows.

As he reached the city center and slowed, a scrawny young boy approached Fermboi. “Ay Ferm, whatchu doin’ here? For the new home too?” the boy asked, before spitting on the cobblestone ground twice. “I ‘erd the king himself would be here!”

Fermboi looked at the scrawny boy. The kid had the same attire as Fermboi: a dirty, tattered, white cotton shirt for a top and potholed straw pants for a bottom. It was the marker of an orphan in Eteria. “Yes, Torne,” he said, looking at his own shirt. He brushed some of the dirt speckles away.

Earlier, the sons of a grain merchant had pushed him down a water-filled hole on the road. He had saved enough to visit the cheapest baker in the west side of the city and had a loaf of bread fresh out of the oven. It was the perfect morning meal after the tumultuous rain overnight. To Fermboi’s left, a grain merchant and his two sons were passing with their erethadawn caravan. When the father of the two children had stopped to talk to a fellow merchant, Fermboi felt the brunt of the combined blows of two small fists on his back and had his loaf tossed in the air before crumpling his nose on the ground a moment after his cheek had slapped the cobblestone road. He had wanted to seek retaliation, but their father had already come yelling at them. When the two younger children had returned to the caravan, their father said his condolences to Fermboi and gave him a piece of a fruit from Unan. Its skin was dark green, but its flesh was green bordering yellow, and so Fermboi converged his teeth on just the flesh. He had been met with so much bliss that by the time he reopened his eyes and wanted to give thanks to the merchant, the caravan had already passed.

Not a moment after brushing his shirt, a carriage rolled into the square. From afar, one could tell it was the King’s Carriage for it had ten well-armed guards on each side with pure gold coats and the largest of Eterian Horses. Just several moments after the transport’s stoppage, a man dressed with the finest clothes Fermboi had ever seen appeared from the carriage’s left gold-plated door. Sandy hair and blue eyes on an almost perfect face: the king. The royal family were the only ones with the trait of blue eyes and yellow hair that lived below the remote northern lands where the trait originated. It was what distinguished them from the rest of the people in the kingdom.

Murmurs started to begin as the man stepped off the carriage stairs at a slow pace. “It’s the king, right?” Torne turned to Fermboi with raised eyebrows.

“Must be,” Fermboi stated. “He looks kingly.” But Fermboi noticed that the man was missing his crown. Fermboi wondered if the king left it back at the capital in fear of thieves or in humbleness to the upcoming orphanage. Fermboi had heard a lot about the king from his fellow older orphans that wandered the King’s Road and the major cities of the kingdom. The king was said to have great distaste for the lower classes and Fermboi pondered on the fact that an orphanage was soon to be built by the same king.

The man who stepped off the carriage went out of the stairs’ way and put his head down as soon as he set foot on the cobblestone road. Fermboi wondered if the man was bowing in subservience or otherwise. Fermboi thought about the reason for the king’s bow as the place was not a royal church. Fermboi had heard a lot about the exclusive nature of the royal church and it was not a surprise that it was located way toward the south of the city where everything moved slow and steady under the unceasing sun. With the image in front of him, Fermboi questioned the fact of the king’s authority and thought about if the king’s superiority about their sole god was true. He had heard that the royal family believed in one god named God and he forgot whether the king was equal or above God. In all likelihood, Fermboi figured the king was bowing to God in return for a good blessing on the orphanage; royal family or not, everyone prayed for the erection of a new building.

“Announcing His Royal Majesty, the King of Eteria,” the driver of the carriage declared.

“So it is the king!” Torne exclaimed as the crowd cheered.

Fermboi had heard that the king was just about sixteen years old. The man who had stepped off the carriage looked about to be twice the purported age. Fermboi wondered if he had been lied to by the other orphans or if they were just the best exaggerators of the kingdom. His chain of thoughts were broken when a much younger man appeared from the door of the carriage.

Fermboi frowned when he saw a boy two years older than him at most appear from the carriage with a smug look. The golden crown atop the boy glistened and glared, and Fermboi was forced to close his eyes for a few moments. The king’s attire, the finest blue silken clothes Fermboi had ever laid eyes upon, flowed free onto the cobblestone floor. “So that’s the king,” Fermboi muttered under his breath. The king walked to the middle of the square where an improvised wooden podium was propped up in haste. It contained two layers of ten hard dereset logs, whitened without worry in the south end of the city. Not the king’s liking, Fermboi had observed as the king stepped onto the raised elevation. The king’s guards surrounded the podium with their long spears pointed at the sky. The spears had towered everyone present, and it was at least twice Fermboi’s height. Fermboi felt the sense of control and he wondered if any would dare attack the king with such guards.

“Abandoned sons and daughters, today you are fortunate enough to witness my face. A face you will probably only see once, as important men such as me are way too busy for the shitiness that you lowly peasants induce,” the king announced, his voice deadpan. The crowd, for the most part consisting of tradesmen and farmers on break and orphans who were excited for a home, gasped. Fermboi, on the other hand, had his face reddening. “Despite that, as the good king that I am, I am here to personally show and announce to you the building of Sitchan’s first orphanage.” The king took out a parchment from inside his silken clothes. “Here is the royal document that signifies the establishment of the building. It is set to be finished by the next year and I have amply bought the Baron of Sitchan’s personal home as the initial home of the orphans.” The crowd gasped again, but this time it was of amazement, not resentment. “The lands around the baron’s former house are also bought out and the orphans are to start working there immediately. The orphans are going to farm and cultivate the land in order to take care of the crops and animals that would be arriving the following days.”

The king’s lips were suspended. The crowd held their mouths opened. Fermboi’s forming fists hardened.

“The orphans are hereby bound to me as slaves. But not ordinary slaves as they would receive more than half of what farmers earn. These homeless children are bound to me until their deaths and their children would also be bounded to my descendants until the end of their line. The money that they earn are also encouraged to be put into the orphanage in order for it to expand and flourish. That is all, you peasant shits.”

That was it. Fermboi snapped. The king had greeted with insult and built up a false hope and then ended with another insult. He could not take it. Fermboi, like an uncontrolled blaze, waded through the crowd as if the wind was on his back before lunging at the nearest guard of the king. He heard Torne shout but ignored it. Fermboi tackled the guard on the ground, the heavy armor plates paining his unprotected body in the process. The guard had not anticipated an attack and fell off balance despite Fermboi’s considerable lighter weight. Fermboi placed his right hand on his right hip, took the makeshift metallic knife he built months ago and raised it at the guard’s unguarded face. The other guards did not move and the guard that Fermboi had his tool raised on was unabashed. Fermboi was puzzled.

“You foolish fuck,” the king said, turning to see the commotion and Fermboi. “If I was a duke or a baron, you’d have been killed on the spot.” Fermboi tried to regain his composure. He realized that no one was restraining him and he questioned as to why he had not sunk the knife deep into the guard’s black eyes. Before Fermboi could think longer, a heavy weight came from above and his knife fell out of his fingers. And before he could assess what happened, he received ten quick punches to the face and a deep cut along his right cheek. “But I’m not a duke nor a baron, I’m the fucking king,” Fermboi heard the king whisper into his right ear. From his blurred vision, he saw the king motion for two guards to pick him up. “Now, this poor boy is brave. He is now the leader of all the homeless shits in this city. He is in charge of the orphanage from now on.”

When Fermboi reopened his eyes, he found that he was carried over to the northwestern portion of the city and that most of the crowd followed. It was near the homes of the barons, an area Fermboi did not bother staying in. Orphans near any of the nobles’ homes were most often beaten near death. The king and the rest of his posse led.

“Now, here is me,” the king declared, picking up a brown brick. The king motioned for the two guards carrying Fermboi to put him down. Fermboi could not prepare himself for the fall and his hands grew more pained. “Building this orphanage for unfortunate shits like this boy here.”

Fermboi watched the king stack a bunch of bricks for about an hour before he passed out again from his injuries. Before losing consciousness, he did not know what to make of it—the king’s actions—the crowd staying through the whole ordeal. Aside from the king’s entourage, everyone was confused. Not even the barons around the city did such a job. They had others do it for them.

When he woke up in his first comfortable bed in months, Fermboi still refused to accept the king’s actions toward the orphans as he had a feeling something sinister was beneath it all.

It was over a year since the king had built his home, but Fermboi still did not see eye-to-eye with its intentions. Although free, and bereft of big, brutish bastions of bravery, many orphans still died by overworking. The orphans who had been brutalized by people terrorizing in the name of bravery were often let to die by the barns. The keepers of the orphanage had cited that it was better for the food to go to those who were able, not the disabled. It was a terrible thing, and Fermboi had prepared to sling his knife in order to bring an end to the strife. Torne had stopped Fermboi from slitting the throats of their caretakers, valuing the status quo over the almost-guaranteed power struggle that would have occurred once the masters of hundreds of working orphans had been killed.

So Fermboi bided and he was rewarded. At first, he had gathered the orphanage under his leadership and reaped the monetary gain of the estates. Then he took it upon himself to retaliate on the brutes who picked on orphans and managed to consolidate the surrounding area’s control under him. It was not done in the clean way a mother would lick its newborn, instead it was done in a way that, as the prey mother finished giving birth to her child, a predator would pounce right then and force a decision: abandon the future or preserve the past.

“Do you think his army is larger or smaller?” Torne asked as he and Fermboi overlooked the tall hills west of Sitchan.

Fermboi looked at the banners of the king and gritted his teeth. “Malius said it looked like the king had been fleeing the Toreans,” he said. “They look well-rested now though.”

“Yeah, that boy was too much of a dreamer,” Torne stated. “There’s no way he’d have passed the Zhong and the Toreans without losing the bulk of his army. We’d be pinching them in here, and hopefully the Toreans will help us with our rebellion.”

“Do we have anyone in the camp who speaks Torean?” Fermboi asked, turning his head around to see his camp. Over a thousand tents painted what would have been a goody-green field, returning it to its grassless color: brown.

“Nah, but I think we have some that speak Magiaran,” Torne revealed.

Fermboi looked back at the king’s banners. Under the seven banners held high by cavalrymen, three dozen more fell along each banner with armors as fine as bronze could ever be. Lances were the most held, but Fermboi did see that some men looked a little bit out of place with the bronze armor and that they held bows in their hands. Fermboi saw that there was only one row of infantrymen, all drabbed in the same bronze as their horsemen brothers and all carrying spears at least twice their height.

A large black horse galloped upwards the hill Fermboi stood on. “Do you think Malius was successful?”

Torne nodded. “He looks like he’s smiling, can’t you see it?”

Fermboi shook his head. “No, and I’m hoping they don’t fail me in this battle.”

Torne tapped Fermboi’s right shoulder. “Relax, we’re going to win,” Torne said, smiling. “They’re winded and we’re full-rested. We’re going to decimate them.”

“Not annihilate?” Fermboi asked. He could hear the nearing horse’s heaving.

Torne sighed. “You know what I mean,” he said. “Baron Fero is really helping you groom, eh?”

“Well we got to be our old masters,” Fermboi stated. “But better in every way. How else are we going to govern if we don’t know the laws that protect what’s needed.”

“It’s simple,” Torne declared. “Just don’t agitate the poor.”

Fermboi nodded. “Malius, what did the king say?”

The black horse was reined in several steps away from Fermboi. “He invites you to his tent,” the thin pale-looking rider said after a deep exhale.

Fermboi looked at Torne. “Alright, let’s get the horses.”

The king looked different. Way too different for Fermboi’s liking.

“So how’s the bread?” the King of Eteria asked. His blonde hair and blue eyes were more refined. And they did not look as arrogant as before.

Fermboi was accompanied by Torne, Malius, and four guards; they had all taken a loaf of bread the king offered for the sole reason that it looked finer than what they had been having for the past years. The king himself took the first bite. “It’s good,” Fermboi mumbled. He gripped his glass and downed it. “The wine’s good too.”

The king smiled and it was not the one Fermboi saw when the orphanage in Sitchan was being built. “Okay, now watch this,” the king said, standing up and picking something out of the table behind him. The king’s blue silk was finer than the one Fermboi saw before. The king’s crown was etched with transparent gems Fermboi had no name for and, right at the forefront of the crown, it even had what would be a golden plank of wood standing upright with a second plank just below the top of the first plank posed in its natural state. Before it was a golden crown with a few rubies and sapphires descending from a centralized emerald, now it was a golden crown, but many times more golden than before and with just one type of gem that bore no color, all complementing two particular planks of wood. The king’s voice was no longer the irritated and busy voice that it was before. Everything about the king was different. “This is the lower jaw of a saurdus. Winged lizards from Eteria and the river. Don’t worry about missing them, they’re almost as large as a man and an annoyance to bring down.”

The king approached the long table with a jaw rimmed with sharp teeth. Fermboi and the rest of his company would have been alarmed, but the king was several chairs away from them. “Uh, milord,” Torne said. “I thought we’d be feasting and then talking of business.”

The king grinned. “Don’t worry, my guards will only come if I yell for help,” the king said, bringing the knife-like object over his plate. “Akino, bring us another fresh loaf of bread.”

A young woman emerged from the other entrance to the tent. She carried the same long and large loaf of bread they had pieced before. Fermboi thought of how, for just a moment, he would be able to desire women again. His recent infractions with them had soured his mood. The young woman who carried the bread was about two heads shorter than him and looked as if she had just come out of a wedding with her long, flowing red dress. His desire did not happen, and Fermboi was disappointed with himself. After she placed the bread onto the table, the young woman returned to her previous position.

“Milord, are you sure a lizard’s teeth is edible?” Torne asked. “I heard the giant bugtiansas have edible teeth that grow bigger than a regular man, but I’ve never been up north past Sitchan.”

The king laughed. “It’s no worries, I’m about to just enlighten your minds,” the king stated. “Besides bugtiansa teeth isn’t edible, but you can make a boat with it though.” The king placed the saurdus’ lower jaw over the bread with the teeth facing the soft, smoking surface. “Witness.”

As the king drove the knife-like jaw over the right side of the bread, Fermboi could not help but feel weird at his situation. In a different time, maybe as soon as the king had opened the flaps to the tent would Fermboi jump to slit his throat. It did not cross his mind before and he wondered if it was because the king had met them earlier without guards.

“What’s so special about that?” Malius asked.

“Witness,” the king repeated as he finished driving the Saurdus jaw from the top of the bread to the bottom. “My princess, do you have us the honey and the maple syrup?”

The young woman appeared once again and carried two glasses of mixture. Fermboi was familiar with the dark brown of the honey. He was not familiar with the dark red of the other glass. He assumed it was the unfamiliar word that the king had said. “Is that from the eteroneys of Torea?” he asked.

The king shook his head as gripped the glass of honey. “It’s not from the bees–err–eteroneys,” the king stated as he dripped the slow-flowing liquid on top of the bread he had separated from the rest. “Okay, this slice is for you.”

The king gave the slice of bread to the young woman. She walked towards Fermboi. He lamented on her fine black hair and eyes and of her young age before placing his thumb over the slice. As Fermboi took hold of the bread slice, the young woman left and went back to the king’s side. Fermboi hovered the glazed slice of bread over the entrance of his mouth. It smelled too good. “What?” Fermboi asked after biting down. “This tastes like the domain of the gods. The best thing since roasted boardawn!”

Torne and Malius looked at Fermboi with raised eyebrows. “Is it really?” Torne asked.

The king laughed. “I have six more coming your way with Akino,” he said. “It has the tree sap that I was talking about. Don’t worry, it’s edible and tastes arguably better than the honey.”

The mood in the tent had turned from caution to relaxation, but the men inside knew it had to end at some point.

“I’m sorry men, but we’ve run out of bugtiansa thigh, and I’m afraid business will have to start,” the king declared.

Fermboi and his group stopped their chewing of the meat.

“I don’t like this boardawn,” Torne stated. “It wasn’t like the bugtiansa we had.”

Malius nodded his head.

“What are you talking about?” a man with a scar over his left eye said.

“Baron Fero,” Fermboi said. “I would’ve had Malius stay here and watch over the troops, but we both know he can’t even command ants.” The group around the fire laughed, brightening the light of the blaze against the dark night. Malius had rolled his eyes before laughing. “But really though, that animal was something.”

“I agree, Fermboi,” Torne said. “And that is why we will beat the king and hunt as many of these bugtiansa as we can for the rest of our lives!”

The men cheered.

It was time for battle. Fermboi took a deep breath. “Are you ready?” he said, facing Torne.

“He still had that irritating look yesterday,” Torne replied. “I’m going to remove it from the world.”

Fermboi smirked.

The king dismounted from his horse and walked towards Fermboi. Fermboi’s mouth spewed gushes of blood all over inside his bronze helmet. The king removed Fermboi’s helmet and tossed it to the right. Fermboi looked at the king’s blue eyes. Fermboi cried. All the preparation thrown away in a single day.

Still, I gave him another chance.