“The great balancer is that every human dies eventually. Sure, there are ways to extend one’s life; mundane ways, such as eating better, exercising, having purposes and reasons and friendships, all of which are good; there are magical ways too. It is proven that higher-level people tend to be stronger, more endurant, and longer-living (if only by a few years) then lower-level folk, even without Talents for that purpose. Why, I have heard ancient stories of an with well more than forty levels, who devised a that allowed them to live some two hundred years in all before a lab accident took them. Such abilities are so hard to find or be granted. Still, actual eternal life is not a true possibility, or if it is, I have yet to encounter it.”

Oreanen Vainen, on the great balancer that is death

Helena, , prodigal sprinter, expert archer, and overall athletic wunderkind, laid in the soggy grass, barely able to move from how hard she’d pushed herself. Zara, a , a champion of the land itself, almost seven feet tall in height, collapsed to the ground, exhausted, having just held at bay for several minutes a now-deceased who had possessed more than 30 levels.

Meanwhile, within the depths of the Pentagonal Palace, a , a young named Bim, and a frostbitten, weakened named Greg sheltered in an abandoned, pristine bath room, tucked away from and unnoticed by the numerous frazzled now patrolling the intruded upon area of the building.

Out in the courtyard, two dozen had poured out onto the lawn behind two , Wilholm and Saral, who themselves stood to either side of Ronald Jay Stillbottums the Fifth, of Esultare, his eyes practically glowing with rage at the scene before him.

He spoke, his voice shaking, barely able to restrain his fury. “Who… Are… You?” His eyes locked onto Helena, who had made the killing blow against his . “ANSWER ME!” He stalked forward, heaving the woman up by her throat as if she weighed no more than a feather, and, teeth gnashing, repeated himself, quieter this time. “Answer me. You have trespassed on my land, stolen my prize blade, slain my most powerful , the greatest arcane mind of this century. I will not suffer your silence much longer.”

Helena, exhausted, smiled at him. “What was his level? 32? 35? Something like that, yeah? How many people reach that level in their lives? One in a thousand? One in ten thousand? I killed him because he was aiding and abetting a tyrant-- you. He has killed thousands in his life, and brought suffering and misrule on tenfold others. I killed him because I had to, because without him your continent-spanning nation has one less arm on its aberrant, amorphous body to bludgeon the people with. You’ll die too one day, ‘Your Majesty’, if not by my hand, then by--” Her smile stuttered as the ’s grip tightened around her throat until her breathing became erratic, then unfeasible. He threw her to the ground, turned with disgust to Wilholm and Saral.

“Slaying such rabble is below me. She is right in one regard: with Andrium dead, I’ve lost not only a close ally, but a necessary tool, the most powerful weapon in my arsenal. I’ll need powerful lieutenants going forward; you two need to level. Kill these two and head the sweep of the palace for any other insurgents. I will be in my chambers, drafting an announcement for this evening. See to it that I’m not disturbed, or I will cut off a finger from each of you.” He stormed off without another word.

Saral was the first to draw her blade, and after a few moments Wilholm did too. They surveyed the and , one half dead, the other so weary as to be barely able to raise her head. Still, Zara spoke, words carrying a deepness and weight like the depths of the world’s widest river. “I am a justly appointed adjudicator of the common law. I am the Defender of Drumlin. You would kill me in cold blood, when I haven’t even got a weapon in my hand?”

She stared them down, while Helena struggled to hold onto life, and the riots only got worse.

🟌

Within the palace, Greg had slightly recovered from the horrific that had sent ice into his skin and frozen part of his back, though he didn’t know if he would move quite as gracefully ever again. Bim’s hand was restored to most of its functionality, and Cobson, the of the Coalition who was with them, helped as best he could.

“So what’s your plan now, sir?” Bim asked Cobson from the man’s place a few steps away.

“I am certain that the Coalition has pulled out of Cardona, having retrieved the blade and accomplished all they might. They’ll likely establish a foothold here again in twenty or thirty years, when things have died down. I expect that I am the only Coalition member still in the city. I will have to go, soon: I mustn’t interfere too long.”

Bim looked at him intently for a time before returning to tending to Greg. “I can guess at your level, sir, and I imagine it’s somewhere between 20 and 30, just from how you carry yourself. People of a certain level have a presence about them, a distinct feeling of power. I know it’s uncouth to ask, but tell me if you’ll allow it: how right am I?”

“Fairly right, young man. I had been level 26 for several years, and leveled just from being around for this hubbub.”

“Someone with your levels and years of experience could be very helpful in the fight against Stillbottums. You’re sure you don’t want to join up?”

The man, hair graying, lines on his face belying some indeterminate age between fifty and seventy, shook his head ruefully. “It isn’t my place to intervene here. I have a different calling I can’t quite explain properly without breaking protocols. Just know this: I have to go soon, but I’ll give your group a gift before departing. It’s on my way out, anyway.”

Without saying anything more to explain himself, the strode out from the bathroom, right into a pair of guards, who immediately jumped to action and yelled for him to freeze.

Straightening his jacket and smoothly closing the door behind him before the two younger men could be seen, Cobson gave the two guards a look. “Don’t worry, sirs, .”

“Ah, sorry mister, we’ve just been jumpy, what with His Majesty riding our a--” one of the pair sputtered nervously, then stopped when he saw how prim and proper Cobson looked and refrained from vulgarity. “Anyway, be on your way now; don’t want to get caught by one of the King’s posse, after all.”

Cobson nodded respectfully and made his way out of the palace. The Talent he had gained at level 20, the Talent that was the core of his Class’ identity, , guided him towards his destination with unerring precision.

He slipped past a bunch of guards crowding the doorway and smoothly strode past the two , pulling more than its weight, along with . “I am terribly sorry, sir, but I must confiscate your armor and blade for cleaning.” He said to Wilholm, who, distracted, eyes locked on Zara, just mumbled: “Sure, do whatever you need.” That admission was all the man needed, swiftly putting a hand on the warrior of Stillbottums’ shoulder, muttering: “. .” In a snap, the man’s weapons and armor vanished. Just as he and the rest of the men and women Cobson had gotten by snapped out of their fugue of both vaguely recognizing him and not paying him much mind, he smiled to Zara and Helena, stepped over to the right of where Antonius Andrium’s still-warm body lay, said plainly: “. Goodbye, all. Have a pleasant afternoon.” And with that, he was gone.

As Wilholm made a wordless cry of confusion and irritation, he noticed he was without arms or armor, and stomped the ground in a juvenile expression of his anger. “I can’t believe I was so easily tricked.”

It was at that moment that Zara decided to surge up from the ground and throw a punch right into Wilholm’s face.