Though Durran had acted as though discovering Magnus’ intentions would be a simple thing, he treated the matter very seriously. That might suggest it was not, in fact, a simple thing. Durran would probably agree with that assessment by this point.

Durran had good reasons to do this. He hoped to earn trust in the group. Argrave never doubted Anneliese or Galamon, but he did think twice about anything Durran did or said. Beyond that, Durran wanted to follow any traces of Gerechtigkeit beyond Argrave’s mere insistence it was reality. And lastly… he did genuinely want to help.

His first order of business in dealing with the hedonist prince was simple observation. Durran had hoped to catch Magnus doing something incriminating. He might have talked to shady people, delivered something, or left the camp in the dead of night, whereupon Durran would follow him and discover what, exactly, the misfit prince was doing trying to fit in. Something convenient like that was his first hope, even if far-fetched.

Durran had some experience keeping watch on people in crowded places. He had done just that in Sethia alongside Boarmask in their plans for the retaking of the city. He made good use of the crowd. He could not deny it made him uncomfortable to weave so closely with the diseased, but he trusted Argrave enough to be content wearing his Humorless Mask and drinking the vile potions that boosted his immunity.

Yet, after three days, Durran had no luck hoping for a convenience. All he learned was that Argrave was completely right about Magnus’ character. That lent him confidence for his second idea.

Magnus pushed open the flap and entered one of the tents for dining in the camp.

“You’re Magnus, right? Argrave’s brother.” Durran called out, causing Magnus to pause and glance at him. The tattooed tribal sat on a table with a meal prepared. It was all meat—some of it seemed to be frog. The food was testament to the state of the camp: they relied on scavenged meat, mostly, with vegetables and all else being quite rare.

Magnus had stopped when he was called, but he continued his steady walk into the dining tent in not a moment. “Prince Magnus,” he corrected.

“Right,” Durran nodded slowly as the prince moved to the person handling the camp’s food. With a slightly worn and stained wooden bowl in hand, he was served much the same of what Durran was eating. Magnus eyed the frog with some disdain.

Though they were all but alone save the server, Magnus moved to a table quite far from Durran. Before he sat, Durran called out, “Argrave said he was the son of a king… he didn’t mention he wasn’t a prince.”

Magnus stopped, the disinterest on his face waning somewhat. His changed his plan to sit far from Durran and stepped up right across from him.

“And what are you?” Magnus asked him.

“A mercenary from the Burnt Desert, formal tribal chieftain,” Durran introduced himself, inflating his credentials deliberately.

Magnus scrutinized him carefully. His eyes moved around his body, as though tracking something—Durran was well used to this gaze by now. Even the princes of these lands of wealth and green could not help but be intrigued by his golden tribal markings, it seemed.

Magnus placed his plate down and straddled the bench, sitting across from Durran. “Bastards are born liars. It’s a stain that affects their whole lives.” Magnus poked at the frog with his finger. “Why Felipe didn’t kill him in the crib like the rest, I’ll never know.”

“Kill him in a crib? What’d our bastard do to escape that fate?” Durran raised a brow.

Magnus nodded, then continued emboldened after Durran mirrored his sentiments. “Plenty of other harlots had the good luck to catch my father’s eye. The majority… snuffed out. Levin handles that duty now, from what I hear. Usually kills the mothers before they give birth, even.” He grasped both of the frog’s legs and tore it apart. “Good thing, too. It’s like catching a fire just as its starting, before the whole forest can burn down.”

Durran chewed on a piece of meat. “You mean there are others like him roaming about?”

The prince nodded once again. “Some unknown. Some unacknowledged. Argrave was the only baseborn fostered at Dirracha.”

“Who was his mother? That might be reason enough to keep him around,” Durran questioned.

Magnus waved a frog leg. “I don’t know. Some dead whore. One of the few good things that Induen’s done, killing her.”

Durran chuckled but kept his hands beneath the table to hide his clenched fists.

The prince placed his elbows on the table. “Why do you follow him?” Magnus inquired.

“Why else? Money,” Durran emulated ribbing coins together between his fingers. “He was travelling here to Berendar—I wanted to see the sights, eat rich foods, behold and hold beautiful things… and people,” he said with a sly grin.

Magnus didn’t laugh, but Durran still thought his disposition changed positively. “And Argrave—how much does he pay you?”

“This week or last? Keeps getting bigger the more I learn about this place, the more he comes to rely on me,” Durran held his hands out, emulating a widening gap. “He’s well-off. Has those… those pink coins that glimmer, but he usually pays me in straight gold.”

Magnus’ face darkened. “Rose gold magic coins,” he concluded. “Probably from father.”

“Those are the ones,” Durran nodded quickly.

The prince gazed at the frog leg as if deliberating whether or not to eat it, then set it down with a grimace. He tapped his fingers against the plate as he stared at Durran. “So, you’ve come to me looking for someone to offer better future prospects?”

“What, you’ve got something for me?” Durran smiled, then shook his head. “Not such a good look to abandon a contract so early… unless things are different out here, and sellswords with poor reputation earn well.”

If Magnus was surprised, he didn’t show it. He stopped tapping his plate. “Not such a bad play. If I were to guess, Argrave is here to suck on Orion’s teat, help him with this plague, earn a reputation—he’s hoping for legitimization, I’m sure. My father might make such a thing happen.”

“Are you hoping for a boon from the king? Only reason I might picture you out in this hellish place.”

Magnus frowned. “You’d do better keeping more thoughts locked in your head and not spilling from your mouth,” he cautioned Durran.

Durran laughed, and the pair ate with a steady conversation going on.

#####

A great many knights filtered into a building that did not seem to fit the splendor of what they wore. Some knights were already present—they bore cold gray steel with a blue swordfish emblazoned on the breastplate. The knights that entered wore white plate with gold trim. The last to enter was the towering Margrave Reinhardt.

There was a man sitting in the corner of the room. He seemed small amidst the crowd of brawny knights, but he was truly of average build. His wavy blue hair was kept well-groomed and short, though the first gray hairs were settling in. A sharp beard and cutting pink eyes made him quite handsome, even despite his age. He wore fancy clothes with a swordfish sewn onto the shoulder. Most would recognize Duke Enrico of Monticci easily.

Margrave Reinhardt stepped across the room, and Enrico rose to meet him. The two seemed at ease around each other, yet they were too serious to do anything more affectionate than a simple handshake.

“If you come wearing armor, most people might think something heinous is to occur,” Duke Enrico said.

The Margrave said nothing, and after the handshake finished, sat at the table brusquely.

Duke Enrico frowned. “What’s wrong?” he questioned, sitting opposite the Margrave.

Reinhardt’s ruby eyes fixed on Enrico. “My son is ill. This… this accursed waxpox.”

Enrico straightened and took a deep breath. “He’s being treated?”

“As best he can be in Elbraille. The fool refuses to return home,” Reinhardt said angrily. “Says that he’s still yet to deal with the riots, that he’s making tremendous progress. It’s… abnormally aggressive, Helmuth tells me. Already, it has spread from hand to elbow.”

“If you need anything—anything at all…”

Reinhardt stared off into the distance, gauntleted hand held up to his mouth. His gaze refocused and he shook his head. “No. Count Delbraun of Jast called in a favor and has sent an A-rank mage specializing in healing.” He turned his gaze to Enrico. “It’s good to speak with you again. You leave your city less than twice a year, it seems, and I expected that number would be less so considering the war.”

Enrico smiled. “I only felt comfortable leaving because my daughter has been handling things competent—no, more than competently.”

Reinhardt nodded. “You must be proud.”

“I am,” Enrico confirmed. “On the topic of our families… You have my condolences for your brother.”

Reinhardt nodded. “Thank you. I’d prefer not to dwell on the subject.”

“Of course,” Enrico nodded. “If we’re not dwelling, perhaps we should get right to the point. I trust you gathered from my letters who I was suggesting we put at the head of your—our cause?”

“Argrave,” Reinhardt nodded, planting his elbows on the table and wrapping one hand around a fist.

Enrico judged his friend’s reactions, then continued, “You may dislike him, but he’s changed.”

“He stole my mount, directly or indirectly, three times. Once, my prized warhorse. Second, when Elias pursued him. Third, when his tribal friend stole my wyvern not weeks ago,” Reinhardt growled.

Enrico frowned. “Argrave has your wyvern?”

“No, he—” Reinhardt paused, and then shook his head. “It’s not important.”

Enrico pursed his lips, then shrugged before continuing. “I won’t deny his deceitfulness. Nikoletta attests to his quick wit herself, and I’ve been subject to it once or twice. Considering his heritage, these might be considered good traits. The founder of House Vasquer, the masterful schemer and monarch with his legion of ten thousand snakes…” Enrico shook his head. “That isn’t important. What Argrave’s doing is.”

Reinhardt furrowed his brows, and Enrico gestured for his men to bring forth something. A knight stepped before the Margrave and unloaded a pile of books and scrolls tidily. Reinhardt kept his hands at his side, gaze jumping around uneasily.

“Argrave informed my daughter of a calamity known as ‘Gerechtigkeit.’” Enrico pointed with one hand. “Those books and scrolls are the best documents I have found on the subject. I have more, but they’re in the carriage, and many are foreign, desperately in need of translation.” Enrico tapped the top of the stack of books. “This book, here, contains my summary.”

Reinhardt reached for the books, then paused. “Just tell me,” he shook his head.

Enrico clicked his tongue. “My research leads me to believe… Gerechtigkeit is real. It’s been documented too much, too consistently, in other continents. The situations match extraordinarily well with what we’re experiencing now—mass discord, followed by a weakening of the barrier between planes, followed by a mobilization of harrowing forces, concluded by… Gerechtigkeit’s arrival, which threatens to tip the world itself into oblivion.”

Reinhardt frowned.

“Something larger than everything is coming, old friend,” Enrico said sternly. “And Argrave… well, he’s been burning himself at both ends trying to make sure the world is ready to handle it. I don’t know how or why he learned of this, but when you examine his actions through that scope… they start to make sense.”

With those words, Reinhardt’s hesitancy for the books vanished. He reached for them and began poring through each as Duke Enrico waited in silence. Seconds turned into minutes as Reinhardt read, parsing through all that had been provided.

Reinhardt closed shut Enrico’s summative journal, the hard-cover book letting out a clap. He set the book down, gaze complicated, and breathing uneven.

“You think this is real?” Reinhardt questioned.

“I do,” Enrico answered.

“And Argrave seeks to prepare the world to fight it? This is why he roams, putting an end to conflict?” The Margrave pressed.

“Yes,” came the answer.

“That… that fool…” Reinhardt leaned in. “He’s…”

“The person who’d step forward to do something like this—this is a man that’s sorely needed to fix things before they fall to hell,” Enrico said insistently. “He’s young, he’s brash, and he’s uneducated in all matters but magic, I’m sure. Felipe wouldn’t waste tutors on him. He’s a bastard—it will be difficult to gain support from the higher aristocrats, undoubtedly. Ideally, his betrothal with Nikoletta will abate much of that, coupled with his own positive reputation from his deeds. Nevertheless, there are no better options, Reinhardt.” Enrico leaned back. “Considering everything, he could be considered a blessing.”

The Margrave stared at Enrico. “He’s betrothed to Nikoletta?”

Enrico tilted his head, “There’s been no ceremony. But he’s expressed willingness to marry Nikoletta.”

Margrave Reinhardt put his hands together. “He passed through the Lionsun Castle. He seems to have…” Reinhardt trailed off. “He has a partner. An elven woman—snow elf. And all I’ve seen tells me this is no whimsical affair. Already, they share a room. And he expressed… he would surrender the betrothal for her.”

Enrico leaned back, pink eyes shaking. He opened his mouth, then shut it. Enrico rose to his feet, then stepped about the room.

“Gods be damned,” the Duke cursed. “Gods be…” Enrico shook his head, running his fingers through his hair. “Foolish boy. Foolish, foolish, foolish…”