Glory to the Goblin Lord

By One-Way Justice

Chapter 1 – Death of a prince (Introductory arc)

“Tally ho,” roared the Lord Gendrin, half-brother to the Lothrian king and commander of the cavalry cohort. In unison, the troops came to a halt. Only a small squad of elite soldiers and mages advanced beyond the formation. They were the honour guard, handpicked to serve and die at prince Cedric's side.

Clad in royal blue chain mail, the prince entered the fray, emerging from the throngs of battle-ready subjects gathered here under his command. Cedric's eyes were green as the summer leaves, his hair dark and wild, like a lion's mane. As heir-apparent to the kingdom of Lothrian, he bore the insignia of the Blackrose royal family proudly on his chest—a thorny rose vine entwined around a golden crown.

Prince Cedric was a lord's lord and he looked the part, advancing with the self-assured step of one accustomed to basking in the privileges of rank and renown. But above all he was a hardened swordmaster, tried and tested in the fires of war. And for all the favours bestowed unto him by fate, none of his subjects could deride him his heart; theirs was a prince who led from the front, a vanguard prince in the throes of vainglory—“glory to the prince, glory to the prince,” the troops chanted as Cedric strode forth, resolved to be the first to come to Landsbury's defence.

The mission was simple: protect the inhabitants of this forlorn town under goblin assault.

Cedric surveyed the surroundings—an endless stretch of grassy plains, rippling like a verdant sea under the breeze. The prince savoured the strange and vast silence that came before bloodshed.

Lt. commander Gael closed the distance, her long blonde hair aflutter as she emerged at Cedric's side. “Caution is merited, my prince,” she said with unfamiliar trepidation to her voice. “This place... it is tainted with a dark aura. We must send for aid. Call upon the clerics—a blessing to cleanse this accursed space.” She spoke with winter's breath, frost glittering her every word. Cedric cherished the frostmage and her prudence. Many a time had she kept him clear of harm's way. And where they did tread, few dared follow, for frigid was the air in Gael's tempestuous wake.

The prince shook his head. “We cannot abide the wait. If we do not act now, this town will be lost to the goblin plague. We strike hard and fast, for my father, the king, has commanded me thus.”

As Cedric raised his hand, his guard marched forward in a tight formation, their eyes glued to the ramshackle gate of Landsbury. Cavalry commander Gendrin moved with them. “Not a damn sound inside,” he spat. “Don't tell me these peasants couldn't hold out half a breath till I got here.”

The prince shot his half-uncle a look of disdain. Though nominally a viscount, there was nothing noble about Gendrin... he was a loud and lazy man, with every bit the bearing of a back-alley brute.

Cedric would scold the oaf in private, but right now he needed calm. Needed his wits about him. Instinctively, his eyes found Lt. commander Gael, his faithful second wielding the tempered force of a gale. And the grace and beauty of a high-elf queen. Cedric could endure both frost and beauty—this he told himself, and he almost believed it. Gael did not notice his attention, and the prince thought it good. She was preparing an intricate weave to bolster her frost magic. The air grew cold as ice around them.

Circling his mailed fist in the air, the prince signalled for a battering ram. It was an order for the cavalry transport troops. An order that needed relaying.

Gendrin spat on the ground—the half-uncle in half-defiance. But under the cold glare of the prince, the cavalry commander relented, raising a hand with three fingers outstretched.

There arrived then a quartet of steel-plated stallions, pulling the siege weapon into position and... it proved unnecessary, for suddenly the Landsbury gate swung open wide, and a war-touched townsman appeared. “Relief is here!” he cried, blood pouring from his gut, but he clung on to bravery, bulwarking the townsfolk gathered behind him from further fear and turmoil. “The king has sent for our rescue—we are saved!” he assured the townsfolk as he beckoned for Prince Cedric and his armed guard to enter.

“Pay heed, my prince,” offered Lt. commander Gael as she cast a wary glance at the townsman. The general quiet unnerved her. Something was not right. She motioned at two stout men in the honour guard, ordering them to scout ahead.

Cedric caught her assessing look, bidding him caution. He advanced in sure-footed strides—appearing decisive shielded him from uncertainty. Though his eyes scanned everywhere for danger. Accompanied by his honour guard, the prince followed closely behind the two scouts, stepping through the gate, weapons drawn and shields at the ready.

“Me name's Rory,” said the bloodied townsman, grasping for Cedric's hand, but he was rebuffed by the two rugged scouts. “If it please m'lord,” Rory went on undeterred, though his breath was ragged and uneven. “Men are dying as we speak—they've razed the fields and half the town already. We can't keep up this defence.” A streak of red trickled down Rory's forehead as he spoke with urgency, his tone tinged with a profound and fatigue-borne hint of exasperation.

Cedric held the man's blood-marred stare as he bade the two scouts barge past, had them circle the war-torn houses and shattered fences of Landsbury. Swift and methodical, they returned, sweeping stone-faced gazes over the frightened townsfolk before rejoining Cedric's side. Nodding the all-clear.

“Your plight is ours,” affirmed Cedric to Rory. “Lead us into the fray.”

Rory nodded gratefully, again clasping at the prince's hand, successfully this time. He tugged Cedric on, leading him past the townsfolk as they gathered in a semicircle, their faces gaunt and pale, their eyes sunken and hollow. Cedric could sense their desperation.

“Tally ho,” roared Gendrin as he remounted, brandishing his gilded spear. Eager as ever to showcase his mettle once assured of the relative safety of a situation. He galloped to the front, his steed stomping and snorting in protest. “Fear not. Fate smiles down on you in your hour of need,” he intoned in a loud voice at the townsfolk as he strode past, beckoning his cavalry follow.

“We have set up spiked defence barriers,” Rory continued, ignoring Gendrin's brazen charge as he led the prince and his guards past the town entrance and into the main square. "Three in all, but the first two we've had to abandon. They come in droves, sir prince, that they do. Vicious things, these goblins. Snarling and hissing and shanking and slashing. Just a bit further, m'lord. Round the corner we go, to the market plaza." A feverous haze passed over Rory's bloodshot eyes, the faint outline of a smile traced on his lips. His grip tightened around Cedric's wrist as he ushered the prince further into the hollow town's depths.

Cedric gave a brisk tug but could not break free of the townsman's vice-like grip. Then the prince put his full force on the line, seeking again to pull away as he let out a cry of alarm—both to no avail. The onset of his despair was drowned out by the Landsbury church bells; they launched into a mournful clanging—once, twice, thrice.

It all happened fast then—a harmonious cascade of events set in perilous motion.

Gendrin was the first to round the corner to the market plaza, his stallion rearing as it was struck by a large stone from a goblin's catapult, the impact forcing the rider to tumble with a dull shriek from his saddle and onto the cobblestones. A horde of goblins emerged in view, streaming past Gendrin's felled body, their eyes alight with hatred and their weapons raised high—swords and javelins and hatchets. They were misshapen beasts, green-skinned vermin standing three or four foot tall, sporting bulbous noses and long, pointed ears. Their eyes were dark and beady, like those of rodents, and their teeth were jagged and yellow.

The two honour guard scouts charged towards the goblins, slashing at the vile assailants with brutal strength, felling a goblin each and maiming several more. The ferocity of the men's blows knocked aside the goblins' weaponry, grossly outmatching them in sheer strength. But not in numbers. And the goblins are a crafty and relentless lot, swarming in waves, hurtling over the bodies of their fallen kin as they piled on the forward scouts, striking at the knee and elbow and other peripheral things—finding chinks in the frailer links of even the most musclebound human bodies. Striking and clawing in a blaze of green-skinned fury, the goblins overpowered the two scouts in a wild flurry, hacking and stabbing, then pinning their gored bodies to the ground as they finished the job.

Dozens upon dozens they numbered, clambering over blood and death toward the prince and his entourage. This was more than a minor goblin insurrection. They had united somehow, multiple tribes of unsightly vermin, forming a warband like never before seen.

“Unhand me, you dogged fool,” cried Cedric as he pitted might against might, trying his all to jerk free from Rory's iron grip. Though his struggle proved in vain: townsman Rory held fast with a preternatural strength that eclipsed the bounds of mortal men. Even princes.

“Glacialus,” incanted Gael suddenly as she lunged forward, wielding a mage-forged dagger made of ice, slashing at Rory's wrist. The blade sunk deep, severing bone and tendon. The hand tumbled to the ground, its fingers still grasping and clutching.

Rory's smile widened, revealing his graveyard of a mouth—rotten teeth suspended loosely in the brownish flesh of his maggot-infested gums. A putrid stench emanated from his body, signalling death and decay. His eyes then shone with a starlit yellow as the veins in his neck protruded, the surrounding skin beginning to peel and shrivel. "Fool you say, but this one has done as bid—pulled the veil right over those princely green eyes o' yours. And now the curtain falls. Rejoice, for your fetid lot awaits." The townsman's cackling turned to a gargling hiss, his features bulging and blackening to the point of necrotic decay.

Cedric moved like the wind, unsheathing Dicebolg, blade of the Blackrose—the named sword bequeathed to his lineage. In a single swift stroke, he cleaved the corrupted townsman's head clear from his body.

“Retreat—fall into formation,” ordered Gael, and the honour guard formed a staggered line, inching back towards the entryway as they held off the tidal swathes of encroaching goblins.

“What is this foul magic?” inquired the prince, his eyes wild and incredulous.

Gael could only shake her head.

This sent a chill up Cedric's spine. Though a ranked specialist, Gael had prolific insight in all branches of magic. And if silence was the veteran frostmage's best answer... they were doomed.

As the party traversed the main square in guarded backstep, the gate of Landsbury shuttered with a resounding bang, barring the frazzled cavalry cohort from entry. And trapping the prince and his honour guard firmly within the town's walls. A sickly chill rose to envelop the air, wafting a foul stench that pervaded the senses.

Behind them, the townsfolk stood huddled and unmoving, their eyes dark and sunken in terror-stricken abandon—or in playing the part. One by one, they began to transform, the skin peeling off their bodies in flaky sheets, eyes starting to burn with a bright yellow light. Their movements were jerky and unnatural like haunted puppets, their mouths held agape with darkened tongues lolling.

“Shield wall, protect your liege!” shrieked Gael at the honour guard, all of whom answered the call with scarcely a missed step between them.

The hair on Cedric's arms stood on end, hearing a frantic pitch to Gael's ordinarily undaunted voice.

Death encircled the prince's party: swarms of goblins before them, and behind them half a town's worth of mobbing undead.

What a fool you are, Cedric thought in self-chastisement, and he could not rebuke the blame. He had led them all to their deaths—the staunch men and women of his blood-sworn guard. And Gael. Sweet Gael. She deserved better than this. Better than him. Hell, he even felt sorry for Gendrin, though his half-uncle had never shown him warmth or even kinship. Only spiteful envy.

“Break formation,” Cedric commanded with head high and voice held stern. “We look upon death with fearless resolve. As equals.”

The prince of Lothrian made a mad dash forward, with Dicebolg swirling in a dark-winged mist behind him. His first strike was blocked by a heavy-set goblin with a wooden shield, but the force of the blow was so strong that it shattered the shield and cleaved the goblin's arm clean off. Cedric spun and cut across another goblin's throat, nicking a third goblin in the shoulder. Dicebolg shone black as night, coursing with arcane energy as Cedric fed blood and fury to the blade's darkness—such was the synergy between the sacred sword and a son of the Blackrose royal line.

Cedric moved like lightning, hacking and hewing with ever-mounting strength as Dicebolg drank in more blood.

But he was not the only one dealing blow after blow. As the prince cleaved a goblin in half, turned to carve apart another, a third goblin struck him in the shin, hacking flesh from bone with strike after strike. Cedric gritted through it, his threshold for damage raised by Dicebolg's gluttony for blood and war. And death.

As the prince made his valiant stand, faithful Gael was not far behind. She had focused her might on the other end of the fray, pelting non-stop arrays of thick-rimmed icicles at the undead townsfolk ambling ever toward her. But where one undead fell, another rose from the row behind, pushing to reclaim the spot at the shoulder of the frontrunners. They were too resilient, and they were too many.

Gael's eyes flashed with winter's fury, an incandescent gleam of her sorcerous skill. Breathing heavy, she gathered ambient magic around her, forced it to solidify in the element of her choosing. She unleashed blast after blast of frost, sending rows of the lolling undead careening into the dirt. She shot smaller, more directed missiles of ice at the most resilient townsfolk, those who had survived the prior onslaughts. But now they, too, reeled from the impact, with many incurring terminable wounds and many more outright felled.

Sublime Gael, frostmage of the age of Bartold, king-father to Cedric... the prince who would not ascend. She was rightly known as the embodiment of the mighty frost element—a force of nature that could not be stopped.

Until she was.

A hatchet hurled through the mist and frost, striking Gael in the back. She toppled in head-first freefall, like any mortal might.

The goblin responsible grinned and shrieked, was saluted by his lowly brethren for this heroic deed that would live on in goblin lore—the mighty throw that quenched the fury of the ice witch.

Cedric was ravaged from limb to limb, blood spurting from his chest and back and legs... innumerable holes that would amount, in the end, to singular death. As he hacked apart another throng of assailants, the prince caught wind of a goblin celebration—a mid-fight ceremony to elevate the greenskin with the keen eye and the strong arm. The prince followed their motions and he followed where their eyes went, cobbling together the affirmation of an understanding he feared most in this world.

“Gael—where is...” he sputtered to no one, for severed now from Dicebolg's blood haze, Cedric saw the barren truth for what it was. His honour guard had all fallen, brutalized and dismembered, their faces beyond recognition.

“Ga..ael?” The prince squeaked out in a heartrending tone—asking the question he knew he should not.

He saw her then, sprawled facedown on the cold dead ground, a single streak of blonde remaining in the ruin of her form.

Tears welled up in Cedric's customarily unmoved countenance. Blood spurted from his many wounds as he moved to scout through blood- and tear-shot eyes for the culprit of this unholiest of deeds.

There, amidst a pile of raunchily snickering greenskins, Cedric saw his mark. A large and cunning-looking goblin, holding up Gael's blood-soaked scalp like a grand prize. Cedric bristled in raw derision, willed his broken body onward, moving neither deftly nor methodically, but with a dread malice none hath dare envision. Like a jungle cat in heat he hurtled over the beaten bodies of friend and foe alike, jostling against inattentive goblin standers-by for the sheer pleasure of seeing surprise turn to ghostly terror on their deformed snouts as Cedric tore and ripped at their flesh, forced thumb and forefinger in their eye-sockets and squeezed till the fingertips met. He roamed like an animal to his next kill. There was nothing princely in him left. When finally he reached the prize-flaunting goblin—the one clutching Gael's bloody scalp to his naked goblin chest, Cedric cut loose.

The goblin had heard him coming, and so Cedric ran him down, grappled him to the ground. Then he crushed the goblin's ears so he could hear no longer. Next he hacked off the goblin's hands, for they had desecrated dear beloved Gael. Then he took the goblin's eyes, for they had beheld the sacrilege, and then his tongue, so that the act would never again feature in his garbled goblin speak. Finally, he cleaved the goblin's legs at the hip, rendering him immobile. The thing howled in enduring agony, gesturing pitifully and begging for the end, it seemed. But Cedric merely sat back, leaving a window of initiative to the dozen or more trembling goblin who had witnessed their prized comrade's forcible atonement.

The prince cried bitter tears for the loss of all things, his pride and rank, his honour as a man, his noble guardsmen, his beloved Gael. Defenceless and on the verge of death, Cedric had given up—there was no fight left in him.

And before long, a bold goblin snuck up close, fearful but resolved, giving the wailing human a swift stab near the clavicles, drawing blood. The goblin cowered back, expecting hell and fury as a response... but neither came. Then he snickered, goading his brethren on—stab, stab, stab, he motioned. They all snickered as they steadily approached this burnt-out behemoth of a man, the wailing heap of flesh that remained. Hooting and hollering, they danced around their inert prey—stabbing and dancing and stabbing some more.

Blood streamed from all orifices of the one who was once a prince. Who was once a man.

“ 'Tis a sight for sore eyes to see a princeling so low,” broke in a gruff and familiar voice from behind.

The dying prince clawed at the ground, flailing his smashed body in position to behold, as he did, the treasonous snake he had called half-uncle.

“Did my performance move you? 'Tally ho!' ” cried Gendrin as he keeled over with a comical expression, one of feigned surprise, plastered across his brutish features.

The broken prince gave his half-uncle a long look tinged with unfathomable disgust. “H...” he tried to speak.

“How? Why?” offered Gendrin, amused at the faltering prince grasping for meaning. "I bet it's killing you to know," he said with a leering grin. “Pardon my candour, dear prince, but I suspect you were grinning ear to ear not long ago, when you thought old Gendrin here had been the first to fall.” He drew himself upright, standing tall and proud. “But look at me now. And look at you.”

“A curse on those who speak ill of the dead,” exclaimed a distant voice—a middle-aged townswoman it seemed, one of the rank and file undead. But she shimmered something ghostlike as she approached, flitting between the ruse of her assumed persona and the shadowy reality of her true self: a tall female darkmage with a conical hat and bandaged features, wielding a named staff by the ornate look of it.

“A curse here and there and everywhere,” retorted Gendrin, flashing his trademark grin.”  “That's all you do, and I love you for it—I do, I swear I do,” he joked, flinging his burly arm over the darkmage's narrow shoulder. She did not return the favour.

Gendrin leaned in close, whispered something as he tried to steal a kiss, but the darkmage deftly evaded his advances. “A battlefield is no place for foolery.” She spoke in a staccato tone, dismissive, and with the hint of a foreign accent she wished not to reveal. “Not with the eyes of the dead curtailing our innermost sentiments.” Her stark blue eyes fell on the dying prince.

“My half-nephew,” Gendrin snorted. “Quarter-nephew now by the look of him, all hacked up. How does this stubborn fool draw breath still? Must be that classic Blackrose resilience. And lowly old me, I was born from different blood. Wrong part of the family tree. Life’s unfair like that.” He spat on the ground.

The prince let out something approximating a death rattle, though a ghost of his consciousness still clung to wakeful fact. He was desperate to learn all he could in this life. It would facilitate vengeance in the next.

“Hey, don’t you die on me just yet,” said Gendrin, balancing his coarse sense of comedy with a serious tone of voice this time. He wanted to rub it in, Cedric knew. ‘This is what I did to you, and you didn't see it coming, and now you're dead.’ That was how this accursed half-uncle and half-man operated.

“Take a look at the cause of your undoing.” Gendrin bared his chest, showcasing a plethora of runic symbols blood-hammered into his flesh.

“That's enough—you'll risk it all for a laugh.” The darkmage hissed, raising her staff as she summoned a void sphere.

“C... Caladbrinn,” whimpered Cedric, knowing the true name of the staff by virtue of its distinctive ability.

The darkmage grew pale, started uttering profanities in her native tongue—an Eastern style by the florid sound of it.

“Hey, not yet—I'm not done raking his bony ass over the coals,” Gendrin spat.

“The dead know more than you may imagine, though you should by now know better. Devulgo!” The darkmage pelted Cedric with a high-level void sphere, granting him the final relief. The heir to the Lothrian kingdom was no more.

It was a Thursday and it was a dark day. A day fit for killing princes.

Chapter 2 - Birth of the Blackrose goblin (Introductory arc)

The first thing he heard was wailing—a crass and infantile sound, beating at the sanctity of the walled-off something in which he was nestled. It took the prince a second to realize: it was him, wailing like a new-born in a voice that was not his own.

Dreams had always found him. Hellish, broken dreams that tore him life from limb and made him whole again... only to break him down anew.

Still, this was a nightmare like no other.

Dark. Everything was dark.

He remembered it all—how he had been humbled and broken and slain. Wrathful stabs cracking straight through the bone and heart of him. Gael. How he longed for her now—her breath against his breath. Forevermore that, and that alone.

He had but to awaken and it could all be his. So why... why was it all so dark? With his death the dream should have ended—it always had before.

But interminable as the night, it went on.

Cedric tried to move, but his body defied his will. Captive as though in weightless embrace, his limbs felt light and at the same time leaden. Like a thick liquid had looped and wrapped itself around him, and now there was nothing he could do. The dream operates by dream rules, and even in full lucidity... he had only to abide.

In dream logic he played along, tried cleverly to source out some path of final extraction. A thing so jarring or impossible that it could not maintain the nightmare, its inner order. Such an occurrence, provided he could steer himself toward it... might be enough. It might awaken him. Then he would be Cedric, Prince of Lothrian once more. Now, here, he was the dreamer.

The dreamer drew a deep breath, bolstering the mind and heart with lessons from the warroom. Mental training—Cedric’s sessions with grand-uncle Gustave, the warrior-poet.

‘What is a warrior who is lost in a strange land?’

“A warrior still.”

‘But he knows not the lay of that land.’

“But he knows the lay of his heart.”

And if Cedric knew one thing, it was that he was a warrior.

The outside is there, he thought, and I let it be; for in my mind, I am. Tranquil but ready.

The dreamer gathered his strength, a rush of energy coursing through his veins. Clenching fists, feeling muscles flex and bunch. Envisioning through the darkness how one might twist and writhe as the dreamer should.

There came then a great ripping and tearing—the brittle cage surrounding the dreamer giving way, causing the liquid to flow out. Relief was a tangible thing—so real, thought Cedric, was the blood-spotted nightmare that had befallen him.

Though unencumbered now, the dreamer stood in a stupor still, entranced by the hazy spots of luminescence dancing at the edge of vision. The light filtering in.

And though the darkness receded, what replaced it was worse.

Cedric and the dreamer joined in one-ness—the stimuli of vision and the tactile everything proved too strong to retain the concept of division.

It was a sight to behold—here was a vast and cavernous space, lit by the eerie glow of phosphorescent moss that clung to the damp walls. From the ceiling down, a multitude of eggs hung in suspension, tethered in the embrace of an organic webbing—a pulsing and living thing that splayed apart in countless rivulets. The eggs it held were large... the size of a strider ostrich's, but dark and uneven, with thick ridges of a deep hell-green. Some had a faint glow, exuding an earthy sheen that seemed to waver in the faint light.

The chamber itself was a hive of activity, filled with the wailing of hatchling goblins and the cracking of eggshells that meant more siblings and more howls and cries and whimpers. Cedric hated them—the hatchlings were no different from the adults he had faced, had brutalized with a sick sense of satisfaction time and again. They were vermin, lower than vermin. Pests and blights. Their life was a sacrilege, and all were to be exterminated. Now these newborns, they were smaller, sure, but still every bit as misshapen and foul; their skin the same toxic green, their burgeoning fangs bared. Put it to the flame, this nest, this dream. Let it all end.

But it did not end.

So Cedric sighed and Cedric played along with the deathly dream, its merciless rules.

He bid his body move, but his legs quavered, came collapsing under him. Recovering, he caught himself in a sprawl of trembling green arms and...

Green. By the gods above and the devil below—what a cursed state of sickness must his mind be under for its subconscious part to lay him now so low. All the war and death, it had got to him... piling up over his vanguard years. Prince of the rose and prince of blood. A psyche-mender is what he needed, and he would meet with one. Controversial though their brand of magic is.

He looked down again. Green. His arms were stubby and green still, with claw-like appendages raking deep into the damp, waste-ridden soil.

The prince gagged in revulsion, spitting bile between each ragged gasp of air.

The nightmare went ever on.

He would go and look upon himself in full through some dream mirror. To shock himself to wakefulness.

Unsightly steps were all he could muster. Cedric stumbled forward, a mix of stuttering half-steps... then falling, and resorting to tumbling and crawling to make progress. His knees were scraped raw and bloody as he flailed his neonate body across sharp eggshell remnants. The remains of the casing he had moments before broken free from. Egg. Of course... he had just been born. A goblin. From a goblin egg.

In dishonour he crawled on. His foul goblin eyes were glued to a murky puddle of what he hoped was water, dead-centre in the room. Here he would look upon himself, and here he would denounce what he saw. The shock of the moment would break the spell that kept him dreambound. It would have to.

Disgust roiled like a rotten brew in the prince’s stomach. He staggered past a handful of straggling brethren and sistren, imaginary forces of a dream too real for reckoning. Cedric pushed or pulled the vile hatchlings out of his path with as much force as he could bring forth. He wanted badly to destroy them as he had their ancestors—carving their innards with royal-grade steel. But he had no sword in this dream. No trusty Dicebolg to strike out wrathfully.

When at last he had floundered to his destination, Cedric crouched down low, taking a deep, hopeful breath. This would do it—he pinned everything on the shock awakening him. He swallowed hard as he leaned in.

Shimmering amidst the ripples, he caught glimpses of his reflected self—a new-spawned greenskin with beady yellowish eyes and a snarling mouth.

He blinked once, twice. Thrice. But this rotten world, this hellscape of a land... it did not fade. It should have faded. Yet it did not.

Had the time come then, to embrace this as more than a mere dream? This as his new reality? A sickening prospect.

But here he was, the prince of Lothrian. A goblin hatchling. Enduring the cacophony of screeches and yowls as his new kin emerged into a savage new existence.

A sudden call came then—not the mewling of new mouths but a great voice, a master voice, booming with high authority.

“Fall in line you maggots!”

Cedric was drawn—no, compelled—to obey. His mind went dim, relinquishing in an instant the grip he had over his own thoughts. Marching, marching, marching, in quickstep toward the speaker, gait unsteady but resolved.

There were more who had heard the sacred call—the prince joined path with a smattering of his newfound siblings, all of them enthralled by the compelling voice. Side by side they trod along as best they could, in a broken run or crawl or body-drag. A nascent warband falling in step.

“Pick up the pace—yours is but to do or die!” the fell voice boomed once more.

A slave to his goblin instincts, Cedric barged ahead at breakneck speed, as swift as his unhardened frame would allow. He advanced past the pack, leaving his brethren and sistren in the dust.

Peering through slitted pupils, he could just make out a large shadow in the dimly lit back-end of the birthing chamber. Darkness amassed around the speaker's hefty frame, aggrandizing him further, enhancing the allure of his call.

A shallow trench in the ground marked the spot—there is where the troops would line up. Cloth overalls were scattered about the floor in a nondescript heap of uniform brown. Starting gear for the hatchling lot.

Cedric would be first to arrive there. A final sprint would assure his victory. And his status as first among peers.

That's how it should have played out.

Instead, he crashed to the ground. A gnarled root had risen from the threadbare soil, gripping tight around his lower leg and anchoring him down.

A girl goblin hurtled past the downed prince, twisting her neck to make a face at him, adding insult to injury. She pulled her eyelid back with one finger, her tongue tauntingly outthrust. Cedric's eyes were drawn to the runic symbol on his sister's ridged forehead—it spelled 'Ruin' (崩), with the kanji glowing a deep purple. She had an innate aptitude for spellcasting it seemed, for the prince gathered that the vine encircling his calf had spawned at her behest. He cursed his own weakness; a low-level 'root' spell like this would never have sent him toppling—not his true form.

Cedric felt his green skin redden, his royal blood coming to a boil. The anger made him come into his own again, albeit briefly: he went stark raving mad at the thought of blushing on account of a failed goblin race. At the thought of being submitted to such lowly things. And for caring so deeply.

Though he tried hard to deny the reality of it all, here he was. Unable to awaken from this gauntlet of embarrassment. The nightmare of nightmares, it went on.

“Trickle in, rookies—final call!” broke in the ironclad voice from the shadowy end of the room.

Entranced by its power and appeal, Cedric snapped back into his goblin frame of mind. He tore free his hindered leg and staggered upright, resuming the final sprint.

A swathe of goblins funnelled in behind him as the prince merged with the party waiting in line—four of his kin had made it before he had. The girl goblin was at the very front, smirking back at him.

Cedric snarled in response, weighing his further options as he slid his emaciated torso in the drab brown overall laying at his feet. Retaliation should be swift. He would disembowel her on the spot, had he access to his full princely might. But at present, caution was the only answer. She had outwitted him once, and that was enough. He would bide his time, bury his grudge just below the surface of an appropriately goblin-like demeanour... whatever that meant. He supposed he would come to find out, though he did not relish the prospect.

His ruminations were cut short as the light of an oil lamp flickered to life, illuminating the speaker's imposing presence just a yard or four away. Ensconced behind a grand desk sat the tallest goblin Cedric had ever seen—a lithely muscled specimen with the bearing of a wizened clerk, dignified in the age-old duty of scholarly recordkeeping. If it weren't for the yellow-green skin and protrusive fangs, Cedric might have mistaken the goblin for a high-ranking mage tower employee. The prince had spent many a summer in his youth scouring ancient lorebooks in the domed royal libraries. But that time had gone for good.

“A meagre lot,” the goblin clerk declared, looking over the hatchling yield. “Time perhaps to retire the old broodmother.” His voice took on wistful tones as he dipped a feathered quill in the ink jar. Cedric was amazed at the goblin's deft handling as he jotted a note in the leathered journal to his left, one of five books sprawled open on the desk. And it was not just for show, the prince intuited in a stab of amazement. If this foul species could learn to speak, to read and write... how different were they really, goblins from humans? No, the prince quickly decided, shedding the goblin frame of mind he had adopted by force, owing to the commanding voice of this scholarly goblin. He thought back on what he had known right up to the bitter end. These were animals. Nothing more.

“May the father have imparted quality where quantity lacks,” the goblin clerk muttered to himself in half-prayer as he shifted his gaze down on the line, scanning, then homing in on the wily goblin girl. Cedric shrank back from the assessing stare, noting the clerk’s  right eye was a mechanical orb, glinting with steely resolve; it sat juxtaposed against its natural counterpart, both partly obscured by the thick-rimmed engineering glasses perched precariously on his bulbous nose.

“Approach, young ones, and do not dally—the years have eroded this one's patience. Gorkon is the name, but to you I am taskmaster. And I hold destiny in a writerly hand.”

Gorkon beckoned the girl come forth, and without a hint of wavering she did.

“First in line, runic symbol on forehead, mage-born talent... hardly a challenge,” the taskmaster proclaimed, a knowing glint flashing in his mechanical lens. “You are henceforth as I say. I bestow on you the rank of elite and the class of mage.” With that, Gorkon waved the girl past, and she strutted off unabashedly, like it was all an everyday thing to her. She exited the birthing chamber through a narrow unlit corridor, disappearing from view.

The second hatchling in line was up—a wiry male shuffling toward the desk, encumbered by a club foot and humpback posture. How this one had placed runner-up in the footrace was beyond Cedric's comprehension.

Gorkon took his time with this one, the mechanical eye buzzing and whirring as he contemplated the runner-up's place in goblin society. “Two paths but one excludes the other,” he said finally as he fumbled for some undeclared object amidst the piles of disarray gracing his desk—a chaotic symphony of tools, machinery parts, wrenches, and screwdrivers, all sprawled amidst a mountain of scrap metal.

He grabbed a hammer in one hand and a dusty tome in the other, presenting both options to the hunchbacked runner-up. The young goblin's eyes lit up at the sight of the hammer, and he reached out eagerly to grab hold of it.

“So be it. I bestow on you the rank of elite and the class of builder,” said Gorkon. And the hunchback trotted off into the dark corridor, leaning on the hammer like a staff, with his clubfoot in half-drag behind him.

And so it went on. The third and fourth in line, a male and a female, were scrutinized by the taskmaster's discerning eye. Both were branded elites, with the respective class designations of scout and huntress.

Then they left, and it was Cedric's turn to be judged.

Faintly, his mind could recall rebelling against the reality of this dream that seemed a dream no longer. He swallowed and stepped forward, feeling small under the taskmaster's imperious gaze.

“Ah, what peculiar symbol adorns this one's forehead—I do wonder,” Gorkon declared in seemingly genuine puzzlement. “It oozes with the taint of a darkblood rune, though its true power is a mystery to most. But as for the symbol itself...” frantically, the taskmaster riffled through the manifold stacks of mechanical rubble. He pulled out a clothbound tome laced with layers of dust, accrued from years or decades of disuse.

Cedric gasped at the sight—the intricate calligraphy on the spine, the faded but familiar cover. This was a copy of Ancient Blood, a benchmark textbook on the history of the royal and lower noble lineages in the Lothrian kingdom. It was one of his favourites growing up, and he knew it back to front still—he would bet anything on that.

“Here,” said the wizened taskmaster, tapping the cover with his lip up-curled—a smile almost. The old goblin regaling in the breadth and force of his scholarly recollection. “This is it—the symbol engraved in the skin of your forehead. It's a crude rendition of course, but there can be no doubt.”

Cedric's eyes followed Gorkon's arthritic finger. It pointed at the old crest of the Blackrose line, prior to their ascension as a royal house, when they were but vassals to the people’s will—the parliamentary governance that had yielded nothing.

The image was of a wilting rose, dark as the night.

“Now what do you suppose this means—come now, any thoughts you wish to share?” Gorkon inquired, his gaze electric, the gears whirring frenetically as the mechanical eye dilated.

Chapter 3 – Serene as a scholar, will of the warrior (Introductory arc)

The prince stood motionless, his heart a tumultuous drumbeat in his chest. He grasped for words... but what could he say without revealing himself to the enemy—at least, he thought Gorkon his enemy; he thought all goblins his enemy, did he not?

The wordless moment lingered, swelled to the point of greater suspicion. Gorkon tapped his fingers on the ornate wood of his desk—a testament to his held-back vexation.

A moment more passed, forged a further rift between them.

“Patience runs thinner than blood in my domain, young one,” Gorkon impressed on the hatchling, his voice robbed of its inquisitive tone. There was menace now in the taskmaster’s words, and Cedric’s knees began to shake where he stood, wordless still.

“Graa-ahh...” stammered the broken prince finally, his mouth unaccustomed to the coarse texture of goblin speech. Though learned as a scholar and graced ordinarily with a poet's tongue of silver... even the simplest of words failed now to roll from the prince's mouth.

“Rabble like the rest. Here I half-expected you to exceed expectations,” Gorkon cut in, saving Cedric from further wordless anguish. “Born a mute like the common house goblin,” the taskmaster went on. “All must bow to nature's ruling will. Is that not so, Blackrose goblin?”

He would have spun and flourished, the man he was or used to be—ripping the beating heart from this old fool's chest. But now so diminished, Cedric merely nodded, relishing the excuse. He was offered the gift of time, to think of a proper response.

“Be certain,” the taskmaster went on, “my eye is ever on you. This talk is not the last we have shared on the matter. Now to assign you a place in our ranks...” Gorkon leafed through the disarrayed wealth of tomes on his desk, leaning forward and then back, juggling the plethora of possibilities in his studious mind. The mechanical eye clicked softly as he scrutinized Cedric’s latent talents, its lens adjusting with pinpoint precision. His natural eye, by contrast, was sharp and piercing, darting over Cedric’s form with a discerning gaze that penetrated beyond the merely organic—this was as much a psychological assessment as it was a physical one, balancing wit and desire with innate aptitude.

“Average of body and magical endowment... no weakness and no strength...” Gorkon mused, then threw up his hands. He flipped the lorebook so Cedric could see the starting classes. “Which of these strikes nearest to the heart of thee?”

Goblin starting classes

Combat branch

Warriors (10/100): The backbone of goblin armies, strong and unyielding. With sword and shield in hand, they meet their foes head-on in battle's dance.

Scouts (6/100): Quick and alert, adept at gathering crucial intelligence. Their keen eyes miss nothing. In the labyrinth of the wild, they are the unseen guides.

Shieldbearers (5/100): Bulwarks in battle, their duty is to protect and endure. With shields as their ramparts, they turn the tide of combat with unbreakable will.

Spearmen (4/100): Melee fighters that keep enemies at a measured and lethal distance. Their method is one of reach and thrust, a ballet of deadly precision.

Hunters (4/100): Silent and deadly, they strike from the shadows with bow and arrow, moving like whispers on the wind. Their aim is as true as their stealth.

Mages (1/100): Channelling the arcane, they weave spells of fire and ice and lesser elements. They stand as beacons of mystical power, their incantations shaping the battlefield.

Auxiliary branch

Builders (8/100): By crafting the sinews of goblin settlements, their hands shape the tribe's future. In wood and stone, their legacy is carved.

Foragers (7/100): The tribe’s lifeline, skilled in the art of survival. They read the land's secrets, providing sustenance from nature's bounty.

Tinkerers (5/100): Inventive and skilled labourers, they turn scraps into tools. In their hands, what was once discarded finds new purpose and life.

Healers (3/100): Using herbs and balms to mend flesh and bone, their gentle hands bring relief where there is pain. They are the guardians of health and life.

Trappers (3/100): Cunning and resourceful, they secure the tribe's perimeter with snares and guile. In the art of ambush, they have no equal.

Scholars (2/100): Keepers of knowledge and lore, they are the mind behind the muscle. In their scrolls and tomes lie the secrets of ages past and strategies for the future.

Cedric’s eyes brightened with the faint glow of recognition—he had perused an earlier rendition of this very lorebook so many summers ago. It was a maverick's work, poorly received by the magetower scholars of Lothrian, its content dismissed as fanciful conjecture. The author, whose name Cedric could not for the life of him recall, had been stripped from all rank and scholarly standing. This austere work had been the first and final attempt to categorize the internal order of goblin tribes. A shame. A dreadful shame. Cedric winced as he thought back on his own reception of this repository of goblin lore; he had fallen sheepishly in step with academic consensus, renouncing the work as folklore. How wrong he had been. And how much better they could have battered the skulls of these greenskin lowlifes.

Truly, this was a magnificent overview of the rank-and-file goblin troops. The array of starting classes numbered twelve in total, subdivided in a combat branch and an auxiliary branch. All replete with colourful illustrations and appended with text boxes outlining their basic characteristics: action range and attack method, strengths, weaknesses, et cetera. More peculiar still, the edition before him was written in the goblin tongue—an infuriatingly elegant script, rife with nuance and meaning, little of which was lost on the new-arisen prince.

His eye was drawn to the handwritten notes in the margins, spawned presumably from the taskmaster’s mind and hand... they contained musings on the relative rarity of the classes, with the mage at the far end. This was a class for the illustrious few—those with a natural affinity for the arcane arts, harnessing the raw energies of the world and bending them to their will. Only 1/100 hatchlings were suited to this skilful task. Cedric thought of the accursed rune-bearing girl who had thwarted him, pangs of hate and envy shooting through him.

Voracious as a scholar, pupil of the word, Cedric drank in all the information. How crass and how curious, he thought, that this of all things was now foremost on his mind—deciding what flavour of goblin he should be. It was an outrage, an affront to all he was. Or all he had been. Had he given up, then? Accepting the nightmare for the truth it was?

Lost in deliberation, the prince noted all of a sudden the cryptic note scrawled in a lilting script, waving and wandering at the page's frilly edge. The writ was in a different hand—it bore the signature of one 'Zenok', taskmaster emeritus... and the words bespoke a thirteenth class. The prospect.

This elusive class was reserved for those of exceedingly rare stock, those bearing the weight of a universal talent—the natural predestiny for leadership. Encumbered with a palpable promise of greatness, the prospect shows an innate understanding of command, along with an unquenchable thirst for domination. They are guides or tyrants to their kin, leading the tribe to greater wealth and to blood-earned victories... against all foes, be they beast or man.

Something dwindled inside at the reading of the final word. Man. Could Cedric count himself among their ranks still? The noble ranks of men, toiling and ruling, made saintly under the eye of the divine—the Lord and the Lady up high, shapers of the forged gods, dwellers in the halls of heaven and the pits of hell. Was it better to be a beast... or to be not at all?

Flitting from one frayed part to the next, the prince felt a shaking of the soul he could not place. If green was his skin, and his heart was that of a man no longer... what was it that remained? Did it all ring hollow—thoughts of a kingdom lost to his mind forever? And what of his devotion, his love for a queen who would not be crowned? Gael. Strong and stoic Gael. Was she gone for true and real, her body rotting in the Landsbury ground? The prince could not bear it, wanted to dislodge the thought but cling to it at the same time.

If this was not a dream... what was left for him. This was not a question; it was a statement of barren fact.

But then the prince's gaze drifted to the Ancient Blood tome on the taskmaster's desk, detailing the history of the Lothrian noble lines. Next to the Blackrose noble crest, there was the golden-blue bane of Cedric's existence—it had become that in a broken-bodied flash of a moment. The crest of the Honikom line, entrusted only to the upper-rank peers of their blood. Gendrin. That rotten oathbreaker Gendrin. Gendrin Honikom.

And the fires of vengeance roiled in his gut. If there was nothing more he could do for Gael in his true life... then he would get retribution for her in the next.

The prince of the Blackrose was not dead—not if his will went on. A singular will. A will of the sword. Death to the betrayers.

He would rise up the ranks and command legions if need be, marshalling them to do his iron bidding. He would raze the Honikom lands, set fire to it all and salt the earth after. Their line would be extinguished. Gendrin himself he would gut like a boar and staunch the bleeding; then he would see him hanged for high treason. And that foul necromancer at his side... the darkmage wielding great Caladbrinn, runesword of the fallen order... she would be bound and hobbled, plucked clean of all her spellpower and cast in the darkest hole to wither.

Cedric looked up from the page, broken but with burning resolve. Locking eyes with Gorkon, the prince was undeterred by the taskmaster’s piercing gaze. “Garu... graahh,” Cedric then vocalized to his own resolute disappointment, failing to produce the forceful speech he had envisioned. He pointed a green finger instead at the hand-drawn image of the prospect class.

“A heart forged in fire... I see fury in your eyes.” Gorkon smiled—a true and actual smile. Then his eyes darkened, and the air became breathless and heavy. Lightning seemed to roll down, weaving in crackling surges around the prince's small frame, impressing upon him the taskmaster’s ardent will. “Give voice to the fury now, or let it die forever.”

It was a challenge. And be it to his fault or favour, Prince Cedric of the Blackrose did not bow down when called to stand up. “P-pro... spect,” he laboriously uttered, the blaze of his glare unrelenting. A subtle aura awakened around his fragile form, a faint shimmer that crackled and jolted as he spoke.

The brow above Gorkon’s natural eye rose as he observed the hatchling’s emanating aura, his mechanical eye whirring as it adjusted to the subtle display of power. “There is danger in words spoken true... but you are too fresh from the egg to know falsehood from fact.” And with a sudden, resolute motion, the taskmaster slammed the lorebook closed, the sound echoing through the chamber like a verdict. “You wish to lead, but foolhardy souls lead only astray. Fortify your body and mind. Foster the flame within, but fan it wisely or it may burn you to a crisp.” Gorkon leaned back, resting his hands on the desk in deliberation, augmenting the weight of his contemplative pause. “The path of the prospect is perilous, and you will not walk it. Not yet. I have decided this. We will speak again... about your fury and fate... about the quizzical mark you bear and its greater meaning.”

There was something fiercely wrong in the tone of this bastard Gorkon... and he was getting away with it. The prince wanted to rip the taskmaster life from limb, but he could not. His body was weak and there was an incursion of sorts against his mind—a hidden trapping to where the words of this goblin seemed to brook no counterargument. It was a disgusting thing to a prince of Lothrian to be looked upon by some green animal, and to have no mastery of footing in his own sphere of thought... no ground from where to fight back against this master of tasks. Was it a quaint sort of spell he could not now break, the prince as a neonate nobody? How ignoble that a royal Blackrose should suffer such indignity. Rest assured, he soothed himself—he would come for Gorkon one day. Let it take as long as is necessary. He needed his strength, to build it from the ground up once more. Then all who opposed him and all who looked down on him... they would have their day. That, he could promise.

But it was not today, the time for open rebellion. All the prince could do was nod dimly in acquiescence to Gorkon ridiculing him. Deflated for a time but determined for all time. He would rise again.

“You are henceforth as I say. I bestow on you the rank of elite and the class of warrior... and the class of scholar.” The taskmaster gave voice to his unusual decision. “You will work twice as hard, and you will earn your keep.” Gorkon rummaged through the ornamental clutter on his desk, digging out a rusted-over skullcap that might have served some long-gone footman—that is to say, it was hardly the quality Cedric had grown accustomed to. But it would do. For now.

“Keep your wits about you, Blackrose goblin...” Gorkon said, waving Cedric off.

The prince put on the pauper’s helm, grasping the veiled implication in Gorkon’s gift. Cedric vowed to safeguard his secret—the Blackrose symbol on his forehead would remain hidden under a coat of rustic steel.

With that, he scampered off into the dark unknown—the narrow corridor leading outside the chamber where, to a promise of vengeance, he had been reborn.

Trudging through the snaking passages of the goblin lair, he soon heard a gruff voice up ahead.

“Welcome to the rookie games.”

Chapter 4 – Enter the trial grounds (Rookie Games arc)

The voice echoed off the ancient stone walls—‘Welcome to the rookie games!’—each word multiplying in the confined space.

But the words or their meaning was not foremost on Cedric’s mind.

Gael was.

A trickle of light seeped through as Cedric neared the bend at the corridor’s end. By Gael's word and by Gael's presence, the prince had grown to believe in the forces of nature, in light and in darkness. They were not only external realities; no, they held meaning in the mind. He believed that because he chose to. And so a ribbon of daylight filtering in, after dark times of death and loss, is more than a mere scant strip of illumination. It is the herald of a new beginning. Purged from darkness, a new beginning for the mind and heart.

Hope is everything.

As Cedric rounded the bend and the light grew thick, a thankful smile curved around his lips. Thankful for the breath he drew now, for having survived an unjust death. Thankful, if only for the chance to set some of it right.

Blood had been spilt, princely blood at that. And blood was owed. Cedric vowed again, here, in the light of a new day, to slay the betrayers, Gendrin Honikom, the darkmage, and all their allies in the shadows. He would raise armies if his own hands were not enough, legions upon legions of frenzied goblins—a warband the like the world has never seen. He would have his vengeance, no matter what. And if others had to burn along the way, so be it.

“... Welcome to the rookie games!” repeated the voice, its tone tinged with a sharper edge.

The prince tore his eyes away from the splendour of the light and saw the soldier standing there—a seasoned warrior by the look of him, the scar-flecked green of his skin yellowing from the years of service, marching and skirmishing under a hot midland sun. Cedric wanted instinctively to grab the veteran by the shoulder, to commend him for his tireless devotion... but this was an impulse born of a bygone age. So he dismissed it.

And when the goblin veteran stepped forward and cleanly into sight, the prince was glad he had resisted the innate call to praise. Bestowing it would not have fared him well.

The veteran wore more than only the scars of his warrior history. Clad in a cloak woven from bone, he towered over the hatchling prince. His hollow gaze was matched by the eyes of the slain, gleaming still from the skulls socketed in his spaulders. A tribute to the fallen; a warning to those yet to fall.

The oldest trick in the tome, Cedric thought—frightening the new recruits into easy submission. But the prince stood tall and proud, meeting the soldier gaze for gaze... unadorned in this life, undeterred in all lives.

“Pick one,” said the bone-warrior without warning, both hands suddenly outthrust. In the right he held a wooden spear, the tip slathered with purple paint. In the left there was a buckler and a dagger dipped in dripping yellow.

Bah, wooden toys. These were not weapons. The prince felt the stain of affront come curdling up... but like a summer wine he corked it, bottling it for storage till it was time for the season of his wrath. Time is what he needed most now—weeks or months. Maybe years. As long as it would take for this ghastly body of his to mature.

One did not play at war. But if forced to, then he would. He would win these... ‘rookie games’. For glory and rank he would win.

The prince in him had favoured both versatility and durability on the battlefield—heavy armour always, and a sturdy shield should ever he move without his honour guard. And though a lot had changed, this had not. If anything, defence would prove all the more pertinent, given this feeble new form of his.

The buckler and yellow dagger then. The bright colours were as unsightly as they were irrelevant. No information to go on.

“Take to the fields and find the entrance to the tribe's great halls. Rise tall and honour yourself—bring havoc to those wielding the opposing colour.” The soldier handed Cedric his chosen armaments. With a grave look he continued. “Shield yourself from dishonour and emerge unscathed—the mark of the enemy is the mark of death.” Under the rattling of bones, the grizzled veteran stepped away, turning his head toward the sun-scorched fields beyond.

The prince thought the objectives clear—team-based scouting and survival... and so he moved to survey the trial grounds. Its landscape was a stark contrast of open space and natural barriers. Some six hundred feet to the left, there rose a scraggly hillside with peaks so high they might scrape the heavens. To his right, at a similar distance, the sea stretched out, its surly waters glinting under the sun. Leagues of grassy fields beckoned directly ahead, encroached upon by a forest-like outcropping dead-centre, its dense foliage creating an island of shadow amidst the flatland expanse.

He could skirt the forest’s edge—there remained narrow passes both left and right. And besides, he did not relish the prospect of trawling through vines and shrubbery, all under the canopied shade of high-roofed leaf trees. A veil of uncertainty is what that was. He would make better time circumventing it entirely.

Would he take to the far left, seeking the safety of the hillside, strafing along the ridges of its sloping land, or...

As the prince looked out over the beachside route, his mind was swayed. There he saw the remains of an old mooring post standing out against the shoreline, a solitary sentinel by the sea. Coiled around it was an anchor rope, and Cedric could almost feel the texture, its thick strands frayed yet strong. Yes, that would do. He would fashion a makeshift harness out of it to bind the buckler to his back, relieving his hands of its weight.

Under the blaze of a noonday sun, Cedric stalked off toward the mooring post, his dagger and buckler held aloft even though the path seemed clear. Without discernible danger. Yet it was the unknown that daunted him most.

He scanned the coarse ground for prints... but rife with grasses and vegetation, it held no markings. Pressing further shoreward, the soil started turning to sand. And his steps grew heavier. Step by sinking step he advanced on the shoreline—there where the sand is wet and compact. Firm footing is no less vital than the blade in the master's hand.

As he trudged on, the prince kept scanning the ground for footsteps. Finding none.

At first.

There—half a stone-throw away. Goblin-made prints, deep and pronounced but fading. Failing to the wind's shifting of the sands. The pattern trailed towards the mooring post, then vanished deeper down. Lost to the slopping of the sea.

This changed nothing. Whether made by wandering prey or a fiendish trapper... it mattered not. The prince had a clear path before him. And he would walk it to completion. He needed the rope, for the buckler was both a bastion and a burden.

Bounding past the loose stretch of sand—blisteringly hot sand for a bootless being as he—Cedric soon reached the relief at the water’s edge. Cool and firm. Proper duelling ground if it came to that. With a wary eye training along the vast space of his surroundings, the prince made way for the mooring post, snaking along the watery path where the sea broke against the sand.

He tried to match a face to the footprints, reasoning with the mind of a man and not a beast. Surely, he could outwit them. It would be one of the four—those who had entered the trial grounds before him. The girl mage, the clubfoot, the scout, the huntress.

The trail was neat and even, so the clubfoot could be ruled out. The trail was deep and pronounced, so the mage and scout were made improbable; they were both small and light, whereas the huntress was bulky—sheets of muscle over winter-ready lard. She had shown a more head-on stance as well. More direct. Cedric could imagine it—her plodding relentlessly toward a prey and calling it hunting. The thought never crossing her mind: might I be both hunter and hunted? It made sense the more he considered it. She was heavy enough to leave deep imprints... and careless enough not to erase them. She would pick the spear, too. No use for a thick buckler thinks the thicker mind.

The huntress then.

Could he take her in a fight?

Without a doubt he could. She had the brawn, but he had the lifetime of skill. He would parry and he would thrust, block and then flourish. And she would wither under a prolonged assault.

Cedric kept steady pace, nearing a set of dunes that looked larger now than they had before. But not far beyond them lay the mooring post, where finally he would absolve himself of the weight of this buckler and...

He saw something.

Something moving or shifting or twisting behind the second and highest dune.

Raising his buckler, Cedric stalked up to the first dune, rounding it in slow and measured step. Watchful as the eagle, he peered for signs of a trap, scouting as well for a possible second assailant. He refused to be caught in a two-pronged attack; the last one had cost him everything already. And he could not afford to lose more.

The sand cracked under his wary gait as he ambled past, advancing to either prize or peril. He felt good and strong, princely almost, with battle-lust surging like a thing alive.

There was no one at the first dune. No one except for him. And what he had now was a fine vantage point—a beautiful clear view of the second dune.

He loved it in a way. The hunt. War. It made him better, sharper, stronger. And right now, though these were mere wooden weapons, he felt golden... could smell the blood almost. He would bring hell to her, the huntress. Like a god of war would she see him, striking in blind and inexorable fury.

Scouting for further movement behind the second dune... a second or two is what he gave it. Then he flashed forward, shrouding his imminence with the ambient sound of the flood tide crashing to shore. Leaping, dashing, barrelling on, he surged headlong past the first dune, looping around to gain first-strike advantage. An assault from the back.

Rounding the second dune, he was primed and he was ready. Ducking low, he gathered momentum for the final lunge, positioning himself at the back end of the dune, close to the thick of whatever action lay hidden there.

The prince lunged forth, flawless in execution. He saw the back of his foe, a burly female sitting down. It had worked, his plan... and he would strike first. And last.

It was the huntress alright. He had been right in deducing that. Here she was, utterly unprepared. With her back to the enemy.

An ambush from behind was not glorious. But it was a victory still.

So Cedric charged at her and... the huntress turned her neck to face him, a look of utter defeat written in the dark of her eyes. Her hands had ropes around them like a prisoner's might.

“Calm down... scary,” said a voice from the side in broken goblin speak. A hatchling’s mutterings.

It was the hunchbacked runner-up sitting there in languid recline, sharpening the shafts of a hacked-up spear, one dribbling purple paint. A fine enough weapon once, fit for a huntress.

“Knew you would come... but late... we hurry,” said the hunchback, holding a yellow dagger in ostentatious view. To signal to the prince: we are allies in this game.

“Sit, prepare... danger ahead,” added the hunchback, staring off into the void with killer eyes.

Chapter 5 – An old-forged soul (Rookie Games arc)

With a million and more questions on his mind, Cedric sat down some safe distance away from the ominous hunchback. As he did, the huntress looked at him with round, sad eyes. Streaks of yellow paint marred her rugged torso. The remnants of a makeshift caltrop clung to her right ankle—fragments of jagged metal, eight in total, bound together with strips of torn leather hide. There was little blood, for the caltrop was a work of some skill, designed to force submission without wanton violence. Still, the huntress’ leg seemed swollen, presumably from ligament damage. Cedric had a passing knowledge of field medicine—he could help her if she seemed keen enough to obey. It would not hurt to start building his following as soon as now.

“What, you... like her?” the hunchback quipped, seeing Cedric’s enduring interest in their captive.

The huntress bristled at being made a fool of, her muscular frame tensing as if ready to spring into a brawl... but she, or her instinct, thought better of it—she was in no shape to put up a fight. With a derisive snort, she turned away.

The prince had a good mind to reprimand the hunchback, but he knew full well he would only embarrass himself. And besides, the enigmatic bastard had already detached from the exchange, resuming his craftsmanship, peeling away at the splintered layers of wood he had salvaged from the huntress’ spear. He had arrayed four large shafts around his calf, then tied them round with sinewy rope.

Witnessing this... it forced the prince to think and rethink. Here was a hatchling goblin with the wits to remedy his physical drawback, drawing the wood in a tight coil around his clubfoot. Like affixing a brace.

This was no ordinary greenskin. Though savage in look like all the rest, this bastard in particular had a serious intellect. Beyond the realm of mere beasts.

Something to respect. Not necessarily to trust.

The artisan—that’s what Cedric would call this hobbled goblin from now on. The ally thrust upon him by fate and the games.

“For shield...” said the artisan, rousing the prince from his inwardness with an unsolicited offering. A piece of anchor rope, long enough to make a harness for the buckler that had been weighing him down. With a wary hand, Cedric accepted, keeping his eyes trained on the artisan’s bent frame. He would utter a token word of thanks were he able, but the princely dignity remaining in his reborn self prevented it—he could not speak without guttural embarrassment. And so a nod in acknowledgment was all the courtesy the prince could offer.

The artisan laughed. A big, roiling, stomach-churning laugh.

“Pride... before and after the fall?” Hoisting himself upright, the artisan discarded his yellow dagger, standing unarmed before the former prince as he cast a knowing glance—boring straight through Cedric’s eyes and into his soul. It was an admission of greater knowledge. Not an invitation to conflict. So it seemed at least to the prince as he struggled to retain his composure, some semblance of it. He felt naked despite the baggy brown overalls covering his form. Powerless was perhaps a better word. Humiliated yet another.

An hour or less into his new life, and already his guise might have fallen. This shrewd artisan had some deep intimation of Cedric’s past life—he would not otherwise have committed to such a daring remark. But precisely how much had been laid bare... that remained uncertain.

Cedric relaxed or tried do, willed himself to be in the moment, in the world of bodies.

“Brace will do... not good but good enough,” said the artisan then, as he turned away with a laborious grunt, exposing the bulging shape of his back. “Strike me down if you want... a coward’s blow... or is that beneath you?” Swinging his brace-fastened foot forward, the artisan took a lurching step away, stomping down hard one measured pace towards the forest. Then another, an equidistant stride with his good leg. They were calculated steps—the artisan was counting, charting his path to some unknown destination.

Unknown to the prince, that is.

Clutching the yellow-tipped dagger in a tight grip, Cedric could confess he had considered it. Was considering it. Striking the man down. Ending the intrigue right then and there; no more guessing, no more games. It would only stand to reason: the Prince of Lothrian could not abide such an unpredictable element. This man—ah, there it was again... Cedric caught himself in the act: he had started to think of this out-of-place goblin as being something more. Not merely a rotten green animal. The flashes of culture and reason he had observed... it had got to him. Perhaps this one here was like him. A man once. Not some feral monster surging from the void.

It would be closer to sin than salvation, ending the artisan’s life now. And though Cedric's hands were stained from a former life of bloodshed, these acts were born of order and justice—an instrument of the royal will he would have come to inherit. Had it not been for Landsbury. Had it not been for that oathbreaker Gendrin Honikom and the veiled darkmage.

No, he would not slay the artisan. Not yet at least. Not without cause beyond his own self-satisfaction—sheltering the secret of his shattered legacy. Cedric cast his dagger aside like the man had before him.

"... and ten!" Tipping forward at the waist, the artisan carefully lowered himself to the salty earth, fixing his weight on the knee of his good leg to ease the strain. He studied the packed sand, nodding to himself as he plunged a clawed hand into its depths, digging away with a zealot’s fervour. Sweat coalesced in thick beads on his brow, dripping, then pouring under the accumulated strain of his efforts.

Bah. For all the fickle alliances Cedric had endured, and for all the mistrust he had gathered for this shrewd man already... he could not merely stand and watch. Not as the artisan sat there engrossed in defenceless toil, digging his heart out for some untold reason... but it had better be a good one, Cedric thought as he approached.

Sinking to one knee, a gesture unbecoming of a prince of the reigning line, Cedric joined the man in wordless pursuit of whatever lay buried there.

Looking at the artisan up close, Cedric glimpsed his profound exhaustion, otherworldly almost—an ageless strife, momentarily waylaid by the strength of his conviction. Here sat a man of eroded virtue, a man of sin and saintly sorrow. Hollowed out and righteous, self-righteous to a glorified excess—superlatives alone did this sovereign soul justice. Golden was his hue.

Cedric lurched back, astounded at his own skill in glancing beyond the earthly pale. Farsight—that is what the mystics of the East called it, or Soulgazing. Sinful is what the mages of the West judged it. A forbidden art since time immemorial, the prince had never made the faintest inquiry into its lore, let alone its inner workings. There had been little cause. Like all Blackrose men, his latent insight into the force of magic had been limited, and he had never learned to harness its might. His training as a warrior and defender of the realm had focused purely on defence against the arcane fury of enemy mages. After all, as a prince, he had but to accede to the throne—that was his birthright; that was his duty.

But now he was here, and he was himself and he was not. He had a new body he did not yet master, and a more vicious new mind, likewise foreign to the ingrained patterns of thought that had served him well as a prince. That had sheltered him from things beyond his reckoning.

“Look like... you’ve seen a ghost.” The artisan leaned back in the sand, panting from exertion. He shot an appraising look at Cedric, to confirm what he already knew—the prince had seen far and deep into his true being.

There was a striking discordance to it all—here was this goblin infant who ought, by all that is right and good, to have been mewling like a newborn babe... but even now a worn essence clung to him. As if he carried the weight of ancient years within his diminutive frame. Settled in absent recline against the wet sand, the artisan had every bit the air of a high noble vassal, kingly in stature though not quite in rank.

Cedric grimaced, his thoughts grinding to a halt as a rhythmic throb pulsed through his fingertips—the sharp pain of impact. His hands had been working as well as his mind, digging in the artisan’s stead... and he had found it now, whatever the man had been looking for. Something solid and hard buried deep in the sand.

“Good,” the artisan said, edging in close as he waved the prince off. He pulled out a small wooden box, adorned with faded carvings and dulled metalwork.

“This here... gives us a fighting chance.”

Chapter 6 – The power of the magestones (Rookie Games arc)

The artisan knelt before the weathered box, studying its intricate patterns as his fingers fiddled with the lock. There was an unspoken reverence in his touch, his hands folding as though in prayer.

With a loud pop the lock snapped open, sending Cedric reeling back in shock. It was the sound of a minor binding spell coming undone—a mere whisper against the grand incantations he had known in his lifetime as prince of Lothrian. But it was an assault to young goblin ears.

Kneeling like before an altar, the artisan plucked out a handful of trinkets—worn magestones of the green order and the red, their essence cracked, their power faded. Only a sliver of magic still clung to them.

If this was the prize, Cedric was not impressed. The mages of the Hightower would scoff at the sight of one treasuring such... muted playthings. But Gael wouldn’t. She had earned her stripes in the order’s specialist ranks, granting access to cloth of dragonweave and amulets of greatfrost. But she loved it all still, every trace, every fragment of magic. Gael wouldn’t show scorn.

Delving deeper into the box, the artisan wove his fingers around a vacant silver locket, clasping it tightly. With his free hand, he eased the green magestone into the locket's heart where it shone faintly with arcane grace.

The artisan moved in close, his arms outstretched to drape the locket over Cedric’s neck, but the prince recoiled—he had a begrudging respect for the man’s knowledge and insight. For the old-forged honour he had glimpsed deep in the artisan’s soul. But there was no great bond of trust between them.

“Good... instinct keeps you breathing.” The artisan flashed a knowing smile as he dangled the locket in his held-out hand, where the prince felt safe to accept it. Safer.

As the locket settled around his neck, Cedric thought it a fine decorative piece. But nothing more. How wrong he was again. There was a vital surge kindling around him, and in a heartbeat he was overtaken by a burgeoning magic that sparked his mind clear and right. The force of the locket honed his senses; it steeled his intellect—so drastic were its effects that he felt himself capable now of speech. Proper goblin speech. Not the ugh’s and graaah’s he had earlier, and to his great mortification, cast into being.

The rpince looked at the artisan, really looked at him. “Who are you? What are you?” His voice came out vibrant and clear, and Cedric was so pleased he could cry. Clutching the locket tight in embrace, he thought of magic’s mysteries and those who knew them: the mages and magisters dear, anointed and from the cloth. He thought of Gael.

The artisan grinned as he once more slipped his hand in the box rife with magical riches... that’s what it now was to Cedric. One man’s trash is another’s treasure... the proverb rings true as ever, the prince realized. It was only his position that had changed; from first birth the ‘one man’... from second the ‘other’.

Retrieving a green ring, the artisan adorned himself this time, placing it around his ring finger. A dim luminescence gathered around the man—a quiet swell of magic, equal to the size and quality of a half-sized magestone. Still, the artisan groaned in acceptance of its strength, contented in the way hunters get when they stalk a prey in lethal silence—that deep earthy satisfaction. There is no way better to describe the elation of magic come flowing through one’s body and blood; there is no way at all. This Cedric knew, because from unbeliever he had just been converted.

“Though lowly are we... now we can talk the way men talk.” The artisan pulled himself as nearly upright as he could muster, stretching his arms and chest and then more gently his back—that twisted thing that irked him so, a body bent to cruel nature’s whim. Even one as the artisan had no recourse but to bitterly accept that which is doled out.

“Then talk,” demanded Cedric, meeting the artisan’s stance and step—for without notice, the latter had grasped the final trinket from the box, a shard of red magestone, and had stridden off, making way in hasty stutter-step toward the second dune where the captive huntress still sat, staring at them in rapt amazement.

“What am I? I am goblin, dreadful and low. The cursed shell of a man long gone.” Fried and beat from work and sun, the artisan had little buffer left to humour Cedric’s nosiness.

“That’s not what I saw for truth,” the prince pushed on. “I have seen the shape of your soul. Dreadful is right. And insufferable and obstinate... that I can add from experience. But a curse? No. I’ve seen hell and worse. You are no curse.” Cedric stifled the cry of victory he wanted so desperately to utter. With the locket and the magestone, he finally felt half-himself again. He was not whole, but a semblance of a semblance came a thousandfold nearer than what he had been in seemingly forever. The confidence of the prince was remounting. Strident and resilient, in body, in mind—he had regained his footing and was again walking every bit the path of the warrior-poet.

“Listen well, wretch,” the artisan spat, fury roiling in his beaded goblin eyes. “In life you were duke or prince or king... maybe marquess or earl, if that is the station the Blackroses have fallen to.” The man scanned Cedric for a tell, a hidden intrigue glinting from his glare... but the prince was tight-lipped and stern, betraying nothing more of his rank or line.

“But this is not life. This is the hollow thereafter. You are nothing here, like me and her...” the artisan flicked his head towards the huntress. “... and like all the rest. Nothing. Until you prove yourself worth a damn.” He bent low to the sands like an agile man might, no bracing nor grunting. The power of the ring no doubt.

The artisan grabbed hold of the wooden buckler Cedric had lugged from cave to beach, socketed the red magestone in the backside gem slot. “You Blackroses are all the same... always the dagger and shield, always the rope and the beachside route because the forest is dark and unpredictable, and it frightens you. A calcified line, a legacy of cowering.” He secured the rope to the buckler’s handle, fastening it around his neck and contorted back. “I will hold on to this for now... you can have it back when you are ready.” The man rose tall and proud, with the leaned-back look of a lord draped like a cloak around him. It was a whisper in a wordless way, the artisan daring Cedric to stand up or stand down, confident he would choose the latter.

But a prince does not suffer indignity lightly.

Bristling at the slight to his house, Cedric lunged at the man, his clenched fist soaring close behind. The artisan reeled as he took the brunt of the blow on his raised shoulder, his strong leg sliding back in the sand. Swiftly he retaliated—a clean right hand catching Cedric over his guard and landing squarely on the cheek. But the prince was ready for it, turning his head in line with the strike’s trajectory, negating most of the impact. In a singular motion, Cedric wrapped both hands around the artisan’s out-stretched arm, pulling back with all his weight and force, sending the man toppling forward, face first in the sand. Then the prince spun out and away, reaching for the dagger he had previously discarded; it was wood, and it was weak, but it was a weapon all the same.

Cedric towered over his fallen adversary who struggled and writhed in the sand, though his movements were slow, hindered by the weighty buckler on his back. The prince gave a mock thrust of his dagger, cautioning the man to yield... or else.

The artisan sighed, then threw his hands up, palms facing the victor. “You’ll take a beating to win... not a cadet branch nobody then.” He propped himself up on one shoulder, biting away a pained howl. “A mainline Blackrose sent down to serve the goblin death. Been a while, that. I would have bowed to you in life. But sworn duty dies with the man.” He sought Cedric’s eye, motioned his intent to rise.

Stepping back, the prince lowered the dagger. “You speak of fealty but do so with treasonous tongue. Were I not so diminished I would hang you on the spot.” Cedric took a deep breath, weighed his next words carefully—for a man’s word, once given voice, cannot be taken back so easily. It was a gamble, but looking down at his fragile green form, the prince knew he was all-in anyway, a hapless stranger in a strange land. Whether he wanted it or not. He could only hope he wasn’t holding a losing hand.

Righting his shoulders, the prince rose regal against the sea and sand. “If it is as you say... if you swore a bannerman’s bond to the royal Blackrose, then I call upon you now to honour it.” Cedric’s heart beat something fierce, and he tried not to think of the artisan’s soul, the golden truth of it he had glimpsed in fear and in awe. He would whimper; he would wilt—and so he willed himself not to bring it to mind.

A long breath. A dutiful pause. Then the prince spoke like a prince should.

“I am Cedric, Prince of the Blackrose, lord-protector of Lothrian under my father’s command. You have my gratitude for the necklace, and my disdain for your cowardice. I pardon you the once, and accept the necklace as token of your remorse. It has given me word and it has given me life. Rise now, and strike at me if you dare. There is enough of a man left here to stop you.”

Chapter 7 – The prince and the fury (Rookie Games arc)

The artisan erupted in raucous laughter. “Aye, spoken like a Blackrose alright. Would that we were at court, my lord—pardon me. Your highness.” Scrabbling for footing, the artisan tried to hoist himself up, but the sand shifted underfoot, had grown treacherous from the scuffle. With a resounding thunk, he crashed to the ground once more, wincing and hollering.

“You have had your pardon already. One more than I am in the habit of giving,” Cedric rebuffed. But it was not so, for the prince had learned to forgive easy. To turn a bested foe away is to lose out on a new ally.

The prince reached out his hand, offering to lift the artisan to his feet. Momentarily, the two clasped hands, but then the artisan withdrew. “Ah, but my liege has more pressing concerns.” With a curt nod of the head—one all too composed for comfort—the artisan directed Cedric’s attention towards the plains, where a hostile presence lurked hardly a stone’s throw away.

Stamping toward them was the face of fury, a slaver-mouthed rookie slicing a path through the low-cropped plains, his purple spear hoisted high.

“He is early,” said the artisan. “Would that your bannerman could assist, but I am still spitting out the sand which you saw right to bestow me.”

“Be silent. I do not indulge words spoken in jest. And it matters not. There is not a man alive who could best a Prince of Lothrian in single combat.” Cedric sounded confident, and he hoped to harken to these words. Looking at this menacing beast in swift approach, the musclebound rookie cracking through the dead heat of midday, limbs flailing in reckless abandon... it was clear this would be no mere punch-pulling exhibition match.

“My buckler,” cried Cedric, holding his arm out to the reclined artisan.

“A proud day for me,” said the artisan as he bent to where the prince could loosen the harness and snatch the buckler off his back. “My illustrious liege commandeers the shield off my back.”

“Your memory falters, much like your allegiance. The buckler is mine.” The prince had it all planned: with the buckler it would not be so hard to betwixt a mad spearman into a sequence of errors—evade, block, evade, riposte, block, counter, and then in for the kill... or subdual, for these were rookie-grade wooden weapons.

Cedric bent low to grab the buckler tightly by the handle, then tried to rise. Several times.

Stooped low still, the prince felt the green of his cheeks go red as he stared in abashed vexation at the damn buckler. It just would not budge.

The artisan laughed up a storm. “Command the shield to do your bidding—tell it you’re a Blackrose royal!”

“What vile spell have you cast, keeping me rooted to the grounds of perdition?” With baleful eyes, the prince beheld the man who had done little but humiliate him at every opportunity... was the necklace also a ruse of sorts then? Is this man hellbent on my destruction? No, Cedric concluded—that line of reasoning did not hold up. He wants me strong, or he would not have bestowed the gift of speech and courage, the prince thought, looking down on the green-glowing locket. It calmed him to look at it. No—this thing around his neck, it was pure; it was grace itself, encapsulated in a silver-rimmed relic. Not an implement of cunning evil.

“It’s the gem for Godric’s sake—the red magestone boosts the shield to a higher grade. You can’t wield it, not with your stats,” the artisan voiced in a flurry, his tone affected with mounting unease over the unaddressed assailant who was now—he twisted his neck to look—close enough that a marksman could pierce him clean through the heart. Thirty feet out, if that.

“My stats? What in Byron’s name are you on about?” the prince roared as he rose shieldless to face the impending foe, staring wanly at his flimsy dagger with the yellow wooden point... and feeling rather unnerved. He traced cautious steps in the sand, strafing in a semi-circle pattern, away from the artisan and the huntress. Cedric kept his eyes trained on the spear-wielding rookie charging blindly toward him and only him now—keeping the other two safe. They were his future subjects after all. Once he took his rightful place as lord of all goblins.

The artisan yelled out something in response, but the words fell to the wayside, drowned out by the silent swell before battle. The prince was all focus now, gauging the worth of his foe. Three spear-lengths out, the brazen rookie rose mighty and large, a tower of flesh against the sun-streaked horizon. Larger, it seemed, than the scores of goblins Cedric had felled in his first life. But such was the power of perception—the prince had been a prime specimen, standing proud at six feet and five inches. How low he was now, that a two-foot hatchling seemed a giant to him.

A fearsome roar—the spear-wielder lunging forth and committing to a full-force thrust, spit flying from his gaping maw. It was a brute’s way of battle, surging in with no regard. All-out on a breakneck offense.

The prince leaned back, cracked his dagger down on the spearhead, pivoting and spinning along the misdirected shaft, launching forward in a clean counter-charge. Crisp and calculated.

Miscalculated.

Had it been trusty Dicebolg in his hand, or a cold-hammered shortblade... hell, anything of Lothrian military make... the duel would have ended there and then. A blow like his, he would have shattered the spear, decapitating the wielder in follow-up. But the days of wine and roses, they were gone.

The spear remained whole; the hulking foe was not sent toppling in forward fall. Cedric had just spun his way into danger. Twisting at the hip, the feral bastard leaned into the momentum of Cedric’s strike, cooking up a thunderous right. This was not the artisan he was fighting, the prince realized to his great dismay... the man before him had twice the mass or more. Even the sturdy huntress would prove no match in raw physicality. And in a dead-hearted beat, the prince had to face facts—there was no way he could take a hit, not from this redlining monolith. A straight-up strike would lay him out; a blocked or glancing blow would break his posture, leaving him rattled and reeling in the thorny aftermath.

Abandoning the strategy of a swift and decisive counter, Cedric hurtled forward, flailing into a headlong dive. The wind of the foe’s arcing swing sent a shiver rippling through skin and nerve—the tumbling prince forced into high alert. But the blow itself surged narrowly past, striking air and air alone.

In a blood-rushed haze, the prince scrambled for position—his acrobatic manoeuvre had sent him careening into further danger, landing straight at the foe’s gnarled feet. A fight in close-quarters was the last thing Cedric needed, and so he pushed off and out—or prepared to, driving his weight into the wet sand... but the ravening foe didn’t think twice of it—discarding his spear, the man doubled down on in-fight savagery, unloading a kick at the crouching prince.

Cedric braced himself behind the cross-guard of his arms acting on instinct. The prince gritted his teeth, digging his feet deeper into the sand—shelling up and shifting in towards the kick. Shortening the load-up time would suffocate the opponent’s power. Would minimize the damage. But it would not negate it. Not entirely.

The collision was one of force against finesse. Even at such short range, the impact jolted through the brittle bones of the prince’s neonate form. He staggered back, springboarding away at the precise moment of contact.

Crashing hard into the sand, the prince groaned under the battle-born strain he was forced to endure. No time to ruminate—the foe came barrelling straight at him, issuing a crass war-cry that cracked through the air.

It was not princely what Cedric did next. Not dignified. But it was necessary.

Thrusting his fingers into the gritty sand, Cedric gathered a large fistful, then slung it with a wide sweep of his arm, aiming for the eyes. The savage, bloodshot eyes bounding hard toward him.

Striking true.

An anguished howl sliced through the marrow of the goblins gathered in witness to this fierce display—the artisan, the huntress, the prince. All were made small before the fury of the blinded foe, thrashing about in erratic jerks, windmilling his mighty limbs in seething, fang-bearing rage. Fierce. But futile.

Cedric leapt to his feet, biting away the pain that crackled through his arms, his back, his everything. His pride. Sprinting back toward the artisan, the prince gave form to a new plan. One born of dire necessity.

“You’ll get it back,” said the prince in a breathless way as he relieved the artisan of his green magering. Sliding it on, Cedric hoped for a burst of renewal akin to his first awakening. There was nothing of the sort. But if stats were a hindrance... perhaps now they were not. He reached for the gem-infused buckler affixed loosely to the artisan’s back, lifting with all the strength of his being.

Light as a feather. A surge in his stats on account of the ring... and the buckler was his to wield now. A bastion of defence, vital for shelter against the dead heat of battle.

“Say the word, prince... and I rally...” said the artisan with greater trouble than before, separated from the ring that augmented the fluency of his speech. Still, the man had recouped some vigour from his extended rest, shifting now into a languid perch against the shoreline sand. His words had radiated calm, but his voice had not. Danger loomed large, and the man recognized it.

Cedric smirked—not a moment of hesitation, not a moment of wavering. “The day a prince calls for aid in a blood duel... is the day he stops being a prince. Sit back. Watch.”

The prince wove back into the fray, arcing in a defensive crescent around his blood-crazed foe.

Chapter 8 – Blood on the arena sands (Rookie Games arc)

The prince continued strafing, leading the battle farther away from camp, for the artisan and huntress, for their safety.

Bounding in like a berserker, the foe lunged into striking range, snarling a promise of doom and death. This had moved well beyond the point of a trial ground duel—it was life or death. It was in the eyes, the warrior truth in those dark eyes, wide with bloodlust. The raw hate in them.

Slabs of muscle tensed around the foe—this colossus of a rookie, endowed with preternatural strength from birth. Planting his feet and retracting his spear with a broad sweep, the meat of his frame seized and convulsed under the strain of backloading. A fiery barrage was to follow—Cedric could read the man’s intent, and it was maximal violence. No prevaricating, no feeler blows to gauge the opponent’s mettle. The match and the life of these two strident men would be decided in the coming round—the all-out offense of a stronger beast versus the all-in defence of a smarter man.

The foe unloaded, hauling his momentum-gathering spear from wide behind to wide in front of him, slashing in a diagonal path down on the buckler-wielding prince.

Cedric danced back and blocked, ensuring through footwork that the impact was minimal; the spear hitting at the tail-end of its range produced a weak and oblique strike... with the buckler sending it effortlessly glancing off. Coupled with the gem-enhanced buckler’s superior capacity for absorbing damage, this would ensure easy blocks and no posture breaks. And then there was the skill of the prince to boot: Cedric had deftly gauged the distance between them, as well as the top reach of his reckless foe. The plan would be to hold fast behind the unbreakable bastion of his buckler, whilst constantly manoeuvring to maintain optimal range. He would strafe and dance and have the savage wear himself out. Then like a dagger he would strike, carving the yellow of his team in the foe’s burly midsection, in the corded muscle of his thigh, in the nape of his neck. It would hurt. It would hurt good. Cedric would make sure of that.

And so it went on—the tireless brute lashing with his spear, carving minute slices of wood out of the durable magestone buckler... and the prince continually adjusting his posture and position. Meticulous in his tactics, impregnable in his defence.

After countless barrages, the ferocity of the strikes began to wane. Then the frequency wavered, and soon the sweat-stained foe stood panting in abject sorrow—his failure to pierce the prince’s protective barrier reflected on his stance, shoulders drooping in shame.

Cedric slid a wary foot forward in the sand, advancing on the man with buckler raised. If his warrior spirit had dulled, now was the time to strike.

In a flash, the foe’s eyes locked on to the prince. Dark sullen eyes streaking hate.

The prince veered back—just in time, as a spear soared high onto the face of his angled buckler, an upward sweep edging the projectile hurtling further skyward. Barely missing. It was a throw aimed to pierce his chest, bearing the weight of lethal intent.

“Grahu... Gruahaa.” A battering of roars, each laden with agony and fury, echoed across the arena sands. The foe’s muscles, already taut from battle, swelled even further. His eyes blazed with the frenzied might of one driven past reason and reckoning. Past despair itself.

The foe began brutalizing himself, inflicting heavy blows to his own skull. Resonating thuds beating the symphony to his unhinged dance of pain and penance.

Blood showered onto the arena sands in thick gobs, streaming from his gaping jaw down; it mottled the brown of the shoreline a deep red.

When the foe seemed satisfied with the measure of his self-chastisement, he glared at Cedric with eyes that wanted death. The battle would not end until one man stood, and the other did not. Finality was inevitable.

Charging in a blood-hazed rush, the foe streaked a trail of blood in his wake. A straight-on attack. The prince held a defensive stance, dipping low and moving off-line to dissipate the impending force of the madman’s assault.

The first strike cracked down hard on the buckler, driving Cedric back, his feet lodging deeper down in the sand. Whirling in follow-up, the foe battered a second, third, fourth blow against the gem-enforced wood of the buckler—each punch thrown with such ferocity that it might shatter his own hand. But the man was too far gone to care. Perhaps the mad devil never had any reason to begin with.

By the fifth strike, the foe had lost his strong footing, his back leg slipping just a hair. Enough of an opening for the prince of Lothrian.

Baiting out a sixth strike, Cedric leaped upward, his shield hoisted high to meet the foe’s power, driving the bastard back in recoil. Darting in, the prince stabbed a dagger in mindful retaliation, grazing the meat of the man’s shin, drawing blood. A mere trickle compared to the self-imposed trauma the man had endured.

The prince rebounded, seeking the sanctity of his defensive bastion as he arced around the berserking foe, inviting further reckless strikes.

Another flurry followed—full-force blows battering the buckler pressed against the prince’s shoulder. And again there came a relenting, the foe sliding out in the slip of the salty sand. Cedric flashed in, delivering a diagonal slash that opened the man up from chest to hip. A shallow cut bubbling up a faint trail of red.

The pattern repeated a handful of times—a wild hammering of fists against the wall of wood, held steadfast against the shoulder-braced weight of the prince. Then a failure of the foe’s form, with the prince capitalizing in swift fury, striking at the feral heart of the man—stabbing and slashing, finding the etched grooves of previous lacerations and deepening them with scratches of yellow paint and sand and salt. The prince had taken the habit of scrubbing the blood-smeared dagger in the shoreline sand, drawing lines of war on the beachfront, to be sloshed away by the surging of the waves come tide. Rinsed from the earth like a stolen revery.

Thrown hopelessly off-kilter, the foe wavered under the heat, and the dance of battle was drawing to a close. Mournful wails spouted like blood and spittle from his mouth, seeking vainly for absolution or some sense of it—a wayward glance from the gods of war perched on high. But like all men broken in prayer, nothing came to meet the offering of hope one-for-one. No exchange and no parting grace.

Cedric flourished into range, past the boundary of a glancing melee he had been made to honour. Thrusting forth with a hardened stab, the prince rallied to thoughts of death and despair—the very same that had surged to his own undoing in the realm and flesh of man... the far that had been so near, the noble and ignoble, land of Lothrian, home and hearth. He would be king one day and now he will never. The vanity of a fallen prince... he had learned from it. But had he really? Death had come and here he was, misshapen and foul but alive. Dismiss the reality of your own undoing—that is all he heard from his heart and wounded pride... and by god did he want to harken unto it, the beating-heart-rhythm of a lie so pure it soothed him the way truth never could. His skin was a virulent green, but his blood flowed blue—the royal blue of Lothrian. Not the gods themselves could change that.

Lost to ruminescence—that was Gael’s word for his pensive brooding, a wilful confounding of rumination and luminescence. Ruminescence. It was the word that bound him to the meaning of darkness and its opposite—the deep and harrowed thought that brought the light.

Like a trance, the word worked its way into his core. Thoughts of Gael and the death he had given to the woman he would now admit he loved. Life and lightning flashed through the symbol stamped like a searing will of the dead into his forehead. The noble Blackrose crest. It lit up a royal blue, penetrating the scant barrier of rustic metal Gorkon had called a helm. The pain of his life and of his death sparked through him, his every fibre rattling with fear and with fury. With princely indignation.

This—all of this—had in a fickle moment transpired, all beholden to the realm of mind. But through the blue-blazing symbol, the pride of the prince forced its way to the surface. Wafting like a ghost in the breeze, Cedric saw his aura flow out, flitting and flickering around him; the hallowed spirit of his kin driven to the fore.

Mid-thrust, the dagger shimmered a royal blue, the feeble wood imbued with the force of Cedric’s family crest. And for half a breath, it was a weapon worthy of the name. It pierced the foe straight through the abdomen. The salt of the earth entered the wound—the dagger laced at the end with kernels of beach-washed sand. It was a fatal blow by all accounts.

All accounts save for one.

Death comes for all. And sometimes the reaper comes bearing gifts.

Death surge.

The feral beast gripped at the dagger lodged in his gut, still flaring a faint blue. He clenched a broken fist around the crest-infused wood.

“I am... Vol’krin. Beast... of sands.”

The air swelled with the thick heat of a dead man’s vow. He would not die alone.

Chapter 9 – Champion of the melee (Rookie Games arc)

Cedric stiffened in shock at the primal might of the foe’s ululation.

Vol’krin, beast of the sands. Like a curse the name lingered in the breeze, beating at the low-slung prince with the force of a gale. There was power in names spoken true—so it was written in the dust-addled tomes of the wildkin, wandering magi long gone extinct. Leximancy they called it—the foul art of bringing one’s soul to bear in the blaze of battle, harnessing it like a hellfire hex, stifling the enemy’s will. It was a dangerous thing, a beastly thing, fighting in such a way. To stoke the fire of war with one’s own will and name... the fire born of it was a counterfire, lashing at friend and foe alike. Many a magi had lost themselves in it—for a leximancer, failure did not come lightly. A curse of madness on those who invoke the force of a name and fall short in honouring the call. To die the small death—that is the cost should the leximancer know defeat. The name will never be what it was in the aftermath. Neither will the magus.

But to think that the guttural shrieks of a goblin could hold the same power in spell as the word of the leximancer... that was a variable Cedric could not have envisioned.

And if there was room for fear in the hearts of princes, then even the staunchest of them would shudder before mighty Vol’krin, beast of the sands.

In a panic-stricken daze, Cedric fought to retain his ground, to harden the hold of his hand around the hilt of the dagger wrenched deep in the brute’s gut... but deeper still in the brute’s clenched-around hand.

The prince hauled and heaved with a hope bordering on desperation, hell-bent on retrieving the wooden weapon, throwing his weight in the brittle scales, slipping and sliding in the treacherous sand. But like hardened stone or a mason’s wall, the weapon would not budge—nor would the man, Vol’krin the static, unmovable as the mountain. His grip tightened around the dagger’s dull blade, bereft now of the shimmering blue glory Cedric had breathed into being, briefly and unknowingly, thinking of home and hell—visions of a kingdom and king, and the throne he would never sit. Lothrian. With all his heart, Lothrian.

And be it by grace or folly, the prince held firm to pride and to principle. He would shatter the mind and body of his foe. As he himself had once been shattered.

Let blood beget more blood.

“I am Cedric, Prince of the Blackrose. Captain of the Lothrian guard and commander of the northern brigade. Keeper of the ranks in my father’s stead.”

The prince called upon his name as the foe had done before him. And whether it was for true or merely a spectre in the mind... a vital force roiled like the salty waves around him, cool and firm as the earth at winter’s end. Stoic as the snow upon the ancient hills. Unfaltering like the hail breaking from an iron-grey sky. Strong and whole and beautiful.

Beautiful like a broken memory. Gael. Always Gael.

With the final flare of his physical might, Cedric heaved at the dagger’s hilt. The blade shone a royal blue—a fleeting instant of soul-wrought strength. But it was enough.

Ripping clean away at the boundary of flesh, the dagger dislodged from the gut and grip of Vol’krin, slicing apart the hand of the fiend and his fingers; slicing open his abdomen wall. His innards came gushing out, blood spattering the sanctified grounds of the arena—a dark red and then a bright red, venous blood and arterial blood. More than the waves could wash clean, not in a fortnight or longer.

But primal fury is a fire that rages. On and on it rages.

The prince in backwards fall, the dagger torn free from his broken grip—the strength of his flesh-rending pull had proved too great, and the dagger came clattering down on the sands of fire and blood.

With the strength of a titan, Vol’krin flailed out a seeking limb, finding the face of the buckler Cedric for life and death held onto. Latching on as fury to a flame, Vol’krin grabbed and yanked, pulling the buckler... and the prince into his domain.

For all things good and holy, the prince clung to the buckler, flew like an arrow through the wind, straight into the dead man’s hold. Gored Vol’krin, fighting like a lion for his pride, made a grab for the prince’s throat. Missing by a whisker.

With the swift grace of a wind altering its course, Cedric had sought the man’s shoulder, reaching up and back and swinging his whole weight around. If it was to end in a dead-locked brawl, then it would be on the prince’s terms.

The prince let go of the handle, discarding the buckler that had served him so... and in the streaking heat of a moment wrapped his arms around the neck of the goliath, lodging the crook of his elbow firmly against the beast's frothing throat. Wringing closed like a vice, in and back, with a princely knee burrowing deep in the heaving musculature of the foe’s back.

Falling—the two as one, cracking down hard on the gritty sands of the shore. The prince braced and held on, graced by the mercy of gravity—it was a mere goblin-height drop, two feet and a touch. And it was a broken fall of a broken foe. No stability left in the sliced-off core of him.

Cedric clenched down and around the throat, bearing the weight of the man writhing over him. But still the beast had more to give. Strength beyond strength. His throat and neck were iron, even now. Operating on instinct and instinct alone, the foe tensed the sinewy brawn around the oesophagus... and there was no give. So wide was the gap in power that the prince thought twice, uncertain whether the balancing of the scales—the foe’s chances and his—would favour him in a protracted stalemate.

But the prince knew that brutes of this sort are tied down only to instinct. Slaves to the greater will of bodies, ever beholden to their nature—lashing out, thrashing like a beast in the dark.

“You fight for nothing,” the prince spat in a tone of derision, daring the foe to open his feral mouth. To yield more of his mastery over breath and life. To commit harder to his own doom.

“Dark and alone, a creature of the night—that is all you are.” The prince furthering his ploy.

“I fight for the light. I fight for Bartold, king of Lothrian.”

The brute opened his mouth to utter words of vengeance. But they never came. The iron wall broke as the prince bore down with all his might and fury, squeezing and wrenching until the green of the foe’s skin flared in shades of red and purple. His cheeks bulged and then his eyes, the flesh of the face bloating with the last of a life’s breath and blood.

Cedric did not let go—not when the thrashing stopped, and not for a long while after.

As he rose, blood-doused and battered, he took hardly a breath to himself. A warrior does his duty and needs nothing more.

He stepped out past where the waves broke against the shore, wading into the salty deep. He sank his head under the crashing of water—blanketed by the weight and feel, the soothing rush of the sea. When he closed his eyes, it all vanished, the barren truth of his goblin life and his goblin death. All he saw was Lothrian. The kingdom of man under the kingdom of heaven. The green fields of home. He wanted to stay there, seeing what he saw when his eyes were not open. Blissful and untethered, open gates and merry people. The weight of the water. The crashing of the waves. He wanted so badly to stay.

But there was a dark shade to his dream of light—the face and form of Gendrin Honikom. Gendrin blackheart. Gendrin oathbreaker. It could not end like this. Not when that man drew breath and the Prince of all of Lothrian was thought dead. This would not stand.

Swimming back to shore, Cedric felt the tug of the waves at his back, pleading with him a final time—might he not stay? Might he not be free from it all?

There was a long answer and a short, the poet’s answer and the warrior’s. Neither mattered now.

The walk back was longer than he had felt it before. Lurching in uneven steps, with the sloshing of the water nipping at his heels, Cedric retraced his way to the blood sands of the arena.

The artisan stood there with a hand on his hip and leaning back at ease, flexing out the knots and aches in the heat of the sun. But failing. We are given what we have, and his lot was that of a warped frame that ailed him now and would ail him forever. Cedric’s lot was different. But the hurt was not.

Wordless, the prince slipped off the green-lit magering, handing it back to its owner.

“I don’t think you realize what you just did,” the artisan said, seeking the prince’s eye in the way men do. “That was Vol’krin, beast of the sands. Champion of the rookie melee. Year in and year out. No one beats him—not in a straight-up brawl. Not the way you just did.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, the artisan paused for breath or for effect—it was all the same to the weary prince.

“You have just made one hell of a name for yourself, Cedric of the Blackrose.”

Chapter 10 – Trek to the forest (Rookie Games arc)

“You thought it a one and done deal, the goblin death?” The artisan gave a worn laugh; his eyes did not.

The prince had pressed the man for information, but found it akin to holding court, a mirthless duel in dialogue. Each query fenced away or parried with another.

They had pressed out at the artisan’s insistence, a move from shore to wooded thicket, treading now toward the leaf-crusted threshold of the forest.

Two sets of extra eyes travelled with them—the first belonged to the huntress they had left behind or tried; she had proven too persistent a follower, limping steadfast in their wake. When it dawned clear she would not be turned away, Cedric had taken pity on her, had removed the caltrop sitting like a blood-gorged tick on her injured leg. She had calmed, seemed to the prince subdued somehow, and he noted here and there a doting glance. Part and parcel, no doubt, of his new-earned status as champion of the sands. The artisan had objected to her presence, but relented with a choked-off grin when he saw what Cedric had. Demure as she was now, she posed no threat. Still, her hands remained bound.

The second set of eyes bore the blood of a dead man still on them. In life, they had been Vol’krin’s. Now they rattled from a hip-slung pouch at the artisan’s side. The eyes of a leximancer had some untold worth, so the artisan had with his word and his dagger insisted, each as incisive as the other.

Cedric let the man’s words hang unanswered, bloating the ensuing quiet like a sea-swallowed corpse. ‘You thought it a one and done deal, the goblin death?’

“I had misjudged the potency in these,” the prince tried, peering down at the locket hanging from his neck.

“Aye, because you are a naif taught by greater naifs. The magetower edicts are as crooked as the spire itself. But you will learn it now, the old truth. The goblin truth.”

“The merits of the magi have long dwindled,” the prince said in response, feeling his way into the artisan’s mind. Probing with a statement and not a question. “Not since Calidor III have the encyclicals of the archmage held sway in the court of Lothrian.”

The artisan hawked up a gob of phlegm, releasing it to the earth where the sand turned soil. They were upon the forest entrance now. “I pray he bore not the folly of his forebear—I sat the rites with Calidor II, and the man was more lech than magus. Why he...” falling silent, the artisan cast a knowing eye at Cedric. “Prying with fact over query? Fine, you got me, champion of the sands. I will indulge. You are burdened, it seems, with every bit the wile of Alaric the interloper. Your great-grandfather, was he not? If my mastery over great house lore holds firm—I admit it has been some time since last I scoured the tomes on Ancient Blood.”

“Your word is as your gait,” countered the prince. “Twisted and malformed. Not a glimmer of the golden truth I glimpsed buried in the soul of you—deeper down, it seems, than initially I had hoped.”

“You wound me, lord prince—is that what I ought now to say? That your word is sharper than your dagger still? You would be a fool to trust in this goblin’s tongue... but a greater fool still to dismiss half-truths for falsehoods. Did I not know that you would come, like every Blackrose before you, hurtling like a desert scorpion through the sands? The dagger and buckler like all men of your name. And the fragile heart, too—the one-track train of thought that sees all things as deliberate... like wrenches thrown in the wheel of your greatness. Everything’s a slight to you purebreds. But nobility obliges, little whelpling—take it from this old stray. Here beats the heart of a living death. I who have roamed in the skin of man with Thanell of the Celestials, the last Lady-sovereign, leader to the wildkin and wolf in the west; I who have seen her broken form fall to the wastes... I who have harkened to the lost king’s call—Feldirk of the mire, in the age before the first Blackrose forged a throne and then a crown, made the two lands one—Lothunc and Rhianmere. His was the hallowed name of Rodrich, king of the Blackrose, father to Alaric the interloper, Alaric the stripped... Alaric the redeemed. And was it not he who begot Byron, king-father to the incumbent lord of the Blackrose, Bartold of Lothrian, Bartold the heirless... for here walks his son in the path of doom. Noble Cedric, captive to the goblin death. Champion of the sands.”

Tainted with derision, the artisan spat the final words, slandering the prince and his blood-earned triumph.

Cedric kept the pace and Cedric kept silent. The lineage rang true and so did the rest—the history at least, the fragments of fact in a long-drawn soliloquy. The prince had not thought to hear what he had. If accurate, it would make the artisan... two hundred years old. At the least.

It was absurd, but it was all absurd—the entire world come crumbling around the crestfallen prince.

What stock could he place in the artisan’s words... this tapestry of half-woven threads, each point fraying into further uncertainty.

“Why does the locket affect me so?” asked Cedric, charting course more toward the practical.

“Stats.” The artisan said, drawing out the word. Giving it weight and meaning. “Statistics to the uninitiated.”

Cedric bit his tongue, letting quiet reign. Better that than the scornful reply he had almost let slip. Statistics... a long cast-out branch of the wildkin tree. Magic in the form of equations, a foolhardy clambering for axioms and formulae... Nothing more than a failed foray into the realm of mathematical rigour. Or so it was said in the hallways of the magetower he had known as a prince and heir. But had they not been wrong before, discounting theories on the order of goblins and their class system?

“As hatchlings, we’re as weak as they come,” continued the artisan. “Constitution and intelligence—that’s the domain of the green magestone. The locket gives you five and three, respectively. 5 CON, 3 INT. My ring here does the same, albeit to a lesser extent. 3 CON, 3 INT.”

“Granting this... why then did I need both ring and locket to hoist the buckler? You seem to handle it fine with only the ring.” Cedric inclined his head toward the buckler strapped fastidiously to the artisan’s back.

“Blame the gods for that one. We are all born weak—in that we are alike. But we are not all the same. Look at our new friend here. The huntress.” The artisan shifted his gaze from thicket to thickest, eyeing the huntress who seemed barely to notice that the talks had taken a turn. “She’s what we call a natural. A true goblin. Never been nothing else besides... as blank and as bland as a soul can be. Most don't learn to talk, not properly. Three syllables or more, I venture, and she has no clue what the hell we’re saying. Physical force is her birthright—look at the muscles on her, straight from the egg. Whereas you and I, we have different endowments. Speech and reason. The intellect is our domain. Our head start if you will. We have the minds of men, and so does the mage of course, your new nemesis stamped with the kanji for ruin.” The artisan chuckled. “She had quite the station in life—headmistress of a side-order... ranked not far below the archmage in some circles. But now it is vengeance alone that keeps her going. Like you and I, she was spurned and brought low before death—the first, true death in the realm and skin of man... or woman if you prefer. This is nothing but the vicious thereafter. Snarling and low things are we... with vengeance as our sole sustenance, here in the goblin death. Have you not sensed it, the change in your mind, however minute? The savagery closer to the surface still than before? Like yours, the mage’s appetite for hatred is fresh. Mine has faded from the failures I have been made to endure.” Motioning at his forehead, the artisan shook in anger. “My mark has gone and so has the heart of me.”

It was a lot to take in, and the prince had to weigh the words first, balance it all on the scale of his belief and disbelief.

“At least some things remain in place—right where I left it.” The artisan gestured at his hammer, standing face-side up against a tree.

“You made straight for the forest?” Cedric inquired.

“Always,” said the artisan. “From start to plains, clean through to the forest outcrop. Hobbling with the hammer as my staff. Here is where I hide the caltrops, the leather, the pouch at my hip.” He gestured at a recently dug-up spot of soil. “Then it’s straight to the beach for the magestone coffer. How many times I’ve done this? Thirty at the least. Maybe more. You lose count when you lose your way.” Again the artisan grabbed at his forehead. At the missing mark. "So don't go thinking it's a sport, fighting and dying and fight again like some hero everlasting. You die and you come back, aye. But you don't come back the same—not quite. Part of you stays dead and it's a bigger part each time. Madness is what it gets you. And make no mistake. It gets us all in the end."

Cedric stood in sullen silence. It was not a strategy this time. It was the silence of profound despair.

Chapter 11 – Where wild things dwell (Rookie Games arc)

“Will you take it,” the artisan commanded more than questioned, thrusting the hammer toward the dazed prince. “It is more burden than benefit to me now that I am otherwise encumbered,” he continued, motioning at the hefty red-glowing buckler on his back. “But the hammer is needed still.”

“Thirty times a goblin? Are we so cursed then that our hell is unending?” Cedric had no eye for the world, blundered his way over the roots and vines of the forest floor. “What is...”

“The hammer,” the artisan broke in, tilting the handle into the hip of the prince. “You are as useful to me as the weight you absolve me of—and the hammer is about as heavy as the strain of your word.”

“Tone, friend artisan.” The prince bristled as he seized the hammer’s handle, trailing the tool in half-drag behind him. “Guard your tongue, lest I do it for you. It has proven more foe than friend to me.” Sliding now into single file formation, the three of them threaded through the thicket.

“Artisan?” the man sneered. “Is that the epithet for this hoodlum, hobbling and halting in the dark?”

“Would you rather another—hobbling fiend... or crafty lowlife perhaps? Both are fitting, titles that strike a chord with the cadence of self-deprecation. Better to bring yourself low before another does it for you—is that the reason to your rhyme? A coward’s way to defence. But still a shade above pilfering the pocket of a brother-in-arms.” Cedric tilted his head toward the buckler strapped to the artisan’s back. His buckler—in principle at least. If only he could wield it without the ring.

“Did I denounce it, then?” Swinging his clubfoot in stumbling step, the artisan strived to maintain pace. Faltered. “It is a fine name for one who has gone long without.” Labouring hard but losing breath, the man started swaying, sweat streaking a line along the wild-grown soil of the woodland. “I shall take it for myself as I have your shield. Artisan. Let that be my name forthwith.” Arching back to assess the sun and its stance, the light filtering faintly through the canopy... Artisan stopped mid-stride, leaning further back to learn the lay of the land and the hour of the noon. But leaning too far.

Cedric caught the man staggering back... and the huntress caught him—stout and strong, she turned her shoulder into the weight of the two men come toppling.

The prince and the huntress, together then, grabbed gently around the waist and the bent torso of Artisan, easing the man down against the trunk of an oak rising stark and strong along the path.

“The sun is fierce... I need but a moment... gather strength or what best I have in stead—I’m older than I look, mind you. And worse for wear still.” Artisan sagged into the shade of the tree, seeming smaller than he had and more withered.

Crouching low beside him, the bound huntress spared the man a long look, brow furrowed in wonder and perhaps in worry—it was not normal for a goblin to fall to the sun and not the sword.

“Magestone ores...” Artisan mused, and Cedric was not sure if the man was there in mind or half-adream.

“Up ahead, a lake... a cave near the lake. Magestone blue, it shimmers like the waves. The hammer to turn the ore to dust. Take all you can but no less than a hand well and full.” Artisan clasped both hands together, fingers working at the ring, starting to slide it off. “I have your word, prince?” he asked, halting as he sought in Cedric’s eye. “Your word that you’ll return it?”

“We are not friends,” said the prince, his tone grave and earnest. “But we are allies here.” Grasping the man briefly by the shoulder, Cedric moved to rise, taking the ring and then the buckler, strapping the latter securely to his back.

The binds that held the huntress seemed to the prince now misplaced—she had proven faithful and strong, and there was no need to keep her like a beast in chains.

Cedric placed a hand on hers, standing regal and grand before her as he would in times past, arriving like a war-streaked saint to the ardent women and men—those who would swear to him, undyingly, irrevocably... flocking battle-ready below his banner.

Beholding him with the reverent gaze the prince thought always and ever vital, the huntress nodded—a slight act at first but then steadily more fierce. Yes, she was to be trusted. Yes, she would harken to him in times of peril. There was the hint of red glowing in her cheeks as Cedric undid the knotted rope.

“Mark path... never lost,” Artisan offered, groaning under the strain of a broken body and a lesser mind—without the ring he was not all he was. “Seek shade... high trees... and this,” plucking a thin-capped mushroom with a fell blue ridge, and moving it in one motion towards the mouth.

Cedric’s arm shot out in a flash of instinct, holding back the wrist of this sun-beaten man so gripped with delirium that the poison of the forest—Venenum Silva—seemed somehow palatable.

A thin laugh squeaked past Artisan’s lips. “Auro...” he started saying, his speech encumbered by the loss of intellect.

“Aurora Azureum,” Cedric broke in. The blue dawn. A term so antiquated it was stricken from the Compendium Botanica—it was too fair a name for the blue-capped death, with its poison so potent it would rot clean through the gastric sac, streaking sapphire along the stomach, its fragile lining.

But that was in humans.

It was a feast to woodland critters and to wrathful things as well, beasts of all sorts, made of a sterner something than the fragile fabric of man.

Cedric released the man’s arm, watched Artisan savour the taste... and the prince, too, felt the rumblings deep in his goblin gut. Together they dug in, the huntress joining suit. Slathering their mouths with the salt and the crop of the earth.

Then the prince rose and turned away, stalking off toward the lake and toward the cave, carrying with him the dagger and the buckler, the hammer and a sheet of leather, and the red of an indulgent shame smeared across his goblin cheeks.

He would follow the trail of the blue-capped death—or the blue-capped dinner now—its growth abounding in the dampest and darkest parts of the woods.

Occasionally on his march he paused, making markings on the trees and on the ground, etching his dagger in a pattern so familiar he could not mistake it for anything but his own. The Blackrose crest. The old one—the dark and wilting rose from their time as mere nobles, subservient to a parliamentary will. As he etched, he etched deep, thinking of the soil as though it were the heart of the man who had brought him so low. Gendrin. Every line, every raking stab. Gendrin.

And wherever he saw the Aurora sprouting, he would bend low, marking the soil as he gorged. Bitter and alone and grateful still for the bounty of earth.

But long before his belly was full, the woodland path wound to its natural end, opening to a field of green, specked with a dragonthorned grass jutting in wild-grown spurts across the plains.

There, too, he saw the water. Fringed by blossoms of moonpetal orchids and firecrown lilies, the lake lay still, its surface like a sheet of glass, glinting and glimmering—a sun-dappled splendour that made the prince think of home. It made him think of Gael.

In his heart he dwelt alone. But in the heart of nature there loomed ever a darker presence.

Setting foot in the forest sanctum, the prince heard a stir and then a skitter... the sound of claws or of talons, ripping at the leaves and trees, scraping hard lines through the dirt. A fractured cry came rising from the thicket—the voice of a thing so tangled and rotten it could not but cut short the noise of its own anguish.

Cedric strode on into the open plains, pivoting and twisting and keeping a clear perimeter. Scanning for whatever it was that would emerge.

It was still for a while, but a second cry rose and then a third. The first had been a clarion call, or so it seemed, for there came then a mounting and mounting—more of the soulless somethings reaching out and pulling in, the wails as sudden as their halting.

One by one they broke into sight, slicing through the dirt and shade.

Goblins.

But not the ones the prince had seen and known. These were not at all like Artisan. Nothing even like the huntress, who had shown a semblance of mind and its inner workings. Cognition in some nascent form.

Here was only the wild. Crawling now in multitudes toward him, the prince saw only the loathsome and only the foul, fang-bearers of the night.

Goblins left to the woods.

Chapter 12 – If the hammer should fall (Rookie Games arc)

Flourishing his dagger, the prince seemed so fierce a foe they might all shrivel—this, at least, was his hope. To dissuade the wild brood hording now toward him. Most of them too weak or too dim to stand, feral and flailing. Claws raking in belly-drag along the soil and the grass.

But it was for naught. They had no sense of danger or no felt need to avoid it.

The first clambered now into striking distance, its beady eyes not half-agleam. Torqued like Artisan but worse, it came in a beaten sway, one leg propped under and one behind, swiping at the prince with a misshapen claw... no, not even that—the wiry arm was without hand. Gnawed off to a gangrened stump. Swollen and red and black, it brought the stench of death.

Thick like bile, revulsion roiled in the throat of the prince who wanted neither to fight nor flee. It was different now than before, to fight beasts that may have been more. Judging by vision alone, these things were low as sin—yet perhaps deep inside there resided still the soul of man, the scarred shards that remained. Were these the victims of the madness Artisan had mentioned?

Though vicious without doubt, these goblins were little more than pests to one who could simply walk away in leisurely step.

But the prince had business here. He could cede some ground but not all.

Sliding back in a measured step, the prince indeed gave ground, edging ever closer to the lake. His place grew more and more precarious, pressed in on by the clamouring pests.

Until there was little else the prince could do.

He closed his eyes as he brought the hammer down.

There was a sick squelch as the thing gave way. Pus seeping from an open pore.

Briefly, to assert a better balance, the prince opened his eyes. The writhing beast before him had ceased—nothing now but a twitch or shiver. Spasms of the half-eaten arm.

But more came, and more and still more.

All scraping and misshapen, howls of a faltered lament. Swarming ever and all to the feet of the intruder.

One more howl to join the many—it was the prince himself. Had he not endured what most a man could muster? His soul as bust it might be?

There were tears now in his eyes, but in a way that helped. A film of salty water. Made it hazy like a dream.

And that is where it should have ended. But five and ten and then fifteen. Still the gnats kept coming. Mashing them to meaty pulp.

Sorrowful still, until the hammer felt heavy.

Curse this land and the whole rotten world. For making me do what the heavens said not.

A sick rage then surged in the prince. And it felt good almost. Take them all and watch them come. Flattening the heads to mush.

Weary and wild, the prince let it out—that what he held in. Break and howl and tear at the heavens.

They make and they love and then they abandon. What do the damn gods know of the hell below?

The grass was blood; it was like the lake. And the last cries died and there then was nothing. Nothing in the world still living.

Nothing in the end at all.

--

The prince washed himself in the lake. He cleaned the hammer, the buckler, the dagger. Cleansed his overalls with a pair of rocks. Then he walked to where a moss-hard stone jutted from the earth. There were more stones there, all jutting. Not scattered but deliberate. A small mound in the flat terrain.

He crouched and squeezed but he could not fit. Then he lay down in the grass, soiled his clothes again but he did not care. He thought of home when he was a boy. Painting with his dad’s new brushes. The shades of summer and of scarlet roses. Red as leaves come early fall.

He pulled himself inside the cave, pulled the hammer in after. It was dark but not so bad that he could not see.

The magestones glinted blue, and in a sense it was pretty. He brought the hammer down and the rocks shattered. Cracked to shards and dust. He put the shards in the sheet turned satchel, the leather coarse against his skin. It was a small ore but it was enough. A handful is what Artisan wanted. Cedric had gotten that and more.

He crawled out as he came in—lower than that could a man not get.

He washed again but the lake seemed different. Not the way it had before. The sun was the same and the lake was the same. But something was missing.

He cleaned his overalls, though at first he thought he might not. He wanted them to see. The weight and the worth in a hand of dust.

He journeyed back the way he came. Blue shrooms sprouted in the shade of the trees, lots and lots. There in the sides where he had not looked. But he had no need for them now.

The leaves rustled, and it was a stir of meaning. Not a bowshot in the distance, the prince spotted a beast like he had seen so many. Stunted and deformed, a bulbous head bobbing hardly a hair above the bushes. A purple spear in its grimy hand.

Cedric could have gone round—the thing had not seen him. But he walked in a path fell towards.

The dagger could well have served. But why do less when the heart wants more.

The beast gave a howl, twirled its spear, paint flecked purple on the forest floor. And what pretension in the mind of this one—he wore what a man might wear and not a beast. Cloth that was simple but still handmade. Its overalls were brown, but now turned red.

What a whirl it was, the hammer in spiral spin. It dashed out its eyes and then its brain.

A tired old tussle, not even a fight. Here lay a full-blown rookie.

And the prince got not a scratch in turn.

--

Nearing the two beasts he thought of as ally, Cedric had hoped to be different. The proud prince of old, or a new thing entirely. He would even, if he could, be a witless cur—the mute he had been before the necklace. But with or without the shiny locket... the stone hung always around his neck.

He saw them from afar—somehow they were laughing. Like the world was not without mercy at all.

The huntress was munching on blue and red berries. Her leg propped up on a sturdy low branch, vibrant salve dripping from a moonshade fern wrap. It was a work of certain skill—the mix seemed like medicine. The bandage was tight but the blood could still course.

And Artisan lay back in the same way he left him. Though the sweat on him had dried, and his eyes seemed now fresh.

The prince was far off, but still they should see him. Or did he now dwell in the same realm no more? Could his arms and his hands—these brutal dark hands—reach in from the rift long beyond?

He was unsure and he would not approach. What if like a ghost he would now only linger? His feet might well walk but it could prove too far.

...

If the wind would just talk, like the stories of old. A faint long-off whisper from the gods to below.

The prince sat back watchful, held his ear to the air lest he miss a lost murmur.

But like a fool he just sat, and the heart had still left him. A small thing and wild is all he would be.

Though righteous his wrath, the fires fanned woeful. He had sinned in the eyes of the world and his own.

He broke down and wept for the death of a nation, the run-down thorned prince who was now but a knave.

His thoughts went to Gael, how her body lay shattered. Broken like dust in the palm of the earth.

She was his queen and now she was crownless. Felled for the king he was fated to be.

...

He sobbed like no living thing should. His body was lead; he could not move it if he wanted. But he did not. May the woods swallow him whole.

Through broken pride, the prince peered out. He saw how they had vanished—the man who sat down and the woman there with him. The he who had harmed. The she who forgave.

They had moved like shadows or might as well have. Standing tall like the woods around them, they had come to the call he had not wished to make. In silence they wove round him, somehow sensing there was a time and a place. They picked him up, limping and stumbling, the three of them stepping together as one. The two sat him down and fed him with berries. Artisan was jovial, not a slight from his lips. And the huntress seemed not in the slightest bit worried. She nurtured the prince like the wound on her leg.

The prince returned the ring and Artisan wore it. The hammer they tossed; it had a purpose no more.

When at long last they rose, the dust was their guidance. Blue-shimmered haze from the dark lonesome woods.

The buckler was strapped to that twisted old back—Artisan bearing the weight as before.

The huntress took hold of his dirty old dagger.

And for a while the prince could just walk. He had done much.

He had gone to the lake.

And he had come back.

Chapter 13 – The blade and its bearer (Rookie Games arc)

“The sun is waning,” said Artisan as they trudged through the wild and weeds. “They don’t say that anymore—the young minds. It’s always the moon now when there’s talk of waning. But when the world was less old and so was I, the same was said for both sun and moon. Might it not be that they all have grown soft, the mages and scholars... or that the truth does not sell as well as the lie. It’s the light that dwindles most of all.”

They had walked for some time, the prince in silence. He did not know what to say or even how to be. The quiet seemed better and somehow less intrusive. He took long and mindful strides, feeling the grit of soil and its grind, bare and threadbare as the soles of his feet. It was strange to step without the strain of studded leather, his boots that were always a shade too small. The fibres that harden from wet and wind-swept marches. Tight and strong like the men who wore them. The throwaway commons and those of a highborn blood. All men tire just the same.

Artisan had tried to fill the empty now there was no probing chatter. It was strange how one so old as he still got nervous.

The forest had grown silent; no more rustling of leaves or wind. Like all the creatures had gone to an early slumber. But there was the ground and the way in which he walked—both gave the prince a certain comfort. The earthy sense of satisfaction he had not noticed nearly so often. Not as much then as he did now.

“It’s not the same,” Artisan said. “There’s no going straight if the path bends at every which angle. And you are not now more blemished than in all the time before.”

“I got the blue dust,” the prince said after a while. “Is that not all that matters?”

“Godric’s sake—you turn and twist like a weathervane in a whirlwind!” Artisan snapped. “How princely do you suppose your disposition, now at this very moment? Is this the true mind of the one who beat Vol’krin, fist to fist and blood to blood, champion of the sands? All I see now is a surly child. You almost had me with the strength of your stance and your conviction. With the roar of your rage. Almost, prince, did I think—now here is a true Blackrose, fearsome and wild like Rodrich the first. Though now I wonder... was the line broken before it began?” Artisan stopped, in speech and step. Seemed to search for something solely within—be it for word or greater wisdom. Looking askant then at the prince, his face grew hard... but still he knew hesitance. At last he went on. “The sons were in nothing like the father. Rodrich was to man as man to beast. But was he weak where none might fathom? Had he heart for naught but strife and warfare—fierce in fight but in fight alone?” His voice grew loud in admonishment. “Did he falter in the privacy of his chambers?! When the night grew hard... did he grow soft? The sword longer than the blade?! Or did that outland harlot...”

The prince rose dark and he struck out, cracked Artisan straight on the jut of his cheek.

“Once more, Artisan. Sully my name once more, and it is the last thing you do—in this life and in all others. The blood of the Blackrose was borne unbroken, from father to son and from son to heir. In the time of Rodrich and in the time of Bartold.” The prince felt his fist draw back as many a time before—the flash of an old stubborn instinct.

But there was the huntress then, her arms weaving round his. ‘As blank and as bland as a soul can be...’ those were Artisan’s words—but was he wrong to think of her in the way he had? ‘A natural. A true goblin... never been nothing else besides.’ How then did she know when a fist should not fly?

“Glory to the prince,” said Artisan, swiping the blood from his mouth. “Is that still the phrase for the pride of Lothrian, lord and protector? Stay thy hand, lest I fall fixedly into the past.”

The huntress held out a hand, helped Artisan to his feet. Fiercely loyal and perhaps to a fault, she was sworn to them now, like sailor to ship.

“Were beatings the currency of the realm then?” The prince stepped back, sinking slowly into the shade of the forest, a sturdy tree to lean against. Here he might think and not merely act.

“We damn near gutted him.” Artisan looked old now. Wizened, too, in a sense. He had clutched a strong fist around the satchel as he fell... as though he had braced for a thing he knew coming. As though he had coaxed it out. To bring the prince back in mind as he had in body.

“Alaric the redeemed...” Artisan spat blood. “He was weak before—a mind for brothels and wine and not much else. But there is no word for what came after. He changed when he got the sword. That savage hell-dark curse of a sword.” He looked at the prince in a way unlike before—pleading almost. But then his face grew hard. “Did you not think to ask? What the price of it was? Wielding death and drinking darkness? Had it not once occurred to you why the rose is black, why it is wilted and dead on the vine?! Not once, you hardened fool? Blind like all the rest before you?”

“Dicebolg.” The prince spoke the thought into completion. Dicebolg. Blade of the Blackrose. He had revelled in its strength; it had made him whole. Like a god raining fury, down on a broken world.

“Too late now for salvation, my prince. For you... and for me.” Artisan smiled but it was a hopeless smile, the baring of a broken will. “I could not wield the great sword of your line, but I have seen it—dreadful Dicebolg, blade of the Blackrose. How stark and unholy its desecration. Slicing and maiming in a strip of night. Broken as the starless sky. It was not mine, but how strong the craving, dear prince. Had I but the strength of blood to wield it... then my hand might have found the will to slit his neck as he slept—Alaric the shadow, Alaric the scourge. Oh, how I would have rent the earth... Dicebolg, a blade as black as the devil’s heart.”

The prince felt the world swim before his eyes. He thought back or tried to—what was it like to hold the blade and know its darkness? To shear it out along its sheath and into battle. How divine at first and deeply hollow... or so at least the prince imagined, for the truth eluded him, was a far-off thing now, like the lake and like Lothrian but longer gone still. Lost and only found in that deep and dead part of the past.

“Was it my hand then and not another’s...” said the prince in a rueful tone, “my hand alone that drove me down to bleak perdition?”

“Aye. In death we wear the chains we have forged in life. How blind a man can be when he wants.”

For balance, the prince pressed himself into the tree—he feared that he might otherwise faint. His hand ripped at the bark and then there was the fist again, pounding it with all his being, the will of man against the force of nature. His hand throbbed and he pushed away.

Artisan shook his head. “The rage has not left you. Or you it.”

“Dicebolg was mine, my sin and rage. And yours? What chains hang round that feeble old neck?”

“Ferignost, shard of Ziegbölt—in that are we alike, and in that are we different. Mine was a broken heirloom, not as mighty as the full god-blade you wore into battle. But it was enough to break my foes and their bodies. Enough to scar my soul and bring me to where I am now. We were not meant to have them—as the Lord and the Lady forged the gods, so too did the gods forge the blades. They were not meant for the hands of mortal men.”

“And that is why...” the prince started.

“That is why,” Artisan said. “That is why we are here now. As goblins. Low and broken, souls left to a wild mercy.”

The prince balled up his fist, cocking it behind him like the surly child Artisan had seen, winding up to rise in wrath against the forest... but the huntress stopped him—though maybe this time he would have stopped himself. He liked to think he would have.

“What do we do? Where do we go from here?” asked the prince in peasant tongue, his royal decorum fallen like a leaf.

“Now you act like a prince. And we go to where the blue dust fits—the lock of the final coffer.”

They walked on, and for a while without words. Artisan guided them through the forest, and they came out the other side. The beach was long behind them, and the sun was setting, the sky now streaked like a blaze of glory. The cliffs of the hillside rose stark against the backdrop—a crimson red to herald the coming night.

“I did not think there would be so many,” said Artisan. He shook his head. “Maybe I did. And my body could not go there.”

The prince did not say a word. But he did not strike out either.

“Might it help...” Artisan trailed back in, “if I say they are wild and without heart? Without soul? I would say it gladly, though I do not know if it is so. They are wild—that part I know. Cast out at birth for failing to heed the taskmaster's call. Half of a nest is discarded each time; this is the goblin way. Those without word and the will to listen. So savage they cannot be trained. Not like the huntress. Not even like Vol’krin, whose mind can still obey, for he came to Gorkon.”

Did it help, these words of reason? The prince had slain so many in the past, so why... why did this grieve him so? They were wild and they were helpless, the ghosts at the lake who were now here with him. But they drifted or started to, the ghosts, farther than they had before. The night blew a fresher air, and not all was as dark as the sky would be.

“Ferignost,” said the prince. “The blade was lost when the Northern Hold fell. When its wielder fell. I have heard all the tales of the lord of the barren, sir Gav—”

“Don’t speak the name,” Artisan broke in. “I cannot bear to hear it.”

Silence swept over them and they walked. But it was not long before Artisan spoke. He needed to know.

“And what say you now, my prince? Am I as grand as in the tales?”

Chapter 14 – The long walk home (Rookie games arc)

The party pressed on through the rocky terrain of the flatlands. The cliffs rose hard to the north, but it was to the west that their eye was drawn, where the sun failed to the falling of night; it was there that they had one by one started, emerging from the nest with the overalls on their backs and not a thing more. Or so it had been for most.

“Gorkon knew you,” said the prince—a statement to Artisan and not a question.

“Aye, that he did. As I know him.”

“And the hammer... are you always...” the prince went on.

“Crippled? That I am. The hammer is my cane till I forge a brace—it's the best a master of tasks can do for an old friend cursed anew.”

The prince started in response but then fell silent—ear to the wind, he heard the clamours of a conflict not far off, the grunts and hollers of a brute-force clash. The clatter of wood on wood, a dim and endless echo.

“We move in,” said Artisan, breaking off toward the plains. “We are three and they are divided. And weary by now from infighting. Each one we lay low curries us further favour.”

The prince does not ordinarily follow the command of a fallen knight. But this was a stranger land than ever thought possible... and the warrior-poet knows when to lead. And when not to.

Sweeping sideways across the hard and stone-strewn path, they veered back toward the plains.

“I am more a figure of stealth,” said Artisan in a tone that was almost apologetic. “So you will forgive me if I do not partake in the brawl,” he stated as he again began to remove the ring. But the prince bade him relent.

“Then the crown is to fight for you?” The prince flared indignant, reaching within and finding. The scattered remnants of old.

“Not alone—we are allies, are we not? Your own words, prince. Lead the vanguard now as many a time before; I am sure you have, wielding the cursed sword that is your doom.”

“But the sword is not here.” The prince waved the wooden dagger he had been holding, retrieved from the huntress and her kind grasp—she had carried what he could not. But now he was restored or at least able. He could wield it now, blaze into battle anew. He knew he could.

“Aye, but you are. Champion of the sands. The rabble dawning any moment now before us... they are nothing. Not compared to Vol’krin, named beast and first among the naturals. And you cracked him like another might an egg. Still, I will fight with you, albeit from range. Though strictly forbidden to us rookies, I have stashed away more than merely caltrops...” Artisan trailed off in word and step, venturing nearer now to the jagged forms of rock and hill.

They let the man search the craggy face of the hillside edge, its inside slope. He stumbled and swayed, close to keeling over but never quite. His hand ran along the grooves and ridges; his eyes scanned from plain to forest to sun-downed sky. Assessing his position.

“It’s not here,” said Artisan finally and in a stern voice. “A sacrilege. I did not think her so strong. Nor so impudent.” He turned to the prince and huntress, eyes wide in consternation. “Make haste—we leave for the tribal halls at once.”

“The mage?” asked Cedric, hastening his step to keep pace—Artisan was now half-running.

“How dare she violate—yes, the mage, of course!” Artisan was panting already. Both from panic and exertion. “My red medallion... a minor magestone, paler still than the ring round my finger... a mere trinket. But not to me. The binding glyph on the back of it... combined with the blue... key to my coffer...”

“Then we retrieve it,” the prince broke in. “Speak no more, for breath eludes you. And it is not long but perilous, the way forward... or the way back. If my reasoning holds.”

“Aye, it does.” Artisan threw off the buckler, took a breath. Then he slipped off the ring.

The prince took both to himself, the beauty and burden—the ring that shone so pure to his goblin eyes, the buckler that had won him the title. Champion of the sands. Blood-earned trophies, the one and the other.

Would the huntress have known? The prince could only wonder. She had shown receptive to him, some innate wisdom or herding instinct. But logic games, he supposed, would prove beyond her. It had taken him a while as well, to be fair, breaking the code of the bone-warrior’s words: ‘Take to the fields and find the entrance to the tribe's great halls.’ There were two parts to it, seemingly connected but therein lay the trick. ‘Take to the fields’—a quest of war and plunder; find the loot stashed by the returners. ‘Find the entrance to the tribe’s great halls’—wherever might a tribe eat and drink and perhaps hold council, if such was the goblin way? Not the fields, not the beach, and not the forest. The taskmaster had led them out, when the true path was in. Through the birthing chamber. Deeper down in the goblin hole.

For a handful of dust had they risked it—the blue-gleaming ore that had cost so much. For a green ring and a green locket, the shard of red to augment his buckler.

It was almost clever, thought the prince—the riddle seen in isolation. A circular mission: forwards and then back. But on the whole, it made no sense. How many bodies did they lose, new and able bodies fit to throw at proper foes if nothing else. He would ask Artisan when time and breath allowed. The purpose to these ‘rookie games’. This silent massacre.

They had orbited the grounds, and now they trudged back, sticking close to the hills and to each other. A slender track skirting the arena bounds, sharp-edged and strewn with stone and pebble, a jutting rock here and there. Debris trickled down, a mist of gravel and fine earth.

Cutting through the plains, they would surely be faster. But this was safe.

Safer.

As they came nearer, so too did the clamouring, spreading now like wildfire, moving out and ever toward them—a two-way closing of the gap. Here now was the folly of their errand, the prince thought, and a sick smile twisted hard onto his lips.

They saw it now, clear as dawn though night had all but fallen. Striking out across the plains, a mass brawl had formed, shifting outward and then in—swathes of goblins like the prince had known, mindless like the lake-dwellers and savage too, but upright and able... like Vol’krin. Though none had his strength or raw tenacity. This hapless lot, they floundered back and forth, flailing the wood of their dagger or spear, splashes of yellow and purple flying. And striking true—it was brutal, not at all a sparring scuffle. They bludgeoned; they brutalized. The wood made it worse, for it lacked the swift and sudden mercy of steel. There were no sides either; the colours did not matter, not to these rampaging oafs. A war of all against all. The natural state. For men, for goblins.

“They thin the herd,” the prince said, incredulous, seeking Artisan’s eye to affirm this madness.

Faintly, Artisan nodded. He was limping again, straining against the shift and tear of his own body. The brace, it seemed, might not hold.

But they had more immediate matters to attend to. Though sneaking like thieves in the night, somehow they had aroused suspicion. Two pairs of goblin ears pricking up—two bastards half-removed from the inner-plains scuffle. They were battered and bloody, but they came bounding nevertheless, straight toward the prince and his party.

Both assailants were wielding spears, yet their bodies were marred with stripes and slashes of yellow and purple alike. The infighting curs. It made the prince bristle to observe such wanton disregard for a notion he himself held in high esteem, always had. Utmost allegiance—in battle, in life.

Though these two came screeching and charging, the other plainside-roaming brawlers seemed either unaware or uninterested; they were content to keep beating their brothers and sisters closer-by.

Dispatch of these two then, thought the prince. And they could resume their silent trek. Not much longer and they would make it to the chamber entrance.

Artisan was made to stand at the back, farthest from incoming harm.

The first brute staggered in, spear aloft and swiping, cracking hard against the prince’s buckler. The huntress was wielding Artisan’s dagger, stood waiting in a strong stance, ready to take the charge of the second spearman... though it never came. The savage merely stood there, behind the first assailant—until at last he stabbed out with all his might. Not at the prince and not at the huntress. But at his own battle-brother—spiked him clean through the heart. It did not make sense, the prince thought—the wooden tip was not that sharp. Yet a closer inspection showed the truth. The paint on this one’s spear had blotted off; the tip had been sharpened. A crude but killer weapon.

A terrible howl—the first one’s dying call. And all the plainside-fighters stopped and stared... and charged. Right at the prince and his party.

The prince cracked the murdering assailant over the head with his buckler, then grabbed the bastard’s spear, driving it straight through his heart. Let like beget like.

“Run,” said the prince, seeing the horde come rumbling toward them. “Run for your life; run for all life. None get left behind.” He was shouting now, barking orders like the olden days.

And they ran, fiercely, breathlessly, they ran.

They were not far out from the chamber entrance now. They could make it if—

Artisan stumbled, fell down hard, his brace shattering. It had endured much, and now no more.

The prince stood tall with the fury of two lifetimes in his eyes—he would fight them all. Maybe he would win. The scene was too much alike to the Landsbury hellscape. He would not leave Artisan here to be bludgeoned.

But the huntress snarled, vicious in a way the prince had not seen her. She pushed the prince, pushed Artisan. Leave.

Cedric would not have it. They stay here as three, and he and the huntress fight off the horde. He muscled past the huntress to intercept the first of the attackers.

This time the huntress grabbed him hard by the arm. She shook her head. No. Her eyes were sad but determined, and when the vanguard prince wanted again to move past her... she pulled him back, held him there. Harder now. She swallowed, looked Cedric in the eyes in a way much like before but deeper—in adoration, in unwavering service and devotion.

She tried to mouth something, shy and reserved, but no words came. Then the huntress nodded, tear-stained as she bounded off, barrelling straight into the herd of plain-brawlers. She had taken all their attention, was running now further into the arena grounds, making way for the forest.

A sacrifice. So Artisan and the prince could make it back to the birthing chamber.

The prince felt a tug of emotion well up inside—not strictly for her, in truth, but for what she represented, perhaps without knowing. An undying loyalty. The bred-in sense to preserve the pack. His body made a move to run after her... but Artisan stopped him. “Honour her...” he said, though speech was difficult without his ring. “She is brave.”

“The bravest,” said Cedric, and he thought then that he meant it. Something inside ached, for the loss of her and something greater also. 

As two, they turned away, moving on to the birthing chamber entrance.

They heard dreadful hard cries and the battering of wood and they could not look back, not the prince and not Artisan.

They walked on.

Chapter 15 – Sacred bonds of fealty (Rookie games arc)

Buffeted by the onsetting wind, Artisan staggered, his gait dreadfully impaired by the clubfoot now his brace had broken. But the prince lent him his shoulder, and the man leaned on it. Gratefully. Like once a whole nation had.

The prince would not fall—not this time. He fought past the pain and exhaustion. Perseverance was a Blackrose virtue. Though wherever he went, blood followed. A scarlet line in the sand, trailing evermore in his wake. Like a cloak in the breeze. Was that, too, part of his legacy?

They moved past where the bone-warrior had stood, funnelled into the chamber passage. It was dark now, but it was a sanctuary. Close and confining, the corridor proved a barrier from the world outside, its harrowing noises. The cries and heartless clamouring. The silence after.

Will she be who she was—will her mind and heart remember? The huntress. Upon her return, that devil-sworn comeback. Or is it in body alone that she will walk with them once more, her eyes gone dark, the soul unwilling? Let her not go down the path of madness, thought the prince, although it was that way they would all walk, steadily deeper in the abyss. Oh, how he hoped Artisan was wrong, or that his words were lies—all of them lies, so that truth could reign and be more noble. But he knew better than to doubt when hell was here and not its opposite.

Then his thoughts dispersed, made way for the world of bodies: Artisan leaning deeper in, bidding the prince caution—the enemy may well have preceded them. The ruinous mage.

The prince held his buckler high, the faint radiance of a magestone-red gleaming from its socket. But what good might it do? He felt naked now, stripped from his time-tested safeguard—the forged steel of his royal armour. It was madness to pursue a mage with nothing but a buckler and dagger. A single hex and the wood would crack; a bolt of fire or ice or a lesser element even... and it would shatter. So would they.

As they breached the sanctity of the birthing chamber, streaming through the muck and waste, stepping in or over the shards of hatchling shells with weapon raised... they heard a soft, wailful tone, vibrating sweetly like a chant. There was a scratching as well—the grating as from tinder and steel, flickers of a blue flame flaring. But the fire did not take.

A huddled figure sat in the corner in the dark, small and feeble to the untrained eye. Yet looks may deceive. This was a lone wolf of a creature, the prince thought. Fangs veiled yet ready for baring. The mark-bearing mage.

Though the prince felt the old tug of instinct—shield high and sword at the ready; trust not the foolery of magic... he was almost swayed into letting his guard down. Artisan’s hand relaxed on his shoulder. The young old man’s body sagging in a steady peace.

“Failing... in spellforce?” Artisan eked into the open, his speech belaboured by the lack of his ring.

The mage turned round, hardly alarmed but distraught all the same. “Here, have it back,” she cried. “Your trinket is no good to me.” Tears rolled down her cheeks as she threw something at Artisan—but it never reached; in a flash of heart, Cedric had jostled in for a timely block with his buckler. The projectile landed dead on the hard wood.

Artisan clapped Cedric on the shoulder, laughing like he had not before—a childlike glee as though the air in the damp and dark hole was somehow rife with amusement. He arched lower, bending his broken frame to the ground as he reached for the fallen object.

His medallion.

A trinket indeed—cracked and worn, a dull red blooming from the socket. As minor a magestone the prince had ever seen. A morsel and not more of magic.

But Artisan held it with reverence, plucked a bit of blood-spotted rope from his hip-slung pouch—a parting gift in scarlet, the prince intuited, for Vol’krin’s eyeballs had travelled with... and so had the bloodied bits at the end of them. The parts a wooden dagger would not cut.

Hanging the medallion round his neck, Artisan’s eyes softened. “The most minor of trinkets. Plus one in strength and in intelligence—those are its stats (+1 STR, +1 INT). But to my mind, that singular point of INT is a world of difference.”

Turning to the mage, Artisan wore his stern face once more... but seeing her there, broken in the corner, the man’s features slackened, and he was fatherly almost—this thought the prince. Like the huntress had been a mother. Not plainly, but in fact; the very essence of her was woman—healing and nurturing, self-effacing to an irreparable fault.

Cedric felt something stir behind the blank expression which he strove, much like his guard, to maintain. He did not know the mage, and he did not trust her. He trusted one mage and one alone. Gael. Never far from the mind or heart. Gael always.

“You are a thief but a lousy one,” said Artisan finally, chastising the mage but with a coy enough smile—her failure to utilize the medallion had brought the man some relief. Though a sadness came with it. The mournful hold of wisdom, the knowing that is too much.

“Slay me now, for I have wronged you,” said the mage with a delicate voice, resigned to her self-appointed lot. “And you,” she added, nodding up at Cedric with tear-stained eyes. “I had to be first in the taskmaster’s line, so I struck out... made you fall for selfish gain. May it bring you heart to know that it was for naught, and that I...” she started sobbing, thick and true tears gushing from this little creature whom the prince now thought fangless, or masterfully guised in sheep’s clothing.

“Your mark, let us see it,” said Artisan with gentle inflection, to which the mage gave ragged gasps in response, utterly disconsolate. And though she had aimed words along the tearful groans, they lacked the power to reach.

Artisan inched softly toward her, the clubfoot in half-lurch behind him, the skin raw and bloody from scrambling. He stood gazing down, a slight nod in affirmation.

The prince saw it too—her mark was fading, the purple of the Ruin(崩) kanji now decidedly less deep. Eroding her hold on the past, the sense of self.

A final whimper. Then the mage sat herself straight, her hands closing round a small box stowed behind her, adorned with the same faded craftwork as Artisan’s—the one he had dug up back at the beach, before Vol’krin and before the huntress had... but Cedric broke off the thought. It would lead him back to that place he did not now want to be.

“I thought I had more time,” the mage said, clutching the box, the wood and metal wet with sorrow. “I cannot become like you.” She looked at Artisan with fear and with loathing, but looking through him, eyes glazed as though staring not at a man, but at the spectre of her own self, a future rot of which she could not be availed. “Broken but time and again reborn,” she continued. “And always the lesser for it... taunted by the hurt of remembrance. No hope for absolution.” She shook her head wildly. “No—I have dug it up thrice. And there will be no fourth time.” The box rattled in her grasp and the mage lifted it high, poised as if to shatter it... but she lowered it gently, sobbingly... cradling it close again. “I will choose to go mad, ravenous like the beasts outside. Never will I be like you—mark-less but aware.” She looked hard again at Artisan. “Anything but that.”

Artisan did not respond, took a sombre cast to his countenance, grave and pensive. But not spurned. He turned instead to the prince. “Why did you save me just then, leaping in the path of this... horrid projectile.” He gave a dim smile as he looked down at the medallion, the lightless thing he treasured so.

“What need is there for word in a matter so clear?” the prince threw out in heartfelt response. “We are allies—I have said this before. Though I have failed. Already our fellowship is fractured, for we have left one to the wilds. One of our own... or have you already forgotten; your mind flayed by weary preoccupation? That plaything round your neck. Is it worth it, the price in blood?”

“A lavish battering regardless, if words are not needed.” Artisan paused, the strength of him flecked with remorse. “But I may well deserve it. My haste alone sent the huntress to bitter ruin. She was... better than I had thought possible. To think that one like her might learn to be selfless. It was your doing, prince—of that I am sure. You pulled that forth, deep from the dark and hollow of a goblin heart.”

‘Will she return a hard cold monster’, the prince thought to ask. ‘A slave to this madness, and so much less than she had been?’ But he did not ask, for the answer might not sit well.

Heads downcast, the three allowed for a silent moment, each contained to their own, the quiet desperations that haunt the hell and halls of a private mind.

Then Artisan sought Cedric’s eye in the way he had before but not quite—when the sand had turned blood and Vol’krin had fallen. When one man had gone to the lake for another to return. The prince seemed always to spring into the path, buckler raised against some threat or other.

“You are petulant and brash,” said Artisan to the prince. “But stalwart as well. You are the first to come after the very first... to do the Blackrose name honour. The great king Rodrich—no man living under the heavens can equal him, what he once was. But you fill the shadow better than all those come before. Devoted to your word as to duty itself.” Artisan drew himself tall, a bearing that was almost noble. “Do you swear it, prince... do you swear to the depth of your wroth? Will you seek vengeance and succeed—there where we have failed?”

“That I have sworn, and that I swear, now and forever,” said the prince, rising hard and regal as he had before.

Artisan beheld him, wavered for a beat but then no more. “It is all too early for this old fool to say what he will—you are proven to me, though not nearly enough... oh, how I want for time when there is none.” His eyes bore the weight of the years, but there was a courage, too. He went on. “And is the blood so strong that a Blackrose will reign here below as doth above? Will you rise as first and be my fellow, to seek the retribution I could not—that we could not?” Artisan looked upon the mage, earnest and kind. Forgave her like the huntress had him. “Swear it, prince, that you will bring us justice,” he said, voice breaking but not his will. “Swear it on your name... and in a dead man’s stead, I will swear to you in turn. As Artisan, I will bend before the Blackrose banner and renew it now and forevermore—the sacred vow of fealty.”

“On my honour as heir to the Blackrose throne, I do swear it.” Standing solemn and stark, the prince struck a mighty figure, like the kings of old or the gods who had crowned them. He reached up and removed the rustic helmet, cast it out to clatter on the cold hard ground.

“In the name of my king-father Bartold of the Blackrose... I, Cedric, Prince of Lothrian do accept. Pledge to me your word and your body... and by royal decree will your vengeance be executed.”

“That I swear,” said Artisan, lowering to one knee.

The mage grew wide-eyed, grasping the gravitas of the moment. “I thought you a pretender... a sideline halfwit sent to make mockery of the mark. But if it is you, Cedric... then as in life, my skill and breath are yours to command. Now that the name is still mine to speak... I, the Lady Linaria, devote myself to your service. I swear undying fealty to the Blackrose heir.” She bent down low, inclining her head to the floor.

“Lady Linaria...” started the prince. If taken aback by her name, he did not show it. “Would that I had not to see you here—a mage of your rank and temper deserves better. As a boy I looked up to you; as a young man I was enamoured by you, your devotion to the Arcanifactum... and now, all these years and a sentencing later... meeting you as a man proper, I find I become once more the boy and the young man both.” The prince had grown fond of his fanciful lies—they seemed always to strike true in the core of one. She was ghastly now. A goblin. Nothing more.

The Lady Linaria grew red at the honour.

The three sat down on the ground of the chamber in which this morning they had been birthed. But only now, in the nighttime hour, when words of fealty and sacred bonds had been spoken... were they truly reborn.

The one for the three and the three for the one.

Vengeance will be theirs.

Chapter 16 – The tale of the first and fallen (Rookie games arc)

In the gloom they thus gathered, their forms faintly lit by the magestone treasures. Artisan spoke most, regaled the prince with his hard-earned truths—tale and terror of the goblin death.

“From conjecture I have gleaned...” he mused, stroking absently at the medallion sitting on his chest. “Certainty. Or something close enough in its orbit.”

“Speak plainly and not in riddle,” broke in the prince. “Tell me all you know and start from the beginning. I will discern for myself what is fact and what is folly.”

“Well... in the beginning was the word,” said Artisan. “Spoken at the forging of the gods by our Lord and by our Lady long departed. Then the gods moulded man, forged him in their own image but fragile, made with mortal matter.” Artisan fixed his gaze upon the prince. “Have you knowledge of divine Kageru, once exalted, now fallen?”

“You speak the demon’s name so lightly—Kageru the defiler, pit-lord and corruptor of souls?” The prince recoiled from the mere mention... but his nerves were allayed when the moment passed without retaliation—no bolt or fire from the heavens to strike them all down. The Lady Linaria did not even stir.

“He is all those things and more,” said Artisan. “Yet a god nonetheless—the greatest and most gracious of them once. But where the other gods saw right to avert their gaze from man in his strife and toil and death... Kageru could not. He sought to remedy the flaws of the flesh—wanted man to rise and be like him, strong and everlasting. So he took his blade and rent the bodies of the dead, sliced at the heart and mind of man... carved away the rot of earthly decay. And the dead, they rose as though from slumber—a life after life, but fleeting. It was not long until the rot returned, and so, too, the sacred surgeon. Again and again, Kageru carved and cut, digging ever deeper to see a life restored, though it was always less that remained. Still, Kageru kept on, bitter now and resentful, removing more of the mind and heart. With the loss of mind, man forgot to remember... and with the loss of heart they turned wrothful and ghastly. The inner rot came growing out; their skin turned green and their form became warped—a soul now twisted and frayed. Beastlike. The first of the goblins.”

“And the god went on to perish,” the Lady Linaria wove in. “Kageru was himself now blighted, the stain of his sin against creation spreading in green—a mind and heart like all the goblins. And so too at last his skin. The other gods caught wind then of his madness. They bore down on him with heaven’s wrath, turning the blade against their kin. Smiting him down. But that was not the last of it. A great curse fell upon the blades—the Lord and the Lady passing judgment. The goblin curse. So thorned was this curse that all the gods relinquished their arms... lest they, too, become like Kageru. And what the gods discard, man takes to himself. The god-blades to slay a god. Dicebolg and Caladbrinn, the two master weapons, whole to this very day. Ziegbölt was the third recorded in the annals... it was Kageru’s own blade. And it shattered with him. Seven shards are what remain—two large ones; they are the lesser blades known to us as Ferignost and Truorúst... the first was lost to human hands since the fall of sir Gavrilon.” Artisan winced at hearing the name, like a physical blow had just been landed. Linaria gave pause... then went on. “And Truorúst is the bane of my order. It was sent to me personally as headmistress of the Arcanifactum. An unnamed relic, or so I thought—I did not recognize it for what it was. Not until I handled it without my magiguard gauntlet... a fool’s misgiving, for the shard came alive, singed deep into the flesh of my hand. And then I knew. But too late.” She motioned at the mark on her forehead, present still but waning.

Artisan broke in. “The five lesser shards of Ziegbölt were scattered, nameless in the eyes of gods, but not therefore without power. Some were brandished once by the lesser branches of nobles and mages; others are lost still. I do not believe they impart the same curse as the blades that have sealed our fates. But there are many mysteries still, even to a faded one as me. My mark has gone now for many deaths, and it is by blood and will alone that I hold on to reason... but the strain of it does not go untold.” Artisan winced, twisting where he sat, hand wavering first towards the arc on his back, then to the bloody foot. “And yet I endure, a lone anomaly. I have known none who last as I do. Who are time and again spawned warped like me. But as long as forever I shall hold on, for if I do not, I will become as they are. The mobbing savages outside.”

A silent moment dawned. The prince leaned back, stared at the damp and dark ceiling and hoping... praying that one god or other would find the grace simply to burst forth and shatter him from being. That, or restore him to life. Proper, gainful life. Not this. He could think in absolutes alone—a final condemnation or a pardon, full and free. Both had a beauty to him now. The sense of absolution he was after.

“And what is this?” the prince asked finally, clutching at the blood-marred dagger to his side, more red now than ever there had been yellow. “And this, and this—all of this?” His voice raged high as he grabbed at the buckler, the locket, the ring. “What foul and twisted joke am I now part of?”

“A foulness indeed,” said Artisan. “When Kageru fell, the rites he instilled did not fall with him. The first of the goblins in his host—the ones time and again revived—they took to carving their fallen kin. Scraping at the mind and heart but failing. They could not impart life, save for with their hardened loins. So they took to breeding. Hatching broken spawns from eggs and not livebirth. Lesser goblins all, for only the greatest of goblins can pair with a broodmother, thereby forging empty vessels for sinful souls to gather in. An endless hell of death and death again, for all those who have held a god-blade. Tethered forever to the goblin curse. With madness as the only escape.” Artisan fell silent.

The prince sprang to his feet, incensed at the absence of answers, the convolution of myth and legend... the lack of an actionable anything. But Linaria raised the box from her lap, a subtle shift to bring the prince pause. “Enough of the far-off tales,” she said, turning then to Artisan. “Do you... have it?”

“The prince here went deep to get it.” Artisan put the satchel proudly on display—dust from a blue magestone ore.

Linaria’s eyes shone with covetous desire, glinting now like the magestones in their hold. “What good is it to you at this point?” she snapped at Artisan. “You are beyond salvation—you know this. And I... I have a last, dying chance. Give it to me, please. I beg of you.”

“I am merely holding it,” said Artisan. “It belongs to our liege to do with as he wills.”

Linaria turned to Cedric, the same voracious appetite in her eyes. “Prince, have mercy on this mage. It is just dust to you—it has no purpose. To me it is everything.”

“A trade,” the prince suggested. “You have told me tales and nothing but—that goes for both of you. What am I to do with stories of gods and that devil Kageru? You plead for justice but tell me not which thing waylaid you.” The prince grabbed the satchel, tossed it to Linaria. “Here it is, the dust that has cost me. Do with it what you will—open that box you cherish so. But promise me as solemn as you have sworn... that all will be made clear. Answers to my sordid state and yours. And our vengeance.”

Linaria nodded eagerly; Artisan did so in more subdued a manner. But both seemed earnest. That was enough for now, and the prince sat back, curious for the contents of the box to be revealed.

“My gratitude... dear prince...” Linaria spoke in hushed tones, bent over box and satchel with feverous delight. “A thousand times over my gratitude.” She looked now at Artisan, who gave her his medallion, holding on just a tad too long in the passing.

Studying the box up close, the prince saw the subtle difference—it was like Artisan’s at the beach but also not. The grooves in the wood were deeper, the binding far more potent. Even still, a Hightower mage would crack it clean open, no qualm or question about it. Linaria in her true form as the prince had known her... a scholar of high renown, ranked specialist in glyph-and runebinding... she would have needed neither key nor dust. But she and he, and in truth all three, they were now so dreadfully diminished. The rules once more applied and not the exception.

Like any glyphbinder novice, Linaria bent in ardent focus over the box, inserting the cracked medallion. It was the wrong key, for it was Artisan’s, and worn beyond simple utility. The dust was used for augmentation—flaring out in faint blue flickers as she heaped it on, filling the cracks and grooves the key had failed to reach. Her hand worked over the etched wood and the metal, her brow furrowing with strain.

With a blast, the box broke open—so loud was the sound to their goblin ears.

The key popped back out, more fractured still from use. But Artisan took it. Wore it round his neck once more—his treasured medallion.

Tearful, Linaria reached inside the box, pulled out a worn cloth gauntlet. Embroidered on it was a rune circle, the key and quill of the Arcanifactum drawn neatly within.

A magiguard gauntlet. Fit to furnace the wearer with a great resilience. Sufficient for some to wield a master weapon.

Not quite a god-blade.

But perhaps a shard.

Chapter 17 – The long night and numbers (Pre-Training Arc)

They strode down all three, deeper into the goblin pit. Behind the birthing chamber was a tunnel, like the one leading out but dark and still more narrow—harder to walk for there was no light.

There was no great ceremony, not a token offer of condolence. The bone-warrior held guard at the lonesome hard end; it was there that the path came to a large wooden door. He stood in silence like a statue. Menacing still as he was before, but different. Aloof somehow. A slight bit uncertain.

The prince kept a wary eye. But Artisan was hardly bothered. “Not a danger,” he said, limping past; the man did not want a shoulder now—nothing to lean on but his stubborn pride. “Not yet. Just a touch of the madness. Rectifiable still.”

Linaria and the prince then followed, eking past the hardened guard, this tower of flesh and bone that jittered toward them, bellowing a half-phrase in garbled goblinspeak—‘something something rookie games’. Sent the two careening back. But not Artisan.

“Give it no mind,” said Artisan, grown weary and impatient. “It’s the eyes—they bespeak the depths of his madness. Mild, for now, and reversible in this instance. Nothing Gorkon cannot in due course handle.”

“Mad, like the ones outside?” queried the prince as he eyed the brawn of the bone-warrior—a full-grown goblin and then some. Tall and fierce, more than most all he had seen and slain. If this one were to come unhinged... they could never stop him, not with three. A whole nest of them might not suffice, the soft-skinned rookies they now were.

“Yes, precisely like them,” Artisan answered, be it begrudgingly, for his hand was on the handle of the large door, and he seemed loathe to stop or tarry. “The savagery, our madness... it comes with the creature—innate in us low goblin things. But fresh souls, if they're strong, they can withstand it some. Then with age it gets worse. And increasingly with each death as well. We all pay the hard price in the end. For now his assigned role is what stops this one, though he is ancient. The class assigned by the taskmaster in a sense, though combat classes all blend together past the starter stage.”

The prince thought briefly of his own classes: warrior and scholar... then his mind went again to the huntress—would he feel much at all if she returned to him hard and broken? How strong was his moral sense still, now that her death was not as fresh in the mind, not so recent as mere minutes ago? Perhaps she can hold on to her senses, like the Lady Linaria... though they were worlds apart as far as intelligence went.

When the door swung open, the prince felt his mind fall silent as he was made witness to that which lay beyond. The tribe’s great halls, sanctuary of an unholy lustre, carved from the bowels of the earth.

The halls were stone and silent, rough-hewn arches in the vaulting space. Light came from all sides but in ghastly green alone; it was the glow of a moss growing on the walls and ceiling—luminous but abhorrent, the name of it was goblin gold. Though down here, the prince now reckoned... it would just be called gold.

A long broad table stood stoic in the centre, large chairs jutting at the head and foot. Four smaller chairs slid under at the far end; and at the near end only three, with the last one halfway crumbled.

There was nothing more in the large, long chamber. Only the vast and empty. Hostile like a dead-born soul.

“Note that you are without helmet now, for you cast it brashly aside,” said Artisan to the captive prince, the latter rooted in fear and fascination. Like a zealot lost before the godless and profane.

Artisan clapped the prince hard on the shoulder. “It’s no time for dreaming now—stay hard and stay ready. I need you here. We both do.” He looked at Linaria, who was likewise small now standing there, in the green-lit dark of the tribal hall. She gave a slight nod, her body and heart atremble; the small nod, it was the best she had.

“Three unblemished...” broke in a voice, weedy and ordained—the speaking like a chant, a minister of sorts, or so it seemed. The man wore glasses, in a sense like Gorkon’s, though thinner, sitting low on the nose and half-askant. He peered over them like the taskmaster might, but he was nothing to compare. A pale imitation and hardly that. “All three adorned...” he mused to himself as he skittered over, clutching a tattered old booklet to his skin-and-bone—a chest less than most hatchlings’.

“It is late, good registrar, so pray do not dawdle,” Artisan let out in worn-out retort.

The registrar looked at Artisan, not in interest nor in scorn, but with grey-toned eyes, hard and hollow.

“The clubfoot,” said the registrar then, jotting down a note. “The mage with the mark.” Another note. “And...” he peered at the prince... at his booklet... back at the prince. “A Blackrose.” The note he wrote was longer now, like the prince had come unaccounted for. “Step through,” he said shortly after. “Ranks retained or elevated... all elite. Third door down and...”

“To the left,” Artisan cut in, and he waved the man off, shambling on in unsightly step—a passage marked in blood. Linaria followed, trailing close, and then the prince, staring still at the grand hall and table, the chairs that stood strong like a memory. But of what... he did not know.

“Rest and recover,” said the registrar in passing. “And straight to the statistician in the morrow.”

The hall led out to a winding corridor. The first door down was glyph-locked and barred, a stark brutish wailing hounding out from within. The second door was merely locked—a lesser glyph to keep its denizens from roaming.

“The commons and mid-ranks,” said Artisan, leading them further. “And our chambers. It is safe if you are quiet. Safe enough.” The third door creaked open, and their gazes were met—twenty pairs or more of those hungry hard eyes. Men and women and all were left standing, staring in bloodlust, some in vacant abandon.

The prince clutched his dagger and his buckler, both tight to his heart. Then they wove through, not a word lost in between them. Fresh supple meat in the well-held-down ranks.

Dozens of cots were strewn out on the cold unclean ground; they were manned by goblins sitting or resting alone, though some had a woman to stay with and silently sway with. Many were restless like old roamed-out wolves.

Were there a hundred of them, or maybe still more? The dark room seemed unending, with more cots and more eyes, and the long broken walk—Artisan first, then the prince and the lady. Stalking past the older denizens, making no strong or fell movement...  barely breath spent, for the air was so tense.

They sought for their spot, for a cot that was free... finding the single one left, so far away from the entrance and exit. They curled up all three—no place now for decorum. Lean dark-green bodies in the shiver-cold night.

The gloom was their solace—eyes closed and gone, both the world and the body. Weathered old things they could now do without.

The prince saw the meadows, the heartlands, and valleys, all spinning through in the dreams he had lost. There was Gael and then there was Gendrin; he wanted to reach out in lust and in hate. These two were now the true heart-born contrasts. Love was a hell he could best leave behind.

Once were they woken from unbroken slumber. A goblin. A rotten foul goblin—the lonesome hard fiend who would wander too close. He had eyes for Linaria, and reached out to grope her... but the prince was more swift and he pulled the man in—put a hand straight on that wretched damn mouth... the other hand hard round the vile culprit’s throat. And the prince squeezed with a bitter hard fury; that swelling of blood on his palm, it was bliss. Curse you for making this happen, you filthy crass animal. But the rage was just splendid in both the right ways: the act and the hate for the act. The man choked and he choked till the gasps and the gurgles they stopped. It was beautiful as long as it lasted; the prince felt like a god so divine. He wanted to scream songs of hate in the dead man’s foul ear. But didn’t. He rolled off the body like the waste it had been. Kicked it out to rot.

--

Morning dawned and light slivered in through the narrow-slit window... they could not, then, be buried too deep below ground. Artisan had kicked the body a ways further—someone’s problem perhaps, but not their own.

They walked through the quarters and it did not feel stifling. Things can be different in the light of the day.

All three then went to the statistician’s office; Artisan had known the way.

“Come in,” said a sinewy tall woman with keen and blue eyes—no, only the one, Cedric saw in horror. The second eye had been scooped out, with the nerves still showing. A small clockwork ball hung eerily in the space. Mechanical, just like the taskmaster’s. “And remove the stat boosters!” she shouted, though sounding chipper. “Damn rookies.” She gave a tight smile despite the slight.

Artisan went first; he took off the dim red medallion. The statistician eyed him with the real and then the clockwork one; she wrote down some notes they would later go over.

Then Linaria was scanned, and she could gratefully keep her magiguard gauntlet on—it was dear to her soul, and provides no boost to base stats. More notes... the statistician nodding and bobbing her head in calculation.

Third came the prince, on whom it suddenly dawned how dreadfully small the other two looked—Artisan and Linaria. But just yesterday, their heights were roughly at a level. Now the prince towered over them like the bone-warrior had him.

Taking off the locket and ring... putting the buckler aside... and the prince was ready for his assessment.

The clockwork eye whizzed and whirled, spinning around all axes. The statistician’s real eye went wide in amazement as she wrote down the battle-earned stats of the prince. “So it’s true...” she mumbled, “the Blackrose did slay Vol’krin in clean melee.”

Once they were all measured, they sat for a brief wait—the statistician tallying the numbers.

“Here are the results,” the statistician said, handing the three their respective stats paper.

“As expected,” grumbled Artisan, looking over his paper. “Enough INT now to speak without the medallion.”

The prince was unclear on what the results meant, but he looked at himself, properly looked at his arms and his legs. There was some meat hanging off him that hadn’t been there the long hard day before, the rookie games day.

“Goblins grow with sleep,” Artisan said, his medallion once more around his neck. “If you’ve done fighting or scouting or reading before, that is—all those things give you ‘experience points’, as the statisticians call it.”

“Let us compare the sheets to assess our baseline stats,” said Linaria, and the three put their papers in the middle.

They read as follows:

--

(Artisan)

Level 2 Rookie goblin

Constitution (CON): 6

Intelligence (INT): 7

Dexterity (DEX): 6

Strength (STR): 6

Magic (MAG): 1

--

(Lady Linaria)

Level 2 Rookie goblin

Constitution (CON): 6

Intelligence (INT): 6

Dexterity (DEX): 4

Strength (STR): 3

Magic (MAG): 6

--

(Prince Cedric)

Level 5 Rookie goblin

Constitution (CON): 10

Intelligence (INT): 9

Dexterity (DEX): 11

Strength (STR): 10

Magic (MAG): 4

--

“Rookie of the year,” said the statistician excitedly, “goes to the Blackrose goblin... but don’t stop now—it’s time to start training in your classes and do right by goblin society!”

Her tone and her everything seemed so cheerful suddenly that it grated on the prince. Like she did not know or care what dreadful place they were in.

“Prince,” Artisan cut in, “you had best go straight past the elite quarters, then hard right... leads to the arena. Warrior training starts early. I trust you will give those bastards hell, my liege?”

There was a mean hard sentiment growing within—the prince wanting violence. Moreso now than he had before. The goblin mind superimposed on his will as a warrior-poet. “They will find out what it means to spar a prince,” he said, setting off for the arena.

I will destroy them all.

Chapter 18 – Enter the arena (Training arc)

They all left then to train at their stations, young goblin forms thrown headfirst in the works. Artisan limped, but not as bad now as the day before—the night had brought healing. They were dark creatures and foul, yet with bodies that knew how to mend.

The prince took his only possessions—always the four: the locket, the ring, the buckler and dagger. He went the way Artisan had said, past the quarters where he had slept and strangled.

The howling still beat from the other locked doors—the commons and mid-ranks suffering in their own separate hovels. Only elites were allowed to roam free. Though free did not mean here what he had once envisioned.

The others seemed mindful or at least mostly docile—those beside him who walked through these halls. Rookies perhaps, though none the prince recognized. An earlier batch. And none bore a mark.

He would learn what he could, all in due course. Survival came first—he would strive not to die. Not at least till his task was completed. Vengeance on Gendrin and justice for Gael. But his life was not his, not to live nor to hold. And if it came to death, then he should learn beforehand... what the rookie games meant in its wroth and its mystery. The boxes, the forest, the blood-stained beach sands.

“Toe the line, you ingrates!” A fell voice booming in from behind. The prince turned to see; saw a guard and his captives. Rookies brought in from the ragged death-plains. There were seven, all bruised with lined faces. Some the prince knew or had seen in swift passing—fighting and clamouring, the all-against-all. Not a speck of heart nor good reason between them. They were there when the huntress had left him—no, truth be told... when he had left her.

They were gagged now, most bound and some chained. Commons or mid-ranks, all mindless fodder.

He would get to them first if the world would allow.

--

The arena was cold but not at all uninviting. The raw stench of sweat spread like salt in a wound—the prince savoured pain like another a fine dish. The pain of the body, the pure and the physical. It was easy to hold like the grip of a sword.

Vile halfwit brutes met his gaze as he entered. They were rookies still, but harder; thirty in rags—they all wore a number. Denoting their rank from the first to the thirty-first, for the prince got a plaque just as they did... thirty-and-one in a squiggle-tailed script.

None of them spoke; there was nothing worth saying. The whirl of their blade told him all he should know.

The grim hell-green light shone from the moss overhead. And in the large open space of the gritty arena, the prince sought his place.

There was a lean stone-eyed watchman, clad in armour and not merely rags—a salvaged mail breastplate with dents in the iron. From a squire, most likely. Some war-broken youth who belonged to the earth. A human. One from the Enderhörn line—Cedric knew the heraldry of the etchings: a large midland eagle, wings unfurled in defiance. Its beak open in a silent screech.

He might have known him once, this child.

Now he knew only vengeance.

They gave him a blade—a dull one, made of wood, but at least without paint. The prince cast his dagger and his buckler aside and he joined the line, practiced the forms with the rest of these animals.

Some captain or other—a larger, more menacing type, set the pace for all to follow… flourishing through the moves with a semblance of skill. Slow, at first.

Crack went the whip of the watchman, lashing the skin of those out of step. Mostly the high numbers, but as the dance went on and on, even some single digits began to lose focus.

Cedric was hardly sweating. It was nothing to a prince who had trained for this his whole life, albeit in a better body. Though truth be told, the green-skinned suit started to fit him, and his arms felt strong—not like Vol’krin, not yet. But not too far off.

Flowing through the motions, the prince started almost to enjoy it. This, it seemed, did not sit well with the watchman, who drove up the pace till all were left staggered or panting—only the first and the thirty-first held strong. Even the captain was flagging, lumbering through the steps and flailing.

And for a time, there was discord—the watchman striking the air near the captain, a snap of the whip in all-too-clear warning. The captain then snarled, and the watchman snarled back, both tossing their weapons. They flung fist-first into a brawl, each clasping hard round the neck of the other. Rising tall in their fury, they stood, battering in pre-ordained rhythm—a blow for a blow, savage hits all and straight to the temple. A crowd thronged around them—rookies with numbers now hooting and hollering, craving for blood or the cracking of bones.

The prince saw it all in strict-tempered dispassion; he was not here to stand round and to merely play witness. If magic could measure his triumphs in battle... then he would show the statistician some numbers she had never before seen.

“Will you stand idly by,” he shouted at the thirtieth in rank—a gutless fat wreck who had little to offer, not in body nor in will. The prince swung his blade in a wide daring arc. “Or will you face me?”

The thirtieth sunk back, tried to weave back in with the crowd—such a coward was he.

“No one, then?” the prince roared. “You craven worms!” And there it went, his ‘strict-tempered dispassion’. He was a daft fool and he cursed himself when all the heads swung round.

Had he learned nothing then, from Landsbury, his wretched death at the hands of a traitor? Was he still so hopeless, so princely and vain?

They could ravage him, this pack of mongrels. Tear him life from limb and there was nothing he could do—this body would not withstand the thrashing.

But the next one might.

At least he had lives now, more than the one. Though the threat of madness ever loomed, surely he had some lives he could squander; lives that...

Depended on him.

His mind flashed to reason. To Artisan. To Linaria.

Fool of a prince.

He had tempted the fates. And he could not fall.

So be it.

He would not fall.

The air wove electric around him, the same shift in aura he had summoned before. When Gorkon had spoken and the prince spoke back—the same charge or energy bolting hard to the core.

Prepared to engage the one and the many, the prince eyed his buckler—he would need it to try and fend the horde off.

But there was no horde.

The thirty, the captain, the lean stone-eyed watchman... they all simply stood as though at mass or attention—not a grunt, not a word. Not a hint of commotion.

Was it a spell he had cast, or their feral sense of honour—were they more soldier than beast than he had thus far supposed?

Number twenty-and-three stepped silently forward. His wooden blade raised high, he came vaulting and running. A brave move but broken; nothing beats stoic inaction—this thought the prince, who was himself fool more than poet.

In so many ways was he less than he wanted. He could count them, but still only ever fall short. Like a cretin come running with no guard of reason—this was he also. Always exposed, ever without cover... certainly when he had needed it most. So easily incensed he was beast more than man. This last thought he added in self-spiteful sorrow. And who could rebuke him? Surely not he.

The prince dipped in low, stabbed the man hard in the chest. Twenty-three was down, passed out from the blow, the hard landing—either or both; it did not matter now.

Next was eighteen, a strong-looking man with large fangs jutting. He took a sensible stance, bent low with sound footing, the blade right before him, hands on the hilt... and on the crossguard. This fool was playing a trick—one a goblin should not, for with a proper blade, the crossguard was off-limits, save to those with a plated gauntlet. Items not readily pilfered for goblin-sized hands. The technique would ingrain an unnatural movement—pointless at best in the world of real weapons. Self-harmful more likely.

Eighteen was poised to pivot sharply, handling the blade to change the direction of his thrust. Cedric, stepping in slightly, baited the man to commit—a close-quarters fight is what eighteen wanted. Or so he thought.

As eighteen rushed in, the prince moved in faster—pre-empted the thrust by hacking at the crossguard, slashing down hard on the man’s fingers. Then Cedric surged forth for a finishing blow... but the man yielded, threw up his arms in a harmless manner. Fair enough. Another one bested. It did not matter how a fight ended, as long as it did.

Then came twelve—a scrawny and fast one. He lashed out with a flurry of rapid strokes, but the prince simply blocked, again and again. By the tenth blow, the man lost his footing, and the prince pressed on, striking several times, hard against the man’s block... and by the fifth stroke he broke. Cedric hit the man in the gut, the chest, the shoulder—not drawing blood; this one's skin was tough, almost like leather. Not at all like the soft flesh of the hatchling, which had proven easy to pierce. The prince thought back to Vol’krin, how this mighty rookie had bled from the wooden blade strikes.

Twelve yielded—another at least so civil as to admit defeat.

“Ngeh,” uttered the captain suddenly as seven prepared to square off with the prince.

Seven stepped back, and the captain stepped forward. He looked like a rookie and he did not—he was too large and muscular... but not so tall and imposing as a higher-class goblin, like the menacing mad bone-warrior.

“Gru,” he said. “Gru, Gru, Gru.” A war-chant, seeking the heat of battle before battle.

The prince stood stoic, like the warrior-poet.

But deep within, he could feel the same fire burning.

Chapter 19 – A blood-earned right to evolve (Training arc)

The captain came slowly at the prince, who moved as a mirror to his foe, both strafing aside the edges of a steadily narrowing circle.

Blades held high, twirling them in feigned strikes as they sank deeper into the rhythm of their dance—neither party seeming willing to brazenly commit.

The prince tried to bait an early flaw, shifting laterally and slashing at the feet of his foe... but the captain stepped clear, his iron gaze still trained on the darting prince.

Was it all in fighting instinct? Or were there layers to the faculties these brutes could bring to bear, shifting like a soldier’s step, different from one moment to the next?

“You... move like man,” said the captain to a startled prince—he had foreseen the flow of the man’s blade but not his word.

Just as Cedric sought to speak in retort, the foe lashed out, his sword carving a crescent-shaped course towards the prince, who caught it but barely, blade on blade, wood cracking with a parry and then a riposte—the prince now on the offensive.

“Nearly... had you,” said the captain, brushing the assault aside. A hard grin formed on his rough-scarred visage—more a parting of lips than a smile, with teeth bared in malignance. “You think... me animal... for no jewel,” he spat, stretching the syllables for emphasis: ‘juh-wuhl’. He flicked his blade at the prince’s chest, at the locket glowing magestone-green—a delicate hue standing stark in contrast. Though the putrid tone of goblin moss still pervaded. It lit the world beneath the world, the lightless core of the underground.

The prince thought better now of trying to answer, for again the foe pressed him hard when words seemed near to form.

It was a tactic. This bastard of a goblin was tempting the prince, trying to elicit talk only to capitalize—a lowering of the guard, that moment of wavering when the body yielded to the word.

An outrage to the honour of the Blackrose, to have so low a foe seeking to betwixt him. Worse yet: it almost worked.

But the prince kept his calm, or something close in approximation. This foe was more skilled than he had let on, spinning deftly from slash back to safety, a strong attack to secure his retreat. No margin that Cedric could see, no clean chance for a counterstrike.

“I ha...” the foe began, but the prince was swift this time—blazing forth at the captain’s utterance, swiping fast and in succession, spreading his strength in a hazy fashion, fierce at points but then a feint. A master’s work, both the rally and the ruse, painting in strokes, though so diffuse it was chaos more than pattern.

And not a single blow close to landing.

Against each stab and cleave, the captain levied one of his own, giving no ground and only gaining—his strikes had not the weight of Vol’krin’s, but they came with aim and purpose, directed at the pride or the prince’s posture. Both now close to breaking.

A fierce thrust straight to the heart—the captain’s blade, the prince deflecting, stumbling sideways in a roll, clear from danger. Only barely.

The prince stepped back, sought the vantage of his surroundings. He would fight on the backfoot, whirling away and pivoting, the focus on defence alone. Drawing the foe in and moving out. Superior endurance was to be his saving grace.

So the dance went on, the captain in a swift cut forward; the prince fleet-footed, gliding lithely and elusive, always in backstep. Never retreat.

Several rounds and the captain’s speed dwindled, his step turning heavy and so too his breath. His face was bruised now from the beating; it bore the mark of the watchman’s fist. Sweat streaked off with dried blood breaking... the foe less fervent to follow Cedric’s footwork. And the dawn seemed ripe for a new-born prince.

Weaving in now with a hard-earned parry, the prince rose dreadful and in deception—a false cut high, then dipping low... shifting all-in strong with both hands on the hilt and his stance like a cobra’s. He sliced up, hewing with the full force of a storm. Unterhau: the technical term from a time more merry. The pet move of a squired princeling, safe in the shadow at his king-father’s side. A rising thrust from a low guard.

It caught the foe flat-footed, or at least almost. The captain staggered from his block, a hard grunt now and not a word, reeling back with blade flailing high—a worn green body coming fully exposed.

As the prince surged on to collect his winnings, a sudden jerk lured him wide astray—a third blade to enter the duel, cracking in stark and uninvited, some weak-kneed whelp flocking out from the congregation. Number sixteen.

Cedric threw up his blade, a haphazard block in the nick of time, deflecting the newcomer’s blade and swivelling out. Breathing hard and muttering a half-curse.

Sixteen stood strong, seeming keen to reengage... but that was not what the captain wanted; he grabbed the intruder flat on the throat—or the scruff of the neck to be exact, for he yanked sixteen aside, then reeled him in, bashing him skull against skull, again and again; the captain pausing briefly to check the man’s number—sixteen—then beating on, blind and beside himself in blood-battered rage. Sixteen times.

The man’s skull caved in a great wide dent, forehead collapsed and eyes dangling.

Tossing the limp mess aside, the captain fixed his gaze on the prince once more, heaving deep and ragged breaths and gasping for more, doused in a dead man’s blood seeping like sweat off him, down the grooves and gashes of his face, on his lips and in his mouth.

“Your blade...” the captain panted with sword raised, angled high toward the prince, “is... as dull as my mind.” He stood swaying, looked around at the silent pack pressed tight around the two, like a band of moonlit wolves.

Silence.

And then he laughed, the captain—a great, gut-rippling roar as the blood pooled on the ground.

How swift were they now, the heaping masses, to blare in with their rasping groans and chortles. The greedy goblin laughs that raked like the horns of hell in the prince’s ear.

In a heart-dead beat he was vaulted back to the town of Landsbury—that broken and unholy town where the soil had swallowed him whole. Him and his beloved. The raucous hell-rats who had stood over her and laughed at her defacement—he saw them here now, amassed around him in the halls of this living death.

The prince felt his blood boil a royal blue, and his hands and his feet... they wanted to leap and maim and gut the fiendish wretches, stomp their skulls flat-dead into the ground.

But he thought then of his vow—both vows now, for he had sworn once and then again. To avenge Gael, crownless maiden of his heart; and to enact justice for Artisan and Linaria, joint souls in this chained gang of sorrow.

He let them laugh, though it hurt him so. This thorned pride of his.

“Come...” signed the captain to the prince, beckoning him to join in the feast of slop—for when the prince had been absent in mind, the noonday bell had rung, and a guard had come swaying in with a trough full of slop, planting it primly on the blood-soaked ground.

The animals had dug in, all thirty... save for sixteen, who would do no more eating ever. They slathered their whole arms with the grey muck, shovelling it down their gullets with no regard for anything but gluttony—chewing and swallowing and no savouring, letting slaver and residue drip back in the feeding trough as they groped for more filthy handfuls.

Cedric could not look at them; he would vomit and he would murder... and he would rather just be alone, curse himself and eat alone.

But the prince swallowed his pride and obliged the captain in his summons.

“Here,” said the captain, handing the prince a bowl and ladling in the goods—vile grey goo that sat heavily in its container, but once splashed into his bowl, it had a breadth of texture and grit the prince could have done without... the core of it was solid, but dressed with a slick rancid liquid that oozed off—too thin to be sauce; too thick to be broth... but just right to be an ungodly travesty in terms of cuisine and sustenance.

“Njeaghe, njegh,” the captain making unpalatable eating noises as he motioned to Cedric: dig in!

The prince took a handful of the colour of despair, the lifeless grey mottled with darker flecks, simultaneously under- and overcooked... and he took a bite, thinking of experience points and the statistician—he needed nourishment to grow and to grow stronger. Strong enough so he could break them all. And Gendrin. That one would suffer like none hath suffered before.

And in a sense, this was an opportunity also—he was here with the captain... and the watchman a ways further off—only they three had gotten private bowls. The prince could pry his mind; see what there is to learn from the calculated brute he had seen fit to call captain.

Time, then, to exercise his skill in diplomacy—this revolting man had a warrior’s hard ego, and so a brief act of propitiation seemed like it might assuage him.

“A fierce warrior like you,” Cedric began, digging his hands deep into the wood of the bowl to ventilate his thickly roiling fury and disgust and disdain. “Why do you not have ‘jewels’?”

“Ah... come sit,” the captain said, gobbling down a large portion of chunky gruel in one go; the viscous remnants he drank straight after.

The prince sat with the captain, the latter seeming pleased now—he had relished the duel and respected the newcomer’s skill.

“You... go far,” said the captain between slop-feeding. “Advanced class...” and he pointed at Cedric whilst nodding. “Eat, eat!”

“How,” asked the prince, “does one obtain an ‘advanced class’?” He took a tentative dip in the bowl, licked up some slop.

“Gyaa, good... ey??” The slop, he meant.

Cedric nodded. “Very good slop. Best slop I’ve had in a long time.”

“Graaha yaaya... good. Ok... I tell you all... on advanced class...” He licked the bowl clean—or dirty, Cedric supposed, looking at the blood-dripping fiend flailing his tongue around for a final fill.

“Grye... is a... to do with egg.”

“Advanced class?” Cedric tried. “That has something to do with... egg?”

“Nyees... go max levels... then break egg... kill thing in egg... and sit self in egg... is evo... lution.”

To attain class advancement was synonymous with evolving, Cedric gathered, and for that he would have to... go back in an egg. To get hatched anew but better.

The prince relished some more gruel—it was almost appetizing now. By contrast.

Chapter 20 – Whereto now for the warrior-poet? (Training arc)

The prince pushed his leftover slop aside, thought it timely to excuse himself...

“I had... juuhwel,” said the captain suddenly, eyeing Cedric’s bowl like a lion a forgotten carcass.

“And now?” asked the prince as he slid the bowl towards the captain, his eyes conveying a wordless 'enjoy' in the most royal of manners.

“Gnej... box is buried...but where?”

The beach—the prince saw it now in his mind’s eye. Artisan and his box, the digging. Seeing far... too far down in the man’s worn-out essence. Soulgazing.

Just as the prince saw right to make remark, the captain ceased his groping and gnashing—the gruel had gone. All down his gullet. But the bowl... the man placed both hands briefly over the bowl, covering it and then uncovering. Deliberately without a doubt.

This bore too strong a scent of ritual to the court-grown prince—he knew of the many saintly orders and their fantastical beliefs... and surely, he had witnessed this precise act before. A lingering trace, the thought not fully formed... yet the prince was certain. He had seen grand-uncle Gustave perform it, this in courtesy to the large bald man he had sat with at the dais. Some monk or other, though the name or his order escaped the prince. But there was more. A quaint handshake come parting time—his uncle and the monk clasping deep at the other’s elbow. The free hand placed over one’s own heart.

It was worth a try. Something was off with this captain. A sunken man, not a doubt there—one with the blood-earned bearing of a lower lifeform. Though also a swordsman of some sophistication. A tactical thinker in his own right.

“You have my thanks for the company,” said the prince as he rose, turning toward the captain with extended arm, clasping round the elbow. And lo and behold... the captain did the same—his free hand moving to his heart but then quickly back as his eyes looked at Cedric’s eyes and... ah, too late.

Busted.

“You bastard, don’t play coy with me,” the prince roared, “What’s your angle here—lay low, and then what?”

The captain pulled the prince swiftly aside, glowering at a high-numbered rookie who had seen the prince flare out fierce, and without a fist flying in rebuttal—the captain’s go-to tie-breaker in any argument.

“Not so loud, please,” pleaded the captain, fully sidelining his feral facade. Though it was not forgotten: the blood of three men hung clustered round his cheek and lip. His own and that of the watchman’s. And then there was sixteen—the convulsing dead meat of him still spackled to the floor where they fought and ate, blowflies now flocking for a feast of their own.

“Who are you?” asked the prince in acquiescent tone—he would rather this charlatan for a friend than foe. Be it at a fair distance. More than a slop-grubbing arm's length away.

“I don’t know—really I don’t.” The captain hurried the words out, for the prince seemed as patient as a wolf in winter. “My mind’s gone dark, but these hands remember, acting it out still, doing what they must’ve done in life. I prayed a lot is what I gather—can’t stop myself, though it’s no good to me now. If it ever was.” A whisper now, the two sitting turn-backed away from the numbers and the watchman who was dozing off, big-bellied from feeding, the bulk of him pushing out on his plated iron that was not his but some damn dead kid’s.

“Then what am I to make of this... farce?” Exasperation shone like sweat on the face of the prince.

“Maniacs, the whole lot of them,” said the captain of his crew. “But I got them thinking I’m worse—only way to survive as long as I have... ah, that’s beside it all. What matters is I’ve always done right by the Blackroses,” said the captain, nodding up at the symbol on Cedric’s forehead. “Towering figures down here, most of you. Alaric made high chieftain, reigned under Gorkon for decades; Byron was a breath below at chieftain but got a lot of respect still; then Gustave was no good of course—that one cracked at raid captain. Oh, and then of course there’s Rodrich, who...”

“Gustave, my grand-uncle. What of him?” the prince cut in, thinking broken thoughts of the warrior-poet, noble brother to his king-grandfather Byron.

“Why must I be the bearer of bad news...” The captain looked suddenly shy, almost sorrowful. “He didn’t have it, Gustave Blackrose—lost his mark at the second stage of evolution. But don’t worry yourself though,” said the captain in hasty addition. “You’re nothing like him—didn’t have the voice of command.”

Cedric saw the warroom fading wanly before him—the man who had taught him the way of the sword and the word, stoic in battle and fierce in court, councillor supreme in the closed-door sessions. A goblin. A failed goblin at that.

“The voice...” started the prince, mind reeling but trying dearly to appear or to be undeterred by the faltering... his mentor, his favourite Blackrose. “Is that when lightning flashes and I feel alive almost, the rage or fetid despair... that is what you call command?”

The captain bobbed his head in fervent assent. “Mark of a true ruler—destined for great things. Goblin things, but great regardless.”

There were too many paths for the prince to steer the talk towards, all of them as bleakly unappealing as the grey-tinted goo they had gorged on.

“Where are they now, my ancestors?” asked the prince finally.

The captain shrugged. “Here or there,” he said. “Somewhere is for sure—no one leaves. Ever. But their minds will have gone. Might be the great king Rodrich’s one of them mid-ranks chained up and howling in the night... happens to us all in the end.”

“And your box,” the prince furthered his enquiry, fearful of stalling too long and staying stuck in it. The fear. “The jewel, what of that?”

“In the ground. Beach or plains or... forest,” the captain shuddered. “Gone to me now. They tell it the once, where they bury your things. Then never again.”

“The rookie games... how many times...” Cedric’s question lingered like a memory—as a boy, folding his grand-uncle’s pale cold hands around the hilt of his sword a final time. Then they entombed him and thought him honoured. But he was goblin instead.

“Three,” said the captain. “But I’m on a good stretch now—fifty years give or take.”

“Why are you still...”

“Small?” The captain cut in, completed the question. “I can’t crawl in that egg again—did it one time and it’s hell in there; body gets cooked alive, mind made a scramble, what’s left of it at least. No, I’ll be a rookie-looking old fool till I die.” He shuddered. “Hey, put in the word for me when you rise to second-stage—there’s talk that I’m fading, body giving out with age... that I’m due another round of the games. But I can’t do it no more. Please. I’ll tell you all you want in turn.”

“The box...” said the prince, circling back but nodding—yes, he’ll put in the word, whatever that means. If it suits him, that is. And right now it suited him to say so.

“There’s two—the mind box and the s...”

A sharp bell, harder than the noontime break one.

In blistering unison, the numbers and the watchmen lined up and filed in, all back inside the main halls.

The captain jumped up as well—put on his captain face, that narrow-eyed hostility, the silent threat you couldn’t fake but can. “Mines,” he said to the prince. “Talk... again.” Back to his old sparse syllabicity.

“Hey,” the prince shouted after, then made pace so his words wouldn’t fall on stray ears. “To cover the eyes is to see the truth—the creed of your cult, I just remembered. What the sign means after supper, blessing the bowl and all that. You were a Twilight Truther. Their flag is an eye...”

“With a veil over,” completed the captain, shaken. “See truth through obscurity.” Tears welled up, and then he shook his head, looked all grim and mean and violent again. “Don’t talk to me of that. I am dead to the world above and can’t have it halfway.”

The prince nodded, wanted to ask more about many things—harmless things like mining and where the hell they were all going, for they were starting to be surrounded by other mean bodies... when suddenly a shrill voice gave the call of “Blackrose!”

Turning around, the prince saw the registrar—no, someone like the registrar. A wispy weak man in a dangerous afterworld, clutching a little notebook to his chest.

“On Gorkon’s order are you to report to the librarian, Blackrose.” Again the same high-pitched loudness; this little fool was taunting hell—a whole squadron of arena-weary warriors stood before and behind and around him.

The prince approached, half-expecting the man to be snuffed like a candle before he got there, muscling through the sweat- and blood-stained brawn of the crowd and... no, quite the opposite occurred. The warriors moved almost gently around him, this feeble figure who had simply stood his ground. Remarkably self-imposing for one so tame-looking as him.

“No mine duty for you... how unfortunate,” said the registrar-looking man, pushing his glasses higher up his nose. “It seems even dregs can now be scholars.” A hard look at Cedric, who did not stir save for inside, flaying this talking worm alive in his mind’s eye. And with the violence came visions of Gendrin—bashing the bastard’s brain right in.

“When can I see Gorkon?” asked the prince, eager to pursue the prospect’s path, the promise of station and power. The thirteenth class for only the finest of hatchlings.

“When he wants to see you,” said the man as he walked on without looking, expecting the prince to blindly follow. “Scholars’ hall is past your quarters and to the left—all the auxiliary branch workstations are. The fine arts: healers, trappers, tinkerers, scholars...”

“Builders and foragers,” the prince broke in, speeding past the parts he knew. “You’re a scholar, then?”

The man gave pause, jaw clenched as he cast another hard glance at the prince, a look that lingered. On the symbol on his forehead. On the arena plaque still hanging around his neck. “When I was young and inexperienced, thirty-one.” He stepped away straight after speaking, like he had seen all that need seeing. “I am lorekeeper now, which you would do well to remember—a second-grade role... and soon on to third-grade, the final ascension. Seer or statistician, I have not yet decided. Both are possible with an intellect like mine!”

This one had just made the prince’s list. Behind Gendrin and the darkmage... but before Gorkon. Three sentences in and already a deep loathing had developed. A true talent indeed, this lorekeeper.

“...” Cedric sought to speak as they strode on, but saw then a familiar hobbling—it was Artisan, stepping through the crowd toward them. With a new and better brace affixed to his bad foot.

“Would that this old mind could join you in study,” said Artisan, sounding strong, his body now spared from the strain of suffering. Somewhat. “I was not yet wise when I read On myths and malice—ah, but it is all so relative. How dim we all must seem when measured against a master.” A nod in deference to the lorekeeper who raised his chin, looked stately and grave for all to marvel.

“We convene later,” Artisan added, a quick wink at the prince so that they shared the humour—placating to the prideful... this fool of a lorekeeper seeming none the wiser.

Their paths split and the prince then pondered, thoughts never straying to the wayward walk of the warrior-poet. No, his mind was fixated like a scholar’s. On myths and malice.

Chapter 21 – Anima and the Lost Prospect (Training arc)

The scholars’ hall was nothing like the term implied—it was barely a hall, this dimly lit alcove, the same ghostly shade of green as always. And no scholars either, none worthy of the name. Only goblins.

Of course, there was nothing else the prince had envisioned.

Still, he was disappointed.

“Sit that green butt down, latecomer,” said the stern-eyed schoolteacher to the prince, sliding the lattice-panelled door back shut behind him. The errand-boy lorekeeper gave a deep bow, pushed the prince on the shoulder, shoving him slightly aside so that even in submission his arrogance shone through—commanding the attention of all in attendance.

It was so sad a sight that despite the slight, Cedric could not summon strong sentiments... save perhaps for a second-hand shame at the man’s abasement. Ah, but there it was, his contempt deepening further still. The prince did not like to receive his feelings pre-owned.

Cedric took his seat beside the others, a dozen or so in total, sitting in single pew formation—small-framed scholars mostly, starters like him or older. But rookies still. Then two or three who looked more like the lorekeeper—slender and somehow shrivelled, green skin and bone... atrophied almost, like their muscle had gone from mental rigour.

“Six,” said the teacher in a firm voice, and a meek little figure to Cedric’s side drew himself up, sat suddenly straight though his posture did not exude confidence. “Start reading where seven left off,” the teacher added, swivelling a long pointing stick toward the wooden letterboard at the front of the class.

“The mon... is nejit...” six uttered in jarringly broken goblinspeak.

The teacher sighed. “Hands on your knees—I swear your wits dwindle more and more by the day... impressive almost.” With a swift and resounding snap, the stick came cracking down, whipping a deeper mark still on six’s blood-torn hands—the latter having tearfully obliged to rest them on his quaking knees.

“Latecomer,” said the teacher then, turning his wilted worn self toward the prince—the man looked like the captain so old, lines of a goblin-grown strain showing hard on the thinning green of him, his skin faded to a dry shade of yellow. Still, he was a second-grade someone, Cedric reckoned—the long flowing robe draped drowningly around him, so still-faced his countenance with only the eyes, the harmful hurt eyes speaking. “Continue. Show us the kind of Blackrose you are.”

Staring straight at the swirling mess of text, the prince knew nothing at all familiar in this cold and crass writing—what horrid foreign tongue would they have him study?

The lorekeeper gave a snicker at Cedric’s silence, a long-stretched void that saw the teacher ready his stick for striking...

But then the whirls flowed on into words and it was worse than silence. Here was the olden script laid out before him—the soft soothing sounds he had learned as a boy. Where had it gone, his love for Lothrian, the frills and curls of so noble a script. It was hideous to him now, the language of his land. Distant like his own forgotten heart.

“The moon is of night,” intoned the prince then, though the words rang dead and hollow from the mouth of a goblin, translating on the fly, “as the sun is of day, a ceaseless cycle, guiding yet indifferent.” They were the words of Calidor II, Hightower archmage from the time before, when wildkin magi roamed and the land was not yet Lothrian but Lothunc and Rhianmere—the two-hearted nation torn iron-clast into division, broken and fragmented. Until Rodrich had made the world seem whole.

All whipped their heads in cold hard fear or consternation—this newcomer here had just outdone them, flawless and fluent, in deduction, in his diction.

“Not as dumb as I predicted,” said the teacher.

But Cedric was not done, enamoured now by the awe-struck expressions that fuelled something soulful inside, his princely core that was not a heart nor strictly soul but more central still—that deep-seated part of him; it revelled in standing and superiority.

“The moon is of night as the sun is of day,” the prince repeated, “a ceaseless cycle, guiding yet indifferent...” Then the interlude, eyeing the errand-boy lorekeeper who had vexed him so—it was a childlike tour de force the prince was flaunting; this he knew, and it changed nothing. The knowing. “In its cold luminescence,” the prince went on, “I see the ebb of magic, a tide receding from the shores of the known. So celestial its indifference, canvas to our fleeting wins, our endless woes. Eternal and inevitable—these brash intimations of the divine, immutable in essence. The fault in mortal struggles.”

The prince had read it all—the opening address of Calidor II’s encyclical called Sapiens Mystica. Wisdom from the Archmage.

Silence reigned, a sense of stupefaction dawning on those witness-made to the precocious powers of this hatchling prince—a Blackrose who had shown true to his heritage, the primus inter pares. Elite amongst elites.

The lorekeeper stirred... there is always the one, in the face of rightness, an avowed unbeliever. “Is that all correct, master Grok?”

And the teacher, this master Grok, stammered a choice few nothings... but his eyes, they spoke true—there was the hint of reverence shining out now from his look, the upward arch of his brows, yielding to wonder; thin pupils dilating as though in physical surrender—the boy is the master now... the Blackrose bastard who was born in life and in death with everything in favour.

“I... don’t know—from the third line on, the words gets hazy,” said master Grok, and it did not seem to harm him to admit. To be bested is a blow only to those mired in self-admiration. Take the lorekeeper, the ego bloat on that one... he will seek flaw or fault, and failing that, it’s foul play, so he will say, adducing such from infallible logic. His frail imperfect mind.

Grok dashed back to his desk, delving deeply through the drawers... and produced then a timeworn scroll, frilled and frayed at the edges, a red wax seal dangling off it. Like an afterthought. It was the royal red of Rodrich. The first true Blackrose.

“There are... elements,” said Grok in staggered breath, “that remain to us unclear—the best of our Scriptores have failed to find footing.” Fumbling with age or from faltered nerves, he unrolled the scroll, showed it to Cedric. “Can you...” started Grok, but stopped when the prince gave a nod, curt and candid. Yes, he could.

It was the Edict of the Crown, founding document of Lothrian—a constitution by proxy, as the elected parliaments of Lothunc and Rhianmere were swiftly dissolved. Rodrich, King of the Blackrose did not need the people’s input. A true sovereign does not rule by shady consensus. But by his iron will alone.

Shooing six aside, Grok hastily supplied the prince with the proper tools for the job—a fresh sheet of parchment and a feathered quill.

“It is most rare...” said Grok, urging the prince on... then pleading when the latter made no vital effort—the teacher standing with palms pressed humbly together, imploring his pupil to take to this fated task. “Lothriana-Goblinica is a hard-wrought path for even the most ardent of scholars to tread. And for a hatchling to retain his past-life insight... that is beyond remarkable, near unprecedented!”

The prince took it all in, holding the quill and his thoughts. Not yet committing. Why would he write the words of his noble forebear for these beasts to ponder—had they the right to read them? And had he? No, perhaps not. Not any longer.

But what did rights mean to the vicious, or to anyone at all in this brutal cold world?

We have what we get and what we take.

Rage against the heavens.

Where are they now when the light has died?

Cedric started writing, thinking with each scratch and stroke of the quill—Gendrin, Gendrin, Gendrin. All of his own breath so that damn rat would not draw another. Be dutiful or play the part; then rise up the ranks and ruin him. Gendrin, Gendrin, Gendrin.

The Edict was just as the prince remembered—a treasure of the heartland, even in so pale a copy; the scroll was tattered, the calligraphy second-hand. Like the shame seeping off the lorekeeper and into his royal mind. Broken pride, so fell a fragrance.

The room went silent, and all the long while the teacher stood over him, staring at the prince and at the writing.

He had known it all by heart, and now his heart had gone and he knew it still. Rodrich’s legacy was one of the sword, a kingdom forged with the force of iron, the taint of blood. A conquering will found in absolutes alone—it is said the man dined on nothing but plums in summer and horsemeat in winter; the first gave him vigour to withstand, and the latter something greater still. It left him hungry, always on the wrong edge of satiety. Lusting, drifting for more and ever more. One land was not enough, and so the man took two. And still the great king cared for his people—those he let live, and those he let die. So royal a monarch, he strung the noose and not the hangman; all the hard honours Rodrich took to himself, and in so doing, kept his hands clean.

The Crown heretofore and henceforth disclaims and attaints the following: ...

All the names of the nobles who had wronged him somehow. Three finely penned page-lengths.

The prince wrote them all down—from Crisant Abrindeel to Mavis L. Hawle... the bottom of the first page. He knew them all, or at least their houses. The ruins that now remained, their side-branches like thistles; you can cut them out, but the roots are restless. The old blood never dies.

Then the second page, a longhand script to match his own—when did he learn to write goblin?—the fingers of his beastlike hand moving like a memory... no. A forgery.

Jerilin Mandrake—this was a name that did not belong. Their line was a young one, taking roost from matriarchal descent, first Marigon, then Bellenis... only then came Jerilin, and she had hair as blonde as Gael’s was, young as well and her heart still beating.

The scroll was a fake.

But the prince did not pause—he wrote the name down and then a note to himself, in his mind alone. Why rouse suspicion? Let sleeping dogs lie.

The prince would find out the greater meaning, the why and why it mattered.

He wrote on, and the time blurred before him, and... Janil IV Redlent.

Another name that did not fit.

There was a Janil I and II, but not a III. And certainly not a IV.

But the prince carried on.

Nothing else that struck him as out of place.

At first.

And for the son the same as the father—Baldirk, son of Feldirk (the latter vaingloriously espoused as the lost king... the former as The Lost Prospect)—will be hanged and buried in two parts, a box for the mind and a box for the body.

It caught him hard like hell raining down—the two things sorely out of place.

The first:

The Lost Prospect—this was not the proper title given to Baldirk the broken. No. The lost hope is what his people called him, those of Lothunc before Lothrian, their faith as misplaced as their tongue. Speravind was the one word in their long-dead lexicon. But with two translations. Hope. Prospect. A dead-on deliberate misinterpretation. Prospect. The thirteenth class for a goblin starter.

The second:

Baldirk was buried in two parts; this the prince knew. But the additions—a box for the mind and a box for the body—that had not been recorded at the official reading of the Edict. The prince had studied the transcripts in his beautiful summer as a scholar proper... the transcripts of at least seven scribes, all verified Doctores of rank and reputation. But with all the talk of boxes, the rookie games, and the arena captain confirming—there is a mind box... surely, the mention here is more than filler. And for the word ‘body’, again the old Lothunc word came to mind. Anima. Again, two translations. Body. Soul.

The prince let his mind work as well as his fingers, writing ever on and without blinking, straight until the valediction. And so it is we do declare, by the grace of the forged gods, King Rodrich of the Blackrose.

When the work was done, he did not ask for permission. The prince simply stood up, walked out. No one dared to breathe, let alone stop him. Grok cradled the new transcript like a mother her babe.

Stepping out, the prince tossed his arena plaque—thirty-first would not do.

He felt light, not his mind but his body...

The buckler.

The damn magestone buckler.

He had left it in the arena.

Hurrying over, he... hesitated. Near the entrance of the arena now, the prince heard war—the gridlock-hard clang of metal scraping metal, the grunts and cries. Here was a skirmish or battle, for true and real. Weapons meant to maim and not merely mock.

He thought of the dagger—the wood and paint that had so disgraced him. Could he not now get a true blade for his own? A blade fit for a prince?

But it was an afterthought.

The buckler came first.

His body still safely outside, the prince leaned in and peered in... and straightaway spotted his buckler—thank Godric for that.

And less thankfully, he spotted the source of the sound.

Six lean second-grade raiders. All fully adult-sized goblins.

Though the prince often fancied himself stealthier than a shadow... he might admit that facts do differ. The men—and these were proper tribe-level warrior-men—had seen him as well as he had them.

“Come, come, rookie,” shouted one, the biggest one. He stood over four feet tall, a tower of flesh and bone, wielding—in a one-handed display of boastful force—a bonecrusher-style battleaxe. Not the prince and Artisan and Linaria put together could lift that thing; not as they were now.

“You want your toy back!” shouted another, a shorter and more compact one—the man seemed like one big overstretched muscle; it did not make sense. He was eyeing the buckler.

“Yes, yes, come get eeeeet bahabajaja.”

And the prince... what does a prince? Would Rodrich have stepped meekly away, vacating his possessions for a stronger man to now own?

Or would he rage and rise and TAKE what was OWED.

Begone, heavens, we have no need for your pale prayers and final judgment.

I answer only to violence.

That is what the prince thought, stepping into the arena.

Chapter 22 – For blood and guts, begone with glory (Training arc)

His thoughts strayed at first, searching for something heroic or princely to say. 

That there is my buckler and I will have it back. Step aside if you value your life.

No.

Words would sound weak; the jeers, the derision... the stage had already been set.

A cautious approach. Then, when in range, he would fly out and rip at their dogged throats. Supreme brutal force was the only way left.

But as the prince walked toward them, the glare that they gave, these six pairs of eyes—evolved trench-worn goblins... it came close to unnerving him. He could override the impulse, though not without strain. It was the self-same phenomenon that kept the lorekeepers living, trekking with madmen day in and day out. The hatchling’s inclination to flinch or fear; or in reverse: the natural dominance of a higher-grade specimen.

But the prince could not bow down to greater authority. Save for his king-father, there was none.

He would trust, then, in the thing he became when rage took over and reason died.

“Cedric, run!” shouted a female voice from behind the rugged bastards—a sweet, soothing voice stretched suddenly too thin. It was Linaria’s. She sat crumpled in a corner, near where the prince and the captain had shared their slop, their story... “Artisan had said you were without buckler—it had dawned on him mid-way through his mining shift.”

“And you came to get it,” said the short stout one to Linaria—the man with that uncanny lack of muscle and non-muscle separation; he was all unbroken brawn.

“But we got you first, didn’t we? Heeheeeheh,” chimed in the four-foot tower of flesh and bone—as adult a goblin Cedric had seen... save perhaps for the bone-warrior, who was uniquely menacing, exempting the dreadful taskmaster. None could rival him in sheer presence and terror.

The prince looked past the savages, and at Linaria. He needed to see it, had to gauge for himself just how low these evolved bastards could go. Blood dripped from wide long gashes on her forehead. She held back tears, but only just.

“It don’t come off mwwuuuuu,” said the compact one again, “we scritsch scritsch scratch but is still there, the mark eheejeeee.”

“We don’t have one,” said another bastard who looked plainer than the two main ones. “So why should she??”

“Cave in that pretty skull,” said yet another, “then she won’t have no more what we don’t.”

Linaria started full-on crying now, and the prince felt a similar rip of emotion, though tearless. A warrior needs either rage or reason, nothing in-between.

And as for these bastards... they had harmed one of his and now they would pay. Blood would not be enough. He would batter them to ashes and eat the ashes; it was sick and twisted and it was right—to his mind made goblin it was, the deviant sense of violence it now yearned for. And that way, these wretches would forever be part of him, fuelling his further vengeance against an unjust world.

“A sword,” said the prince, his voice that ice-cold calm of the warrior-poet. The harbinger of bloodshed.

One of the bastards tossed the prince a sword from the rack—they had some warped code of war-bound honour at least. The metal felt right in his hand.

Gods, he had missed this.

“Hyekyek, try me first,” said the short compact rat, the one-muscle-all-over man. He arced his blade overhead, traced a large and sluggish circle, the clean flow of steel forestalled—there was too much mass and it was getting in the way, the beef of his shoulder. A natural barrier.

The prince pushed off, charged in a dead-hurtle blaze toward him, flashing his steel like the lady’s tears—for all the world to see and quiver.

No feeling out, no tentative nothing. The prince cracked down the sword and ah, it felt good. A tool fit for his wrath. But then the impact—the prince had slashed and the muscleman leaned into it, bucking full-force up with his intercepting shoulder... blunting the blow on the cast-iron of his spaulders.

Reeling back, the prince spun clear of danger—the foe’s counterstrike whipped scarcely past, the steel of his blade pounding the ground, grinding to a dead halt.

Whirling further away, the prince took to caution, changed into the head-on stance of defence—the two-handed grip he had once as a boy embraced, bouts against giants when he was but a squire.

He clenched both hands hard around the hilt, hellbent on retaining his hold, a jolting dullness spreading through his sword arm still. The clash had showed him; in mind he was back at the beach now, the blood-heavy sand below and the crashing of the waves, Vol’krin beating at him... and how frail was his form, fresh then from the egg. So great was the gap now—no, more massive still. There was no measure to withstand comparison, the strength of him and the foe’s, they dwelled in different planes.

The foe sliced his blade along the heart of the earth, grooves so deep they proved—I have been here; my blood and bones have roamed the halls of a hell-born life. The world remembers when the rest has gone. But no time for weary thoughts of legacy. Sparking up in a fierce assault, the foe finding aim, heavy and ponderous the strike...

The prince gliding back, deft and precise and deflecting, all in a one-motion moment, streaking edge on edge, his blade and the foe’s, guiding it groundward. Another gash in ode to their remembrance—a joint thing now, the clash of wills that would live and wander. Ghosts trail in every step.

It was a glancing blow, but the prince was rattled. There was no hope for stalling—his body would shatter. Time was slow now; it always was. Blood coursing swift and his mind a-wander. Would he falter and find false sanctuary, beseech the brutes he had renounced? The ones up there, in the halls of heaven. Too high up or too uncaring. The fight was fought in the pit below. A fleeting glance is what he gave it.

He could hear them, the laughter and scorn—not a force of the divine but of green grizzled bodies. Six goblin bastards praying for his fall.

The prince felt a rage of blood and desperation, his symbol flitting blue but faint, the Blackrose dawning fell. Though like his mind it wavered—was he weak or still mighty, a man of mettle or of virtue flawed? A mere dark animal tearing wild and with abandon. But lucid still, at least in parts.

Though the heavens were too far for him to see, there was something still between them. The world of matter—the high and low ceiling. The arena was a carved-out cave, a work half-done with rocks still dangling, low at the lining, the dull periphery.

Ever in backstep, the prince took his foe on a journey. Blocking the blows and bending, his own sword moving with the foe’s and not against. It was all he could do to reduce the burden, the fierce hard strength of the blade that bore down.

Dancing at as great a range he thought enticing, the prince lured the fool in. A single stroke was all he would need.

Beaten steadily back, the prince sometimes staggered. For true most times, but also for beauty, the drawn-out effect—focus on me and my abasement; the terrain is what will do you in.

When the far-side arena edge came close to claiming him, the prince gave a grunt—sold the act like a playwright would want. He stumbled back, collapsed on the cold floor, and oh, what a performance... the goblins they snickered in that crass shameless tone; Linaria broke out in a mournful sharp wail. Lamenting the loss of her liege now forthcoming, hanging dead in the air like a dark thing that loomed.

The foe arced in wide, sweeping the sword with his rigid packed shoulder—a hew from behind moving stark overhead.

“Stop...” pierced a call cutting swift through the laughter—a clear bell-like chime. But still sharp and commanding. It was one of the six, a female, the leader. The voice of some reason. Though it dawned all too late.

KRSHHHING. Metal to rock and the clang was like death, a kiss or its promise. The sword had struck rock, carved a path through the hanging low ceiling... but the power of man had paled before the power of earth—that raw ceaseless something no one life could curtail.

The prince then sprang forth, his opponent still quaking...

It was a long deep thrust first, flowing through to a slice—the steel meeting flesh, a true ripping and tearing.

The foe groaned and choked on the blood he should cherish; it would be the last time in this body he had. The core of him fell out, gushing in dead hard abandon. The bowels of a beast on the bowels of earth.

Cedric looked at him, forced the foe into a final gaze—see this face and do well to remember; I will gut you again if our paths cross somehow.

The prince kept the stare till the foe’s eyes rolled back. A heap of old flesh, sagging in disgrace.

The blood would wash out; the cracks would remain. The earth that bore witness.

The soul once more stained.

Chapter 23 – A clash of commanding wills (Training arc)

“No—he’s mine.” That same voice again, smooth and sharp and strictly decisive. It was the woman-warrior, calling the four feral bastards off—they were all bounding toward the prince, tearing dead-hot straight at him. Wild with yearning. To avenge their fallen ally.

But time froze, or it might as well have—as soon as they heard the call, they all four stuttered to a stop, restless eyes glazing over. Like magic.

The prince had thought her impassive, a mere hapless bystander. The woman-warrior.

Wrong.

She moved alone and she was calm, walked the beat of her talk, a lean and long stride like a vowel never-ending. Her lithe form adorned, though like a predator, sparse and serviceable, lightweight armour only, hide over leather. A short sword and an arm-shield to match. She looked like lightning, so fast. The sound and the fury.

“That was my second,” she said, her features flat but on the brink, close it seemed to contorting. Something cold and sinister lying just beyond, controlled but only scarcely.

“He was nothing to me,” said the prince, though not undaunted—the fierce presence of her, an evolved goblin, and one blessed with the force of command, at least in some gradation.

“She will die first,” said the warrior-woman, the leader, angling her blade at Linaria. “And you will watch her die. Only then will I gut you like you did Uggon.”

The prince stepped out of the corner, taking care now not to slip—the blood and guts, they had spread. Like shadows at dusk, stretching long and thin and treacherous.

“It will not be long now,” the prince proclaimed, his spirit strong despite the danger. He had felled one already, a second-grade goblin. His first kill since Vol’krin worth counting. “You will beg me for mercy but there is none. That bastard there, consider him lucky. I gave him a clean death, though he soils the ground.” With a sidelong nod to the body bent behind him, the prince shifted out, his back to the wall no longer. “But for you, it will be slow. I will make sure of that.”

The leader ignored him; his words were air. But the four henchmen laughed and roiled with bitter hate both, a single sound holding all, their amusement, their indignation—they lived in absolutes alone, the opposites that confined them. Like animals enslaved. Nothing there but the thrill of the moment.

“Grab her,” said the leader in that voice she had, hard and soft, a shard of glass swathed in velvet.

And like clockwork they sprang up all four, gears turning ruthless toward the stranded Linaria.

“Stop,” said the prince, or perhaps he shouted, painstakingly aware all of a sudden that he had no plan—never did, in life and in death. But that was too stark a realization, so he let it in, yet only a sliver.

They paid him no mind and why should they? What did he have for bargain or barter?

“My locket, the ring, the buckler,” swore the prince, “Magestones, green and red—have them all, all three. But let the lady go.” He surprised himself. His tone, it was almost pleading.

Again that mirthless laugh, they were all four of them the same. “We have all the loot our hands can carry,” said the tall one in afterthought, flaunting his axe, the gilded hilt; it was enchanted. The dimmed-down glow of a magestone in metal.

“You think your stones mean much,” the leader broke in. “But they are nothing past the first phase of life.”

What a lie that was, the prince thought, but his mind knew better—the leader was clever and she might spin tales... but the four-foot fool was more dim than his metal. Too slow to fib or know fact from falsehood. No. It was true somehow, their lack of interest.

“Let me go!” Linaria kicked and flailed at the green hand that grabbed her—it was the lowest one, looking plain and weak and hardly evolved. Taller than a rookie, but only by an inch or two.

There was a word then, a charm or spell though not complete; it was left half-spoken. The world dawned hard and cold like ice, a bolt of the mighty element sputtering forth from the lady’s hand.

The prince felt it come on strong and he wished he did not; it was rough and raw and he longed then for death, the nothing above the something. Gael was gone but the frost was not, the unweathered element. How crass and how unjust, for a fate like that to befall a prince. Damn it all to hell, he thought, going limp and cold and strong with hate—for it seemed that he, too, dwelt only in opposites now.

And the spellbolt, it did little but annoy. Half an incantation by half a mage. The flash of frost crashed dead on the man’s plate armour, piercing through, though only slightly; he would feel it for a while, but he would live. Yet another pale injustice.

The man backed off, cursing fell in goblin, but another one took his place, a cretin just the same, and he pulled her down, dragged her by her hair to the four-foot fool who was grinning and grinding—the head of his axe etching lines in the earth. He raised it then... and the bonecrusher would be true to its name.

Its name. The prince felt a flash so fierce it brought him back to being, bolting through to the broken core. “Stop,” he said once more, and this time he meant it. Sparks of blue stacked in a storm around him as again he spoke. “I, Cedric of the Blackrose, Prince of Lothrian, command it.”

A tidal wave cracked forth, slashing like a spectre through the air—so grand was his name and his royal aura, with all things thrown in the firing line. Leximancy. The fire and counterfire. To lose now was to lose it all—such was the price in rising tall but falling short. A curse of madness if he failed.

He opened his eyes—when had he closed them?

They were all standing still, their frames locked and frozen. The four of them feral but with eyes clean on him... and yes, even her. The fifth one, the leader. Though for how long was not clear—she was trying to fight it. Her look was not as theirs, a steady gaze still and not glazed over.

Cedric sprang clear, rushing hard and straight at her, fast as a lost long-loved ghost when night dawns. He could end her now.

Ah, he was close... so heart-rendingly close—he could feel her; his blade and her breath, but they did not connect. The leader burst free, her mind flayed but no longer; and by the forged gods, she was fast. Her body and his body—they did not obey the same rules.

She kneed him hard in the stomach, sent the prince rolling out on the blood-beaten ground. He gasped for air like he did for Gael; wanted her heart as he needed his breath.

“You bastard,” spat the leader, swirling and swift like a wildcat in heat—she launched herself off, coming forceful, fangs bared.

He had worked his way back upright, the dishonoured prince... stood buckled and hurting, fending her off if the steel would allow.

The prince saw fire then—a flare bucking forth from the front, far away. It was the Lady Linaria, and what a feat for a newborn mage... rallying to his side with a second spell, and again a master element. Dead-on target, too. The flames would swallow the leader.

Fast. Impossibly fast.

The leader whirled away, the fire flowing off and around. Leaving hardly a mark on her.

But the blaze was not done, coming straight for the prince now. And he did not have the same spirit or legs; by the gods, he was tired.

Damn it all. The prince surged ahead, thinking not of defence but of taking her with him, hoping to reach and grab hold of her waist. In the red-hot bright blaze, their bodies would join. Meet me in death... a hard hell waits below. Or an egg and the same thing all over, though more scarred and diminished. And he... like a fool he had called on his name. Could he fight off the double dose of madness? One way to know. Bring it on. Bring it all on.

He felt the fire wrap round him; it was almost a blessing. But then it stopped. Linaria had retracted the spell—a feat fit for a master. Which in some sense she was, in a time long ago.

So it was, then.

Too late to stop, more in mind than in body; he was in and now he was all-in. The prince doubled down, barrelling forth with his steel still in hand and his legs somewhat steady. Ever on forward, to the leader who stood. Watching and waiting; she was already ready. Her footing not lost from the spin just before.

Could he best her in combat, a clean open duel? He did not want answers; he wanted to hurt her, was hurtling no-holds-barred bare at a much faster foe.

She set up a block, accepting his efforts. A low-down defence leaving room for a counter.

The prince swiped in strong, but her armguard... she caught it. She sliced in turn, a narrow blow that missed, but proved uncounterable—hers was a defensive approach, relying on her greater speed to defeat her opponent.

Ah, but then a flurry—she seemed to thrive on the fickle and erratic that was her nature, slicing and hewing in rapid discordance, for there was no fixed style; some strikes were wild and large, others compact and incisive, and they mixed seamlessly into a non-pattern that the prince could correspondingly not predict.

He was beaten back hard, clinging on but barely, staggered and panting. But brave. Not smart. But brave.

She came at him again and it was a good time for prayer, though no god worthy of receiving.

“STAND DOWN,” impelled then a fell voice that could be none but the one.

Electricity surged like it never before had, and they all stood frozen. The prince, the leader, the other four, and Lady Linaria.

It was Gorkon, glowering something fierce at them, his unruly children—so tense was the taskmaster’s intervention.

“First raider Zazra,” Gorkon said, “What is the meaning of this!?” He stepped closer, and he was old... but his strength was enduring; the man had muscle still on his lightly withered frame. And then of course his aura, the commanding voice of him that hits unlike any other. “You were primed for vice-warchief... yet would assault two of my mark-bearers?” He circled in, striding slowly toward the leader and around her. “No. This cannot stand.” He stood before her now, the leader locking eyes with her leader. Her face grew pale.

“As you well know,” said Gorkon, a soft tone now for he need not shout to impress. “My justice is swift.”

The leader pleaded but Gorkon reached out, grabbed her by the face. Then he closed his fist.

Her teeth cracked and then shattered, like fragile ice falling. A cold hard winter.

The prince saw it happen, and he could not move.

“And you,” said Gorkon, walking coolly at the prince. “Did I not say that my eye would be ever upon you?”

“Ye...s,” sputtered the prince, presumably to the amazement of all those made mute but present.

Gorkon smiled, a twinkle flitting through his one real eye. “And that we would have talk... about your fury and fate?”

“Y...es.” The prince pushed out the word, thought he might pass out with the next.

But that proved, for the moment, unneeded.

“Well,” said Gorkon. “Then we talk.”

Chapter 24 – The halls and the holy (Training arc)

It was a long lonesome walk to the taskmaster’s chamber.

Gorkon had left and the prince had gone with him, straining each step like it might be his last. But the taskmaster led, and the prince trailed behind—an assault to his stature, the royal pride that was wounded. Like his body it hurt, and the scars might not heal.

They went past the three quarters, the commons, the mid-ranks. The beds of elites where the night had brought much—both good rest and a struggle. Let him stay where he lay, the vile runt who assailed them. The rot would be good. A reminder to all.

Stepping through the great halls where the air was all stifling... hard as the heat from a hell-hot stoked forge. The tables, the chairs, the stone stoic silence—there was more than just them in these hollow carved halls.

The prince took it slow, moved with great veneration—he did not know why, but the adverse would cost him. He felt it somehow, in the bones of goblin body: two things, and both equally insurmountable—the need for shown reverence and the need to feel the need; the two were one and separate and recursive.

He did not like it here.

A path opened up, past the far side of the table; the stone walls giving way, the low grumble of earth. Some cave of death or of unearthly hallows—the prince did not relish the things he might find.

The way now was down, and he followed the taskmaster. He tried not to think but his mind wandered free.

There was a ghostly edge here, for all things are not matter. We have matters we know that our hands cannot touch.

A door opened then, for Gorkon to pass through. The prince stayed outside; it was not wise to go on. To break past the bounds something stronger had set.

Gorkon sat down—there was a chair in the chamber, and a hearth that was burning.

The taskmaster stared at the prince staring back.

“I will not go on,” said the prince, self-assured in his word but not the refusal—the taskmaster might not take it that well. “Not without a true invitation.”

“You do right to put faith in the deep-down core instinct,” said Gorkon. “The forces round here... they would flatten a man.” He peered at the prince with a hint of amusement—it was a test still somehow, like a long-drawn-out game. But the rules were unknown. “Enter my domain. For now, you are welcome.”

The mist that was there, though the prince had not seen it... that vanished all then, and he longed to go in. They called to his soul, both the room and the hearth. His body moved in, and the steps were not heavy. It was as if now he belonged to this place.

“Why did you lie?” said the prince; it was not much a question. “You asked but knew well what the mark I bear meant.”

“Cut the gloom,” bade then Gorkon, and the mood seemed to lift, growing lively and lighter. “You act too ill-tempered; there is place here for laughter—you have passed the last test, and your fate is now sealed.”

The prince sat down on an empty chair, felt the warmth of the fire. Tempted to retrace, to repeat the same question... but what would it add, some strange answer in riddle. No, he would focus from now, on the hard task ahead. “Give me my vengeance. Let me break those that wronged me.”

“What would you have an old taskmaster do?” Gorkon’s mouth curved, the fangs gone or receding; the image seemed clear, though it rattled the mind. He looked saintly somehow, a white robe that adorned him. A voice from the heavens, not just hallowed but holy—the sacred inherent, not tacked on by design.

The prince looked away to restore his true vision—what did he wear, this wizened taskmaster, his robe white or plain... and his voice, the true cadence, its meaning?

But the memory was gone or the facts somehow strained. Sore like a muscle, his mind ached. The tendons of thought in a sense overstretched.

“Will you be my new prospect?” Gorkon cut through the contemplative silence, seeming strong and still large, but a goblin. Not more.

“I will burn those who wronged me,” said the prince, and he believed it. “My will is my own; I will see through your tricks.” He wished it were so.

Gorkon gave an appraising look. “You will think to rebel, but I doubt it is wise.”

Their eyes locked and the prince did not cower—it took much, close to what mettle he thought he had left.

“Yes,” said the prince. “If my sword is scraped sharp and my body made better... I will be the new prospect.” He thought of the scroll, the fake words and the real, the boxes they buried. The dead line of Baldirk, son of brave Feldirk. The lord of the mire who had never been crowned. “Entail what it will, I can take it and suffer. The worst is to come to my enemies, not me.”

The taskmaster stretched, reached with his hands, the cold killing hands that can crush and bestow. “You are henceforth as I say. I bestow on you the class... of prospect.”

A stone-cold strong rush came swirling or crashing, the aura so fierce that the prince did not know—should he flee and be craven? A wild hopeless thing in the forest of mind?

How low could hope go... till it tattered and frayed, leaving little to hold. Not enough for one man.

But the cold was like frost and the frost was like Gael, a connection unbroken. Like the string on a bow, he could aim for his heart. Borne back to fields, to green pastures and meadows... ceaseless as wind, he belonged to the past.

“I am ready,” said the prince, his voice old and hard like the ice on the hills. “I have need to evolve.”

“One day a goblin—”

“Two,” the prince countered, cutting the taskmaster off in mid-sentence. It did not seem smart—was he bold or just reckless? The difference is found in the end, the thereafter. Not in the act, which was futile to judge.

Gorkon’s eye whirled, dancing up in its socket. “...” He was stirred but fell silent... no sound now but the drumming. His razor-sharp nails on the wood of his desk. “It is rare but not in truth without precedent...” They were words just like thoughts, for the man’s mind alone—the prince still an outsider.

“Tell me the stats,” the prince thought it right to intuit. His strength could be measured; there were numbers to go on. He put faith in it now, the lost art of statistics. The method seemed true, or at least a true constant, for if the rigour was rite and the forms turned out flawed... then the unfailing mould of the wrongs made them right.

Ah, it was hard to explain, and he would not dwell on it. Perhaps he just longed for some path that led straight—a steady strong rhythm. Then his mind, if amiss, would not stray all too far. His sin could spread out but stay one all the same. There was dignity there, or at least knight-like duty.

That was enough; he should not reach for the stars.

“Level 10,” Gorkon said, pulling the prince from his palace—the mind was where he was; ruminescent in touch.

“That is enough,” said the prince, though really in question. “I can evolve with those stats, build a body more suited.” The same lilting tone, a statement in search—give me some confirmation.

“It is the bare minimum, yes.” Gorkon nodded, again to himself and not to the prince. He, too, seemed lost in some memory. The past that is dead but not gone—on this fact they agreed.

“I will settle for that,” said the prince, who had never in life known a sliver of strife—there were always the meadows, the fields and the frost.

“Tomorrow, then—”

“No, tonight.” The prince tested his luck; it had brought him this far. And yet also so low.

“Prince, I will warn you.” Gorkon rose tall, shimmered hues of his aura. Colours the prince could not name if he tried. “Speak once more out of turn...” But then he sat down, brought his fury to simmer. “I should steady my heart; I have long lived in fury. It is gone if I blink, but then never for long.”

They were too much alike, and the insight it harmed them—the old man and the prince, they were silent some time. The hearth bounced a flame from one side to the other; it was lovely to watch from the space where they sat.

Gorkon spoke first, showed his mind or some snippet. “Stand firm, faltered prince—I have need of your service.”

“Is there room to inquire?” The prince tested the waters. “Will you tell me what for, or are words just like ghosts?”

The taskmaster sat, gave his gaze to the fire—the hearth that went on; it would never not burn. “The mark makes you strong—the mind is your weapon. Do not get disarmed. It would grieve me to see.”

The prince weighed these remarks, thought it best not to trust them. Don’t swear by words; they are easily withdrawn.

“Tomorrow,” said Gorkon; it was really a question. Affirm your resolve—it does minds well to hear it.

“Back in the egg,” said the prince, and they laughed; it was most unexpected. “Is there no better way than to sit in that goo?”

“If there is, I have yet to find it. Better minds than mine have tried—well, there was one.” Gorkon drew inward: to recall from the past is to hurt in the present. Like fire it burns, the memories of old.

“Zenok?” asked the prince, and he felt a quaint sense of sorrow; it was not his to bear, but the weight of a memory... it is sometimes too much. One man can’t take it—no saint or taskmaster. Even princes know limits. They sat for some time in the pain of the past.

Gorkon stood up, silent and watchful. He was old, and his clothes were in rags. He turned to the prince, “Eat now and drink, do your best to be merry. You are allowed the one night, so smile, be inviting... it does not betray your own ghosts when you do.”

“But come sunrise...”

“We’ll put you in an egg.”

“And I’ll come back the same.” The same sing-song tone, on the edge of inquiry. The prince leaning in for a word of comfort.

“You had better.” Gorkon smiled. “It’s far too soon still, in the hollow hereafter... no, this is no time for young princes to fade.”

The prince rose and stared, at the hearth and beyond it. “Must I traverse it, the hell of those halls—there is something that ails me; it’s hard and grit-dark, and I know something’s down there. A wraith or its shadow... some beast long deceased yet it roams and it beats—my being quakes always.”

Gorkon took it in, the moment of weakness. How princes can suffer. There’s a right to express. But to speak of these fears does not absolve one—the fire is there, and the path must be trod.

“You had best see your fellows,” said at last the taskmaster. The prince had been left to his fear long enough. It was time now for action. Words may move worlds, but it’s bodies that matter; they are made to stand firm for when words don’t suffice.

The prince moved to leave, and the taskmaster let him.

“One thing,” Gorkon said then, and the prince half-turned back. “Had you failed to recall...” The taskmaster tapped at his head, where the prince had a mark. “... you were unworthy of knowing.” Their eyes had met, made some meaningful contact. Then the fire, Gorkon returning his gaze to the master element. “To say more than you know... that is not my domain.”

Standing there, the prince, hoping though he ought not... for more words from the master—the man who was more than a goblin somehow. But none came.

The prince walked away, head held high for the act and the realness—he was better off thinking he was all that and more. The things he was not.

“The blade,” Gorkon shouted then, a spur-of-the-moment inflection. “You have the claim, and you alone. Dicebolg. I have need of it.”

They were both hard and broken—is that where strength comes from? Mostly alone and lonesome always... the prince thought then he had rather been weak.

If their paths should collide, they might well collapse—the men, the paths, the ruin of a nation. There were kingly things at stake at all ends.

The prince made his way, back up and through the great halls. And he sensed still the spectres, of long-living gone things—they must’ve been grand, known alone in superlative. Their might makes the place tremble still in their death.

But he thought then of them two, his allies... no, his friends.

And the air was still dense, but he breathed it now.

Chapter 25 – Bring on meat and mead (Training arc)

The healers’ hall was a hive of activity—goblin nurses wrapped in white and wearing mouth masks, bird-like beak covers that were mostly for show. It was the age-old affair that plagued most peasants’ sickrooms, in the hell here below like the land above: the dried-out balms and fetid messes, the odorous drifts of fresh manure. Dung slung richly in worn-down bandages. Dead dark limbs in a corner pile.

There was nothing here that would aid recovery. If the goblins survived, it was only by chance.

The prince looked around—Linaria should be here... the wound on her head was a cause for alarm.

Would they even know, these novice pretenders?

The lady was worth all the blood in their veins.

It was a large open space, the green-lit stone scenery. Packed to the brim with the heat of worn bodies, the scent of their flesh. The meaning of death. They were sprawled all around—there was no room for pretence.

The prince scanned the room, seeing nothing but rookies in various states of distress. A throwaway lot, all of them receiving ineffectual or potentially injurious treatment.

Distressed that the lady might be mishandled, the prince readied himself—there may be dumb heads here in need of ripping off.

“Prince,” he heard a thin voice call out then—it was her, sitting alone and almost hidden behind a wide separator curtain. She gave a faint smile when the prince approached, looking sullen but still mostly unbothered. Only a pointless blue salve on her face. It would not heal, and it would not harm. This was the best they could hope for.

“I am glad to have found you,” the prince said, veering from his planned remark—‘you look well’ did not quite work for the occasion. A lie is only worth speaking when there’s chance of success. And the lady was far too perceptive to be placated.

Linaria merely nodded, closing her eyes for a long moment each time she blinked. This gave the prince a few precious seconds to study her wound—a deep scratched-out gash with blood trickling out still, streaking red through the smudge of blue salve.

Incensed once more by the candid violence of Zazra’s band—the bastards who had brought this all on... the prince looked around for someone to scold or impel. Some nurse or other who might treat the lady properly if called to task with no way out.

And as if summoned, a small masked goblin emerged, seemingly from thin air at the end of the ward, carrying scalpels and other medical apparel. But unless the prince was seeing ghosts, something odd was afoot here. He approached the masked one, eager to investigate.

“Give me your mask,” he stated, forcing his aura to rise and emanate.

And it was not perfect, this soft word of command, for the masked man hesitated before complying. He stood there in a stupor for a while after, as the prince put on the mask and looked at the wall at the end of the ward, where the man had moments ago appeared. Though rock-shaped, it shimmered, like a curtain of low magic—a minor concealment spell that was still too advanced for most goblin eyes.

The prince went back to the lady, grabbed her gently by the hand—no words were needed. Only curt and strong action.

The two moved as one, stepping through to the veil that rippled apart as they passed.

Together, they waded into the next ward.

In an instant it was clear: there was proper medicine here. A fair shot at actual treatment.

And second-grade goblins as well—some the prince recognized. Zazra’s witless band was there, taking up gainful resources though all they ought do is rot.

The prince felt a surge of anger and loathing, for them and for himself—for having failed to stand up to them better. But then he thought of Gorkon, what the taskmaster might do if they again came to blows. And the prince backed off, wisely for once.

The lady sat down, and the prince cleaned her forehead, rinsing out the wound with the sparse water in supply. Let the rest of them ration—he would lay claim to what was needed and more. Rummaging through the dusty medical cupboards, the prince soon found some raw honey paste, enough for a poultice. It would ward off infection.

When the caring was done, the prince led her out, back to their own ragged quarters with the other elites. Linaria leaned on him as they walked—she was dreadfully tired. Two master spells in the span of a fight. Enough to fell most human mages. Let alone a lowly goblin.

“Is it bad?” she asked as they moved. “No,” the prince lied. And he saw only then that she carried the buckler—a magestone-red gleam to the cloth of her glove. He had eyes for what mattered. That was enough.

--

The elite’s quarters were busy, but not like the hospice. They had status enough—the prince had prevailed. The captain was there, the sly gruesome old tricker. All of his pupils gave Cedric respect. They were covered in grime, their skin calloused from mining. But the prince and the lady... they, too, had endured.

They claimed a nice cot now, a clean-enough mattress. Waiting for Artisan—where could their friend be?

The prince stood to search, but the quest was misgiven... in walked the man, limping slightly, not much. He tilted his head—come with, you must see this.

And the prince and the lady followed the man, his brace-encased leg.

“It is time, my liege and my lady, to feast on the spoils our champion has earned.” Artisan showed them the meat and the mead, both golden things in the valley of death. “Alchemists pay well for the eyes of a leximancer... but ah, it gets better.” He produced a glyph key, opened the door to the mid-ranks. There was nothing there now—beautiful sweet nothing. They closed the door, locked it behind them. Inside they were safe. Securely shut in, as free as can be from the eyes and the restless.

The room was like heaven.

“They’ve all gone to perish,” Artisan said. “A nighttime raid on the midland orchards.” He smiled, held the meat and the mead. “They will not come back, not the commons or the mid-ranks... only us fools, the elites matter some. I bribed the guards; it is just like an inn now. A night to ourselves—our mouths can be free.”

The feast was a blessing, the meat nice and tender. They did not touch the mead; they would save it for last.

“Why did you deign right not to tell me?” the prince asked mid-meal, his eyes locked on Artisan, not to intimidate—it was true-born curiosity. “You knew all the while that the Blackrose line reigns. So why then feign ignorance?”

“Is your mind still back there?” Artisan said; it was not an inquiry. “On the beach we were strangers—I had reasons to gauge you. There is nothing we have if our choice is not free.” He took a big bite of meat, its succulence dripping... coating his mouth, his lips and his chin. “You told me your name, your right of inheritance. I did not think you a prince, not at first.”

It made sense, or at least he did not doubt it—the prince placed great stock in the power of judgment; a man could be chained, like a slave bound to purpose. But the mind can roam free, without yoke save our own.

“Even old Gorkon,” Artisan said... then he paused for a swig, the earthly old nectar. It was honey and water; combined they were medicine. As mead or a poultice—there are more ways than one. “The hammer and tome, he still always asks me. Fresh from the egg, the first choice I can make. The path is perdition, but I walk it my own way. It is not much—I daresay not enough. But it is far more than nothing. To deprive one of options... that is the void, the only abyss.”

No words were spent on the dead prior moments—the day had been long, and the wounds bleakly showed.

They passed round the mead, taking sips or big swallows.

The prince needed talk, but his lips still fell silent. His brain felt besieged by an abundance of thought. He could pick out the one, but why not the other... they were interconnected, the threads and the strains of ideas in his head. All the half-answers, the facts that he ached for. Then he drank more, ever more... and the echoes were calmed.

“I will...” the prince at length said, slurring a tad, for the mead was divine. Artisan shushed him—the lady was sleeping. She had been through a lot and had earned some good rest.

To hell with it, then. If nothing else, they had time. Two days a goblin and it seemed like forever. And another birth soon—an act of his will. Not its surrender.

He was drowsy and weary—the mead did its job. They slept the sleep of the dead. A long night away from the hardships of day.

--

It was dark still when the prince jarred awake, his body reacting to dreams of the dead. He spoke not their names, not the foe’s or his lover’s—they were better off there, in the recess of mind.

He looked at the Lady; she was not as he knew her. Though had known is better—they were not like themselves. How the hard-headed fall, both her and him also. They had been loved... no, revered when their skin was not green. Pride was his downfall, and perhaps he had earned it—the prince would admit, the thought had crossed his mind. Though he blunted its force; there was no sense in knowing. Insightful reflections were fine in the nighttime. But the truth does not shine in the bright light of day.

Here he was now, sharing breath with the lady, seeing her face; the poultice had dried. Yet wherever he looked, he saw his own damn reflection. It was all about him, about his grief alone.

The prince closed his eyes in the gloom and the darkness. A minor reprieve from the hurt of himself.

He thought back on her life, how the lady had fought. Climbing high through her talent. She was not highborn blood, but by skill highborn-made. Slain in her prime, once high-chief of the glyphbinders. Head of the Arcanifactum not ten years ago. Reports had come in from some nightly incursion. But the facts were unclear, and the matter was dropped.

They had not spoken much, save on formal occasions. When the kingcoffer key had grown cracked, worn down from hard use. None had an answer—not the journeymen smiths nor the court-living mages. Ah, but then came the lady. Needing hardly a thing, just a handful of dust. The fickle blue stones he had come to detest.

She had once caught his eye, in the time before Gael. They both had a way with their words and their magic. The long flowing hair in the eyes of a man.

But resemblance is fleeting. The prince looked at her through thin slits of his eyes. He was close then to feeling the same hurt that she must. The green skin and heart that he had just like her.

The prince got up; his feet started pacing. Like his mind, now his legs—he had done it again. The pain and injustice, they had no innate value. These matters meant nothing when he was not around.

He took the glyph key from Artisan’s hand. He needed to move, feel the hilt of his steel as he flowed through the forms. The blade had been true, his one lifelong companion. When the nights were too long, and too cold without frost.

With his hand on the handle of the hard-wooden door, the prince looked back... something seemed off. He glanced at himself, never too long, for he feared what it cost. Had he borrowed too much and given too little? The green-glowing locket and the ring he had claimed. In the corner, the buckler and the lady who guarded it. Her magiguard glove on the spear-beaten wood.

The prince paused, then walked back. Artisan stirred, shifting in the deep of his sleep, eyes darting under closed lids. His leg twisted sideways, writhing with each breath. Was there no reprieve for him then... no solace in sleep, simply more of the same? He looked old—so dreadfully old. The night was not kind to a beaten-down soul.

He took one last good look at the ring and the locket. The light that they gave pierced a hole in the night. But the prince took them off, both these things he thought priceless. Did he think the same still, or had they outlived their use?

Let the old man have them, his own dug-up treasures. The prince felt a sigh; it rolled like a wave, crashing out from his being. He was starting to grasp: they were worth more than stats.

Seeing them now, the old man and the lady... the prince got the sudden deep sense he was spared—they had told him things, brutal dark things about the goblin death. But not all things. Had they granted him the mercy of not knowing? Are there darker-still truths he alone should unveil? They had given him freedom, the prince now realised. To decline investigation, remaining dumb and dark... but perhaps not as lost as he might otherwise be.

Forget the arena. Let his body be restless. It was his mind now that yearned.

It was high time that he learned. Of these damn rookie games that were not just for show. And the hard-buried truth of these infernal boxes—oh, how the lady had glowed when she took out her glove. The magiguard glove, it meant hope to her... so she must seek to wield it once more: Truorúst, shard of Ziegbölt. The blade that condemned her. But what the hell for?

Enough of not knowing.

The prince left the cell, glyph-locked it tight behind him. It soothed him to know they were safe.

In the darkness of night, the prince then made way for the scholars’ hall.

On myths and malice.

That seemed a fine place to start.

He would go in an egg tomorrow... but he would not go dumb and blind.

Chapter 26 – The long last night and lore: part one (Pre-evolution arc)

There was no way to tell time in these halls. The same putrid green glow pervaded at night as well as day—the goblin moss growing clustered on the walls and the carved-out damp ceiling. Only in the elite quarters had he seen sunlight, filtering faintly through the rents and cracks of its craggy hewn end. The prince longed to go there now, if only to verify. But he was sure it was night.

Slowly, the door to the scholars’ hall slid open, latticed wood creaking from the prince’s hard grip. He tried to be silent—he was not meant to be here. When the rules go unstated, they are all the more clear.

The prince strode through to the back, ran his hand along the bookshelves, feeling dust and the heft of its leatherbound tomes. He caught himself wanting to indulge—grabbing books at random like a scholar’s buffet. But he saw his own green hand reaching out. And it was back to business.

On myths and malice... he had almost not seen it. Placed far back in the rack, here was a handbound antique, the spine creased with old lettering. He would have worn a cloth glove not more than a week ago—the book was so old, the pages so frayed.

There was a flayed broken god that graced the front cover. He bore the form of a man, though his face was vile green. He was alone and grotesque, and in a way outright splendid; he stood tall as a mountain, could bear nothing around him but the sin of his kin. Halflings he made, the prince presumed—they were people and goblins. Holding knives and green hands, they formed a half-hearted circle, flowing free and wild as the lay of the land. It was raw and unsightly, how they wove round their god at a deferential-enough distance. The prince thought it mighty; he felt a brute sense of awe.

Kageru.

He sat down in the same pew as before... but then decided against it. Though a slave to most things now, routine was not one.

Far removed from the realm of true study—both the prince and the book, for there was no author listed. No year and no references. Musings of a madman for all he could tell.

In truth, it was a stark disappointment. He thumbed through the pages, finding little of worth. Here was a collection of folk tales and worse, just discarded flawed notions. How the air was miasma, the true cause of disease. How gold could be grown from the alchemist’s pot—the high from the lesser. The prince let his gaze drift. From the text to his hand. No, if matter was transmuted it would never be better.

The glossary of terms, then. Under ‘G’ for goblin. Page thirty-eight.

More dumb old fables—how goblins grew from the moss in their caves. An old illustration, no mention of eggs.

Enraged with the folly of what he was seeing, the prince closed the book.

Then he saw the back cover. His breath stopped.

There was a grand table pictured, long and broad; it was rife with food and drink, with swords and gold—all things that mattered to the people of old, heaped in large piles bleeding into each other. Commanding attention, at both the head and foot, two towering chairs stood vacant. Fit for a Lord and a Lady. Then four smaller chairs at the far end; the four forged gods sat them—those worthy of veneration, their divine faces clearly on display. The prince knew them well enough. Their tales at the least. Rugged and handsome, the two men, Reduvex and Eteraenem, though they went by many more names. Graceful and gleaming with the force of their aura, the two women, Paldufaer and Maienexis, also graced with a multitude of monikers.

Then on the near side, only three chairs, with the last one half-crumbled. All of them sat by a fallen forged god, the disreputable bastards of this exalted assembly. They were Yulvolde and Faruikis, both broken beasts that had stood with Kageru at the Battle of the Gods. Yulvolde was only visible from the back; she had repented, and the others had forgiven their sister’s sin... to some extent. She was much reduced in stature—no longer a god, but a high-ranking servant. Faruikis was pictured likewise from the back, but with a shame-red face turned toward us, testament to his sin. He was reaching out and trying to help the last god, the one sitting on the half-crumbled chair and falling. This was Kageru. Neither of these last two had repented. Kageru was beyond redemption, and thus not welcome at the table anymore.

The prince thought of the table in the great halls; it unnerved him so that the thought stayed hollow and remote, like a still landscape painting left deliberately unfinished. No life and no colour.

Thankful for him, there was a source of distraction. At the bottom of the book, right below the image, the artist had tacked on a frilly banner with his name. Haldonn the wise.

Two true thoughts shot through the prince, both vying for his full attention.

The first:

The goblin lorebook he had seen when he was still whole, his summer as a scholar at the magetower. The author’s name—here it was. Haldonn... something. The surname was lost to his mind and perhaps to history. But he went by his self-stated title, usually in mockery. The wise.

The second:

A thought more potent still than the first, the longer he pondered. Artisan’s words in the hallway: I was not yet wise when I read ‘On myths and malice’.

The man spoke in riddles, but this one seemed solved. A goblin by any other name... would be nothing more than a goblin still. How many did he have to spare—Gavrilon, Artisan... and now Haldonn?

Now the search was on, the prince scouring for clues. But the books were all filed according to title, not author. A deep sigh. Knowledge did not come easy in the goblin world.

Ferignost—that would be an apt title. The blade that had brought him low, god-shard of the god-blade. Ziegbölt.

But no. No book with that title.

How about The Lost Prospect. The forged title given to Baldirk of the mire, son of Feldirk, in the Edict of the Crown scroll—the one the prince had seen right enough to translate, for the furtherance of knowledge. No. For his own gain and standing.

This did not serve either, the insight. Too many books starting with The. And not all were stored in alphabetical order.

It shamed the prince somewhat to know what he tried next. He closed his eyes, pulled Artisan to the centre of vision. His mind’s eye in search, an attempt to recall. Soulgazing. The prince had seen Artisan’s form—the true depths of his soul raw and battered.

Nothing.

To see as far as he had before, that one time... he could not do it. Not on command.

Another approach then. Think away the goblins—a feat he could not quite manage, so he acted as if. Where would he find this information in a proper library? The magetower staff kept a handwritten catalogue, documenting all of the manuscripts... could it be?!

The schoolteacher’s desk was a touch elevated; it looked quite like a lectern. They were green and savage and ugly as sin, these goblins. But they took the best things of man for their own, be it in pale imitation. The culture, the heart. The soul.

Though the drawer was locked, there was a big book on the desktop. Ledger of Tomes. Master Grok, that old fool... at least he kept affairs in steady order.

Leafing through the ledger, the prince noted the author list—it was not long. The goblins did not care much for academic renown... no, quite the opposite. Only third-grade theses were given attributions. The seers and statisticians, an ode to their prowess. The most evolved of the scholars.

Haldonn the wise—here it was, his name. He had been a statistician some ten, twenty, thirty lives ago.

Crucible. His dissertation. The one book registered under his name.

The prince went to the bookracks, stifling the beat of his breath, so hard and so shallow.

There was no front cover and nothing on the back either. Only the title on the spine. Big daunting letters, though the book would not pass muster at a doctoral defence—not at the magetower. It was fifty pages perhaps, if that. But the prince felt its heft in a way; there was weight to these words.

The first page was a mottled grey, creased and tattered like the soul who wrote it, for there was a well-ripened beauty here as well: the calligraphy was a master’s, a broad yet delicate Blackletter script—the title in gold. The true and full title. Crucible of the Neophytes. The rest of the page left empty. Stylish and bold, like the man himself, or what remains.

Instantly, the prince’s mind went there—Crucible, meaning trial... Neophytes, meaning novices. Trial of the novices. Or how about Rookie Games.

His heart was beating something fierce now, proof enough he still had one, however foul and rotten it may be.

Turning the page, the prince felt his eye glide to a crude illustration on the bottom of the third page; the penmanship was too fine, too faded... but the essence remained. Here were goblins, or perhaps brutal half-breeds, for their features were warped—the gruesome fangs and the beady dead eyes, goblin through and through... though their frames were still slender and not at all unsightly. The first of the goblins. Those deformed by Kageru himself, his slicing of the mind and heart. Some were bent to the ground, digging. Others sat holding boxes.

Finally, he would learn what it all meant—the rookie games and the damn boxes.

The prince started reading the foreword text starting on page two. Artisan speaking to him directly, piercing the veil of the ages—a century-or-so of time—before the words had reached.

--

Preface and no dedication

This dissertation has cost me blood and sweat, but not one tear—this form of weakness I will not grant to my captors. The chapters herein were duly recorded by mine own hand; this I declare. No courtesy praise is given to others: if I were to dedicate this work to someone, it would be to Thanell of the Celestials, the last lady-sovereign and wolf in the west. Leader to the ragged strong mages who roamed—they had no name, and it was just that way, though now they are deemed wildkin by the magnanimous masters of the land. The archmage and his sycophants sitting high and remote in their magetower vestiges. A curse on them for their peevish self-righteousness—they are one and all the same. And a thousand more curses for their ultimate sin: the mindful obfuscation of knowledge on the goblin death and how to avoid it. But then, their incursion alone is half the story... no, less even. A greater part was played by the greatest of kings, who I am wary to slight, for his grandeur vexes me in death as it did in life.

What you will find is the culmination of my dutiful research activities, which began as a scholar, then lorekeeper, and now, finally as a fully-fledged third-grade statistician.

I present it now unabridged, the truth as I have seen it, for it is from conjecture that I have gleaned... certainty. Or something close enough in its orbit.

And as a final note to the will-be reader: I pity you as you should me. If you are my elder, know that I will walk these halls until the gap in our time spent serving is so minute relative to the unending nature of our plight, that I may as well call you brother or sister, and not senior. And to those who are my junior, know that I will walk these halls forever alongside you, though our minds and souls will inevitably give out, and we can hope that we are made savage and low enough to be finally unaware of our greatest torment.

We are in hell. That is not a metaphor; it is the conclusion of my thesis. Our souls are chained here forever, toiling under the watchful one eye of the fallen god Kageru’s lesser brother.

We are in HELL.

--

The prince felt a strong surge of emotion—too many things to outright name as one. There was anger aimed at all, deep hatred reserved for some, and a lonesome hard fright that cut him to the marrow and he could not breathe; he could not breathe.

Where was the warrior-poet now, that damn dead man who had never existed? The wise grand-uncle Gustave—a goblin over and over and over, until now there was no trace left of the man. Only anguish. And that was the best possible outcome. Perhaps fragments still lingered in a dead-rotted soul... sharded relics of a prior cognition.

He wanted to beat at the walls and cry in the night. He wanted to hunt and stalk and maim and pray. Gods, he was scared.

But he read on.

Chapter 27 – The long last night and lore: part two (Pre-evolution arc)

Kageru was a scourge, a blighted ghost in his true form of a half-man, half-goblin.

The text had been redacted—intrusive marks made by a foreign pen. But the words yet remained, their censorship left wilfully incomplete. How is that for a message—here are the thoughts you cannot think. In a way, it was striking. More sinister still than a full-on deletion.

He was once, it is said, the most devout and austere. The first of the forged gods in rank and renown—how the Lady doted on him. Chiefly, these are rumours... though this author has known two of their company: one who is dead, and the world will never know all the tears it should shed; and one who is alive in the worst broken way—he haunts these halls like a ghost, the warden of hell. Neither have ever dreamed of denying it. Kageru was the most elevated. Before he hurled himself and the world into the darkmost abyss.

The fact or assertion troubled the prince—Artisan had known not one but two gods.

Rolling the words over in his mind, ‘the watchful one eye... the warden of hell,’ the prince walked back to the rack, picked out the book ‘On myths and malice’, sank his gaze into the images once more, first the flayed god on the front... then the divine dinner on the back. Faruikis was the figure most forgotten—there was little of lore and he was always deemed lesser. The shame-faced young brother reaching out vainly, clutching at the pit-lord in full plummet. His eyes were alive with desire to follow. Wherever Kageru went. The prince did not recognize him, though why would he—an image captures shadows at best. And Faruikis was not now as he was, with both eyes in the world above and the name of a god. When did he lose them, the eye and the name? Did he take to it willingly, the role of taskmaster? The prince thought of Gorkon and quivered; he looked at the image and knew it for true. The lost god Faruikis was found.

How could he rise and not falter... and what the damn hell would he be if he did? From prince of a nation to prince of a realm. The hard depths of hell.

The prince read on.

Crucible.

The fallen god had forged a master blade—he named it Ziegbölt. And in self-righteous vanity he set to the task of cutting and flaying the dead. The tale is told elsewhere, but in essence he could not stand it: the impurity of man, his withering form and the grave in the end. Kageru sliced at the heart and the mind, and like puppets they rose—man from his rot, the eternal deep slumber. But they turned hard and then foul, forgetful and weary. He bestowed unto them their green skin and savage small frames, deforming them further and further until man turned to goblin.

These were all things he knew, the prince thought as he turned the page, gasping for air at the unsightly image—Kageru’s eyes in imposing detail. They were wild and piercing, the sharp chiselled edge of a gemstone that shone. Like a locket or ring, the things that men treasure.

The cold whipped around him—the prince felt his body, how it shivered like sickness. There was too much to take in, but he lacked the luxury of a moment; no time to digest, no time at all. No rest for the wicked.

They bred and like a wildfire multiplied, the goblins that swarm; we are hell on this earth. Creatures against creation. Kageru tried with all his fell might to harken them to him—an army of death. And though the will of a god has a greater pull still than the forces of nature... it proved like all things finite, and his ranks soon turned rogue. Too many goblins; too many warped minds to control. Kageru sought for some conduit through which to channel his warlike intent, his divine inspiration. He was distraught and blinded by rage, for none could see far in the same way that he did: to gaze so deep as to glimpse the true soul of the world... no god and no goblin had the eyes for this task. So he tore it out, his perfect right eye—only thus was he able to see it himself. It glowed like a god, took on life of its own, the eye of the devil—the birth of known magic. Kageru was mad but still brilliant, and he learned all he could of its complex design, making masterful copies—imperfect still but as right as can be; bright as a starlit long night, we call them magestones. So great was Kageru’s might that the very fabric of nature at last forcibly adapted, spawning magestones as ores throughout the world.

Sinking in his seat, the prince thought of Gael. One as wondrous as her, yet her work was the devil’s?! The magic she held in her breath and her touch. But as long as he lived in this nightmare of death, he would be glad for one thing. She did not know, and she is not down here with him. Though not close to enough, it would do. Her soul was as frost, pure and still free. Only in memory everlasting.

Like moths to a flame, most goblins flocked to fake eyes; they glowed just like the master’s. Magestones of blue, red and green. Here was his army with purpose renewed—those that bent to the will of magic. The others were culled and re-carved by Kageru’s Ziegbölt... the god on a quest to make his brood more slavish. Most were thus ‘salvaged’, reborn as lesser ghosts now malleable. The most ardent and unbreakable may have been released—here the scriptures fall hazy. This was a time before the Lord and the Lady had seen right to cast a curse on the god-blades... and the souls of the slain goblins, those who would not take to carving... perhaps they went unrevived and are free; I think it so, though I hope it not so—none should escape the perennial noose that hangs so viscerally around my own neck; I feel it there always. This is the author now, not remote as a scholar: I am glad you are with me, for all souls should suffer in the same way as mine. From now till forever.

Was it shocking to see Artisan clad in torturer’s drag, his words as foul as the halls they dwelt in? No, not truly—though acknowledging this felt more frightful by far than the fact itself.

And so was born the first test of many. Kageru slew those fractious few who would not bow to his magic. He divined from his mind the concepts of classes and evolution; gave them life or undeath, willed the notions to being. It took much from him—he called on the might of his name, a god as leximancer; one cannot but quake at such might and resolve. But at length he cracked, failing to rise in perpetuity to his self-spoken challenge. He lost the right to his name, and took on the moniker of Zenok, taskmaster. And yet another wrench in the works then: the mad god turned taskmaster was slain by his siblings, their god-blades. Whilst the lesser gods Eteraenem, Maienexis, and Yulvolde fought the goblin armies (for they were not equipped with the divine power of forging a god-blade), the true Battle of the gods took place between fearless Reduvex, wielder of Dicebolg, and noble Paldufaer, wielder of Caladbrinn; they were the two most skilled in combat, exempting Kageru, though now he was Zenok and much diminished, and he fought like thunder taken flesh, each blow of his blade a boom to fell thousands. In a fair duel he would have prevailed, but two gods are more than one, even in the case of great misguided Zenok.

When he fell, his craven brother took over, hiding in the gloom of his master’s goblin caves. This second taskmaster is by far the lesser; his voice of command a whisper when set against the direful roar of the devil, his great brother. The goblins dwindled in number by sheer necessity; this taskmaster cannot control the same large army his brother could. And so more wicked tasks were devised by the lesser taskmaster. He took over the hard duty of breeding—indeed, another vile task that was once performed by his brother. But born from his lesser seed, the quality of goblins began to wane. More and more hatchlings would not take to the bestowal of class or rank—they do not heed the weaker taskmaster’s call. Millennia-old records attest that approximately 80% of goblins were assigned a class in the early years of the new taskmaster’s reign. (Though conjecture, it appears to this author likely that Zenok, with so potent a will, would have managed to assign 95%+ a class.) The most recent numbers indicate a sharp dip: approximately 58% of hatchlings are assigned a class at present. The classless others are ushered out of the birthing chamber without word or weapon; they take to roaming and are lost, or they fight and are lost, almost invariably.

The prince thought it hard to imagine a voice more commanding than Gorkon’s... the taskmaster’s will, and in earnest, merely his presence, rattled him to the broken core.

A brief interim curiosity should now be explicated: soon after Zenok’s fall, some of his foremost goblins took to preserving the master’s rites—they carved and sliced at the corpses of their dead, removed the rot from the mind and heart... but without the god’s skill and the god-blade, it was pointless—a bloody autopsy and nothing more. The result of the failing rites was a far faster onset of the descent into madness: many second- or third-time hatchlings felt entirely untethered to their former goblin lives; their mind had gone or their soul, and sometimes both. They were savage now and could not be commanded by the new taskmaster. (Interim note: be not misgiven... it comes for us all; this is known. With the passing of time, with each rebirth, and even with each evolution, part of the mind and/or heart may be lost. There is no escape.)

But here did the current of the two taskmasters, though so much the lesser... devise a sequence that is nothing short of brilliant. To reduce the accrual of mind and heart/soul loss with every rebirth, the rites were replaced: the digging through corpse flesh and the carving at the heart and mind... these were made metaphorical. Each worthy goblin (those either second-grade or higher, or those with long dutiful service as a first-grader) was presented by the taskmaster with two boxes, empty ones for them to fill. The lesser box he named the ‘mind box’, and it is suited to hold the most prized possession that anchors the goblin to being (note: typically a magestone if one can be attained through looting or more nefarious means; we are so drawn to these, replicas of the master’s eye). The greater box he named the ‘soul box’, and it is suited to hold the essence of that goblin’s being; virtually without fail this is an instrument of destruction—a weapon of great power or some such... anything that binds the goblin to their personal path of vengeance, for it is always that which dominates the rotted-down core of one like us. Vengeance.

Once filled, the boxes are buried by the groundskeeper, who tells the goblin once, and only once, where to go digging. If the location is forgotten, the boxes and their contents are lost, and a rapid deterioration of the mind and soul may be expected.

And so what is the Crucible of the Neophytes, or as it is now mostly called by the less literate—the Rookie Games? A trip of remembrance for all but the newcomer hatchlings. To the reborn-again goblin, it is a challenge to recall their mind and soul from previous undeath(s). To become what they were or near enough to it. Additionally, the groundskeeper gives a choice, and this is always vital: free will is the essence of sanity, even in chains or in hell. The wooden weapons symbolize non-savagery—the option to train without maiming, steeling the new body for wars to come. Those that wander off or turn blindly to killing are cast out, for they have failed to recall the taskmaster’s will.

The subsequent chapters deal with strategy: the beach, forest, and hillside all require a different approach.

But before that, an open question. What do you think is the end goal of the goblins? To run amok and raise a sliver of hell on earth with each farmyard or village raid? No, think bigger. What do you suppose happens to the body of a slain god—a true full deity like Reduvex or Paldufaer, though they have not fallen but left. Together with Eteraenem and Maienexis, they ascended skyward and were never again seen—so go the stories, and I have little zest to doubt them, for many old truths have proven right as a compass in a storm. Yulvolde was clipped in penance for her actions—she had supported Kageru and would stay here to see the earth boil with the blood of hell. So three then remained: Yulvolde, though demi-divine now, for cast out from full godhood; evil Kageru/Zenok, whose body lay broken under Landsbury, where the gods had held their final fight; and Faruikis/Gorkon. The latter wants nothing but to bring back his brother, the devil.

That is why he needs you, mark-bearers, for as long as the mark burns on your forehead, the blood has not left you. The god-blade that broke you can be yours to wield still—a race against time.

The taskmaster needs you and your god-blade. All of them combined, to slice the rot from the heart and mind of a fallen god.

Kageru can live. And then hell will reign above as below. The end of the age of man.

The prince heard footsteps outside, the general bustle of dawn.

He placed back the book in the rack and felt leaden. He walked out of the scholars’ hall and into the mid-ranks' cell where Artisan and the lady were sleeping. How could they sleep when they knew like he did? How could he ever again rest his head when it was green and dead and full of hard truths he could never discard?

The morning bell sounded, and it was time for bodies to start moving.

He wanted some mead, put the flask to his mouth, but it was empty. The prince plugged the cork back in.

Then came a silent sob, that private admission of unrestrained sorrow. There was no cork to plug in the flask of his being. So he stood up still broken.

But at least he stood up.

Chapter 28 – The sleep of the dead (First Evolution arc)

Artisan woke first, stagger-limped in a daze for the flask of mead. He could feel it was empty, but he put the mouth of the flask to his mouth—it gives something extra, that visceral sense of disappointment we crave when foul moods abound; there’s a focus you get from knowing that this one damn thing in particular... it’s the reason for all my despondence and hatred. It starts small—the empty flask is both object and representation: it’s a miniature version of the world you hate but don’t quite know why—there are too many variables. Can’t isolate what you need. Apocalyptic levels of resentment start that way, always small.

Artisan tossed the flask harder than strictly necessary, and the prince knew the man thought as he—they were both wallowers. The grief and hurt, they’re slights from the gods who are gone, and now look at the world. All dead and hopeless.

The rage is the only thing that gets them living.

“Why did you pledge yourselves to me?” asked the prince to break the silence. To condemn it. There should be no free-flowing pleasantness.

Artisan turned to face the prince but found only his back—Cedric had shifted his stance toward the door, moving through some half-hearted stretches. The prince could not look upon the man who had penned Crucible, that horrid hateful soul with more rot now than gold. He kept up the routine, his body flowing from one flexibility drill to the next. He felt numb.

“It is too early in the morning...” Artisan started.

“You prefer the night for true talk?” the prince countered, doubling down on being surly—magnanimous as he was or hoped to be... he had a petulant streak he could not shake. He knew this and it shamed him. But it did not truly matter. He was what he was; his rank and standing proved as real a shield as the one he brought to battle. “What hold does time have on the souls of the damned?”

“Speak plainly, prince,” Artisan said in a dull and dry tone. The dawn did not sparkle like drink the night before.

“The devil’s brother, an old friend?! Your words, wise Hannold.” The prince fumed, fangs bared from fury—it was that or a dreaded deep sadness. At least lashing out had a power and passion. Something reaching the world and not just the mind.

Artisan shrank back, but Linaria rose, the tendrils of sleep shaken brusquely off. “Be silent, fool!” she intoned. “The walls here have ears.” She covered her mouth then, as if to swallow the words she had spoken—a slight to the prince who had saved her from harm.

But her voice was alive, and the hurt fell away—the prince was glad she was fierce. It saved him the trouble of speaking his anguish. Her own rage was his, its force akin to a conduit. Shining hard on the world like a magestone aglow. The kanji of ruin (崩) lit up a deep purple, breaking through the scabbed wound she had suffered for him.

The prince had been wrong—his shame did show through. There was a price to pay always, for the frivolous chidings he bestowed just like praise. Nothing comes free in this god-forlorn plane.

“I am...” the prince began, and it pained him to know how hard the words were. “Trying.” It was as close as he got to admitting he was sorry. To seek quarrel among friends was a low thing; he should strive to be noble.

That was one thing his father could do: Bartold was liked by all, the king-conciliator. A universal appeal, but the downside was felt when real war was at hand—the banners were restless. Would they die for a king who sought nothing but middle grounds? There was a sense of respect, though it waned without fear or love, the true marks of a leader.

The prince had always thought he would be different. More divisive and raw. The iron fist of old, an ode to Rodrich the first. No need then for diplomacy, its silken frailty, wont to shatter like ores when the hammer comes down.

“Aye, you are a fool indeed,” Artisan said after some silence, an out-loud contemplation. “Not for your brash lively scolding, but for sneaking around like a thief in the night—where are your wits, prince? What if a guard had seen you? There is a time for fire, and it is not at night.”

The prince then sat down, taking care not to look too long at the magestone items—they were venom now, the eyes of a serpent.

Artisan spoke on. “Would you have supped with me still, had you known then the depths of my mind? Though the name of the author is no longer mine, I do not denounce his words. The truth is more thorned than the stem of a rose, no matter how black.”

“It took me a lifetime,” Linaria added. “To collect the scattered facts you allege now to know. Bear it all as best you can, and do not dare doubt the path of salvation. We can walk it together if your mind stays firm, and your mark as well. Only a Blackrose can lead the way past our sin.”

“Dicebolg,” the prince said. “What good will it do, even if I reclaim it? Am I to wield it against him—a god in the flesh?”

“You would not be the first,” said Artisan, “but you may be the last. Fail or succeed, the end-time is near. Forces beyond reckoning gather... and you, prince, may prove the greatest one.”

“What did he say?” Linaria broke in before the prince could. She spoke softly, a windless brief whisper. “Did he praise you or scold?”

“Always both,” said the prince, and his body shivered. It was stronger than him, the unholy dread. “I am to be reborn, he agreed. Today is...”

Artisan sprang to his feet, buckling promptly from the weight on his brace. He grabbed for the wall, to find balance and bearing. “I had stayed silent to keep the peace,” he said, nodding up at Linaria’s wound. “My heart fares better if I know not all your dealings. But to think that you two would cause such a clamour as to rouse the taskmaster...”

“It was not what we wanted—that I assure you,” Linaria snapped back, then turned to the prince. “Go on, please. ‘Today is’...?”

“The egg,” said the prince, shrouding his trepidation. “I am to evolve.”

“And you dare speak of time.” Artisan paced about, roamed the room like a wolf without pack. “You should be deep in meditation, thinking of home and of vengeance and nothing more. That is who you are now, and you must retain it.” He looked at the prince, piercing through to the core, wild-eyed and hard. “Think of nothing but that—whoever it was that robbed you of true life. Hold on to the memory as though to a lover. You must not fail; it would cost us too much.”

And the three then stayed silent. A moment that lingered, though not very long. The morning bell rang, the second time that meant more. There would not be a third—this was it, the call for swift action.

They filed out of the room, Artisan leading. The stride that may waver, yet each step was measured. His body and mind, they knew the right way.

--

“Another record,” said the statistician, scanning the prince with her disparate eyes—the real keen and blue one, and the other like clockwork. “Level 13 already,” she gushed. “You grow like a weed!”

She handed him his stats paper. The long night learning of hell had done him wonders—another 3 levels over the reading Gorkon gave yesterday.

The prince looked at his progress sheet.

--

Level 13 Rookie goblin

Constitution (CON): 20

Intelligence (INT): 17

Dexterity (DEX): 19

Strength (STR): 18

Magic (MAG): 8

--

“Why is my Magic so low still?” asked the prince.

The statistician shook her head. “You’ve been blessed in every way—the growth rate you have is one in a thousand... no, more like one in ten thousand.” She stepped over to Linaria. “Might as well scan you again, now that you’re here anyway... and that goes for you as well,” she said to Artisan. “Be interesting to see if your old soul’s got some body-wise growth left in it.” She stated it all plainly and from a distance, like her words were an afterthought to her brain that wanted to keep moving... always keep moving. She did not, in any event, intend to slander poor Artisan.

“Hmm... level 4 for you,” said the statistician to Linaria, jotting down notes as she spoke.

“And level 2 for you still.” That was the verdict on Artisan’s progress. “I can fine-calibrate,” offered the statistician. “To see how close you’ve gotten to the next level.”

“Don’t bother,” said Artisan. “Too many deaths clocked on this body. Its evolving days are over.”

Linaria got handed her stats paper.

--

Level 4 Rookie goblin

Constitution (CON): 7

Intelligence (INT): 8

Dexterity (DEX): 5

Strength (STR): 4

Magic (MAG): 9

--

“Bodies have a hard stat cap,” Artisan offered to the prince, who was still staring at his paper, his laggard MAG stat. “That MAG won’t go past the 8 it is now, not while you’re a rookie. You could gain ten more rookie levels and your MAG wouldn’t change. It’s not your knack—your strength lies elsewhere, in other stats and well beyond. So don’t fuss over it.”

The prince thought back to the second-grade goblins, the bastards who had harmed Linaria. They did not care for the stat-boosting magestones... likely because they were at their cap anyway—the CON and INT from the ring and locket would not further elevate their stats.

In his mind’s eye he saw Zazra now, the first raider whose teeth got shattered by a god’s offhanded grip. His body quivered, and it would not stop.

To fight a god... what madness was he in for?

“Ah, finally!” The cheerful-as-ever statistician turned to the prince, then to the door.

There were more words from her, but the prince did not hear them. He looked at the egg that was being carted in, a thick-ridged green egg that was larger than memory—it dwarfed those from the birthing chamber... no strider ostrich could lay one as this. Two foot tall and two foot wide, it pulsed like a heart might beat, though the top was sheared open, and no foetal form resided inside. These were unfertilized—the statistician had said as much, and the prince had picked it up, that part of her incessant chattering. He thought it best to believe her... to dismiss the arena captain’s slop-filled slurs alleging otherwise.

When the prince looked up, a seeress suddenly stood nearby, holding on to the handle of her sturdy wooden cart, with atop it both the egg and a jagged crescent of sheared-off shell—the top part that would be sealed back on once he was inside.

Trying desperately not to look at the egg until he damn well had to... the prince started noticing the third-grade seeress. She had a strange and elongated frame, almost slender and almost graceful—the seeress looked hardly like a devil’s spawn at all. With chin up-tucked she stared down, her striking dark eyes meeting his.

Artisan clapped the prince on the back. “Steady now. Think only of home where you lost your heart, and the bastard who did you in... nothing hopeless and nothing sad. Pure-blooded rage is what sets you right in there.” He pointed at the egg, motioned for the prince to get in. “Don’t dawdle. There is no fear—it is just a word to you.”

Hoisting himself onto the cart, the prince thought of home, like Artisan had said. He saw Gael and her frost, how it was never cold to him. He saw her dead and broken form and his unyielding rage. Gendrin. That bastard would get it. Nothing princely in the way he would dismember and break him. Crack him like an egg before... Ah, it was time to get in now.

There was no fear, only the word, Cedric thought as he lifted his leg up and over, planting it in the liquid that was not merely thick—it was alive, wrapping around him like a predator its prey. There is no fear, only the word. He was all in now, and the tension eased, thankfully. The syrupy embrace of a strong and persuasive lover.

The seeress started chanting as she put the top of the egg back on, scattering blue magestone dust around the edges to reseal it.

It was dark now, and he started drifting.

“You are Cedric,” the prince heard Artisan shouting from the other end of the world. “Prince of Lothrian, heir to the Blackrose throne.”

There was no fear, only the word. But is there not power in words?

Bah, he would not dwell on that. Or on anything. He was tired.

The prince closed his eyes.

Somewhere far away he heard a desperate man’s loud voice: “You are Cedric... something... rose throne.”

And then he was gone. Off to sleep the sleep of the dead.

Chapter 29 – Hell hath no fury (First Evolution arc)

The world does not vanish when you do. It does not wait for events to unfold—there is no grace lost in a single soul’s absence. In sleep as in death, the prince is a pauper. No fate or faith or hard-lining pride has a damn thing to alter.

All around the egg, green bodies moved with purpose or without. The difference was felt by the body and the world, but only in miniature. The true sense of scope is lost to each one mind. We all live in a daydream.

Days went by. The egg sat still enough in the corner of the room. Save for a rhythmic throb that spread like breath or a beating heart, there was no sign of life. Two third-grade goblins kept watch, the statistician always and the seeress at times. Things could go wrong, and on occasion intervention was wise.

But no hint of failure this time.

--

When a week had passed, the first cracks emerged at the frayed resealed edges. The egg wobbled more; it was all pretty standard. Another day or maybe two and...

In a fist-first flash, the prince smashed through the shell that shattered—a hard hell-green being being born; it was nothing like the first time, straining against the unknown, feeling out and feeling fragile.

The prince stood tall as a cascade of viscous liquid crashed out of the caved-in egg, splattering indiscriminately on the walls of the fine space the statistician kept office in.

“Name?” she asked, the statistician, frazzled at the sight and violence, but still in the core of her composed—fully evolved goblins do not easily lose their wits.

The prince made his head swivel, slowly; he would look upon her as he spoke. “Prince Cedric of the Blackrose, former heir-apparent to the kingdom of Lothrian.” The crest on his forehead shone a radiant blue. He knew who he was—contemplative and reserved in thought but not action. A hard solemn man, craven but too prideful to cower; a vainglorious bastard if ever there was one. And he was the dead lover to a deader love. He had only hate, ripping at him from the deep within, where reason dare not tread and nothing is sacred. It cooked him alive, the blood that boils against the world. Bring me hell and chaos and death and I will give back worse.

His gaze had stayed trained on the statistician, who was shaken it seemed—scanning with both eyes, the pupils dilating.

She wrote him a note like the times before, though her hand now quivered. “The first time I’ve seen it,” she said. “To gain such strength in the egg... you are indeed an anomaly.”

The paper said this, though the prince hardly cared:

--

Level 15 Second-grade goblin

Constitution (CON): 36

Intelligence (INT): 24

Dexterity (DEX): 28

Strength (STR): 32

Magic (MAG): 9

--

He wanted to roam and run wild, seek Dicebolg and Gendrin. But they were both too far off, and he needed fight now.

The arena would do.

Stalking off, the prince took long strides, a cold-blooded killer looking only for game.

The green-glowing moss lit his path; they were beacons. He went straight on the path, ignored all lone passers-by—the goblins and guards, they were all fellow captives. Some of them stared, at his mark and his gait, the bearing that did not belong. Valiant and hard, he moved like a king, for in essence he was one. The blood of the Blackrose still coursed through his veins.

--

It was late in the day, the prince knew as he entered. No rookies in sight, and like sweat and like blood, the arena smelled right—gods, he was anxious. The steel called his name, and his body moved first, though he thought it volition. He took a blade from the rack, swung it with force through the air so it sang a sweet song.

And as chance would have it, he was not alone. Delightfully far from it.

“Das him, boss,” said a foul rotten voice, and the prince knew the shape of it, the sound and the shadow rising tall, from the corner of his eye—a dead man walking. The four-foot giant that had raised his axe over Linaria.

“Yeah, das him alright,” chimed in another. The plate-wearing grunt that had grabbed the fair lady. “He’s bigger now, boss. But it’s him.”

They rounded on him like ghouls in a graveyard, hounding and stalking, a circle of flesh. The same old crowd as yesterday... no, the prince realized. Time had gone by, but how much was uncertain. He had lost his hold on the days or the weeks—how long had he been in that damn muck-filled egg?

No matter now—the prince would think later.

There were six foes in total; it was just like before—the same hard green bodies, battle-scarred and lean, though their faces did differ. They cut off his retreat... but the prince sought no shelter. Only blood.

The one they called boss stepped forward—the brash and curt step of a frame thick as oak, with two short swords swirling. Their raid captain no doubt. “And you fools have learned nothing,” she said—a woman like Zazra, though their sex seemed like all that they shared. The brawn of her heaved under woven mail armour. Her eyes were alive with a light-coloured hue, some blue shade of green, but the prince could not tell.

It was clear what would come, yet they kept a fair distance. Two war-bent forms wanting more of the same. The prince and the raid captain. The rest moved aside—there was no place for them here.

“To assault a Blackrose,” the captain continued... “is madness.” She licked her lips as though ready for supper. Her right-hand sword gleamed with a dull magestone edge. The faint sight of enchantment.

“Not a soul needs to know,” said the prince, and his own deep voice shocked him. He was not the same runt he had been.

The air wove electric as the two met in stare—their strong gaze made them equals. It was time to find out, the prince thought, what his new build could do.

But a shadow stirred from the sidelines... an old subtle form that was eager to shine.

“Zazra,” said the boss, sounding somehow concerned, like her kind could know mercy. With a lingering look they affirmed, the two women-warriors... and a ghost then stepped forth.

First raider Zazra was lithe as a cat and the prince felt like prey—the flash of an instinct that did not belong. She was no threat to him now, the way that she looked. Grim as death but still breathing, her face a lost mess—half the jaw had gone missing.

He could not stand to see her so damaged; it was not the fact that felt dire, but the truth deeper down. Her life was a sign, to him and to all—the broken-down thing that was made to endure. Gorkon had done it on purpose—of this, he was sure. See what comes to those that thwart me. The will of a god, the true force beyond nature.

Zazra did not speak—it was clear she could not. No teeth and no mouth and no sweet singsong voice. Lost to the wilds, a dark creature that leapt, straight for his throat—she was shattered but nimble. And fast... lightning fast. There are some parts that last.

Their blades crashed hard, that old rattle of metal. She swirled well away—to jab and recoup, that was her tactic. Zazra dipped down... she would pounce into range and dart swiftly back out. Speed was her asset.

But it was also the prince’s.

He ran her down, moved before she could. Hammered his blade on her blade till she buckled, still holding on to her sword like to life. And the prince battered on—no rest now for the wicked. Not ever.

With a hoarse wail she broke, and her blade clattered down. The prince saw her face and it hurt him to hurt her, and he could only guess why. The real reason was air—he had all right to hate her. But his fury fell still, and the prince walked away.

There was no sound from them, the raid members and captain. They stood back in solemn and shared discontent, all far removed from the nearest green body. Only in opposites was there room left to dwell.

When the prince took his leave, none dared to argue. The why was unclear; it was not what they asked. Moving mostly on impulse, the sense and the essence meant little to them.

Zazra alone gave signs of wretched life—her cries pierced the stillness in haunting lament. There was anguish and hate, both mournful and raw. Howls of a torment half-swallowed; she could not give it proper voice. Even that was denied her.

Hell hath no fury like the hard wrath of god.

Though alas, it did.

Chapter 30 – Hell hath no truth (First Evolution arc)

The prince moved restless and alone, his blade still in hand. He sought refuge in hell and its empty halls, stepping through to the miners—he had seen where they went when the morning was gone. Artisan should be here, and Linaria. But the prince thought he knew a slight sense of unknowing—would they harken to him and have faith, when he looked like this... when he felt like this.

Through sprawling networks, he walked along large mineshafts, saw the rookies work pickaxes and wheelbarrows, all for gruel in a life worn and raw.

There was no end to the misery; the only way out was up. And despite his fear, he would do it. Fight Gorkon and break him. So that as above, a prince might reign here below. A dark prince, no doubt. But not the devil or his brother. Not quite.

He was looking for Artisan—the prince told himself that. But in truth he wanted merely to linger. Like a half-removed ghost that does right by silence. Why did he hate himself so?

Prideful to a fault, though it was closer to act than reality. He needed to know that the world knows—this prince does not suffer indignity lightly. The ego was a thing to be cherished, for what are we without?

“And yes, if you must inquire,” the prince intoned to a head-shaking guard nearby, “I procured it... equitable and just.” The bag and bottle he had ‘borrowed’ from the alchemists’ hall—potent stuff, that’s no lie. He felt it more than the mead, this aqua vitae... well-distilled, though not decanted. And far too little: the drink was bliss.

A throng of foragers walked past, stepping neatly in formation. Some second-grade escort that led the way. They carried wicker baskets filled with forest delights—mostly mushrooms of all sorts and sizes, including the blue-capped death that tasted divine. Aurora Azureum.

Behind them came a squad of trappers and perhaps some hunters—they carted in a wheeled construction; it was stacked with venison and boar and halved-out carcasses.

How could the world below work so well when he himself was so lost?

The prince felt his heart thud hard and fast and then slow... and then hard again. He was starting to sweat.

Why was he left to his own will and devices—the prince could go wherever, it seemed? As close to free as a caged man gets. The arena was his when he wanted practice; master Grok stood in awe of his fluency in non-goblin scripts; the statistician called him a champion and anomaly, then let him walk free from her office freshly reborn.

And what to think of the stellar timing—Gorkon barging in to save the day, muting Zazra and her clear-cut ambitions? Or just now, was it luck or something more sinister? How the raid captain and her horde let him walk cleanly out.

Then there was the threat of untruth, the lies and omissions of things that seemed to the prince so essential. Where were the armies—the vast goblin hordes he had seen when Landsbury claimed his lost soul and love? Who was the warchief who had done him in, and where were the other mark-bearers?

All of it left in the dark like he was.

His body felt hot as if taken by fever. The prince got the very clear notion now that he was being deceived. That the stage had been set and that he was unwittingly an actor. Was anything here real at all?

It might have been the aqua vitae talking, filling his mind with doubts and delusions. But to hell with it—the prince did not care. He would act out of turn and gather data. See if the world holds up when he stops playing nice.

Framed in such a way, a mind that unravels can seem almost rational.

The prince ran up to the foragers, dipped down greedily into their baskets, snatching out handfuls of mushrooms, including plentiful samples of Aurora Azurea. He devoured them all where he stood, waiting for their hard looks and disgusted faces... but nothing.

Then he went to the trappers and hunters, picked off a big venison steak, and began a gluttonous feast right before their eyes—biting out huge chunks and chewing indiscriminately, mostly with his mouth open, spilling slaver and meat juice all over. And...

Nothing. No response.

He ran up to a guard, a mean-looking bastard if ever there was one. The prince raised his blade as if to strike... and the guard took a stance of defence, seeming simply unnerved; he did not react with violence. Neither did any of the other goblins present.

Everyone let it happen. Let him be.

As though instructed to do so.

The prince felt his grip on the world start to give way. He broke down, came close to shedding tears in the middle of the hall—and where was it now, his unwavering pride?

Where was Artisan? Or Linaria? Someone familiar enough to help him try and make sense of it all.

But could he trust them still, or anyone for that matter?

The books he had read and the words he had heard—which parts were real and could stand up to scrutiny? How would he ever even know?

Staggering back, the prince sought to return to the statistician. Perhaps she would tell him things—she seemed the only one with some sound hold on objective assessments. She had numbers and notes he would trust, if only for lack of firmer footing.

When he turned around, the prince saw the lorekeeper—that same fragile man who had told him a prince did no mining... who had fetched him from the arena and sent him down to the scholars’ hall. Was this fool following him, keeping track of his every move to then report to Gorkon?

His heart beat like hell and the world whirled away—he lost all sense of direction. His eyelids were heavy and this body as well, his new form that had power but felt strange.

The last sound he heard was his blade as it clattered down on the ground.

The prince collapsed.

--

He awoke in a room with green grim-looking faces and bodies. His arms tried to move but they were chained. A nurse with a bird-like beak mask hovered over him, lancet in hand, slicing at his temporal veins—an antiquated attempt to relieve the mind of its madness. Bloodletting was all the rage in the ragged quarters. There was no solid proof of its safety or efficacy—this the magetower healers had long since asserted.

“Stop,” said the prince in a quiet voice, wanting neither to startle nor incense the nurse in his vulnerable position. But the procedure carried on—his words held no weight. Not when spoken softly.

He felt a low thing akin to rage, directed at no one goblin but at all—these rotten green hell-dwellers... and he was one.

“Stop,” the prince said again, enveloping the room with the blue of his aura. “Leave.”

And the nurses and healers left, entranced by his force. So were the patients, for that matter—the second-grade goblins that were wounded or ill. They all funnelled out of the room. There was power in the spoken word of princes.

Let them all leave, he thought. At least there was peace in the absence of bodies.

“Unbind me,” he said to the last healer present, and she obeyed.

The prince got up and he washed his wound—a wide gash on the temple, bleeding still but only slightly. He felt steady or at least less uncertain. Like the world had stopped spinning. At some point he would reflect on what had happened. For now, the prince was glad to let them go, the thoughts that flowed out as green bodies might, leaving him lonely and alone.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a hobbling man head for the exit—one of the many he had compelled into action. His gait too familiar to ignore.

“Stop, not you... friend Artisan,” said the prince, hesitating a touch as he pronounced the word. Friend. He needed answers first. Now. Not later.

Artisan stopped, his body snapping out of the spell the prince had voiced. His eyes grew alight, and the man seemed cordial. But distant. He did not amble over to assess the prince or his wound. Both were confined to their own islands of thought, and the air was tense. Though not quite electric.

“My prince,” Artisan started...

“Am I?” retorted the prince, intent to retain the initiative.

“My loyalty is unlike my stance—it never wavers!” Artisan bristled, though he did not draw nearer, sensing danger perhaps. It was hard to guess the ancient man’s mind. It always was. “The aqua vitae, my liege,” he continued. “Potent on its own, but thrice so for one newly reborn. You... lost your hold for a while—but it is not like madness.” The latter phrase he was quick to add. “The mark is still strong, and how you have grown! Soon you will feel...”

“Stop telling me how I will feel,” broke in the prince. A puerile phrase fit for a teenaged princeling... but for a man twice reborn, it sounded desperate and small. “There are things going on down here, and though I cannot quite prove what I shall now say, I say it regardless. I am being deceived. My acts and tribulations since hatching green and foul... which part of these was real? Think well before you answer. And don’t say ‘all’—not everything I gained came from fair conquest. There are... ‘actors’ of sorts, for lack of a better word. The guards that will not harm me. The...”

“Yes,” said Artisan. “You are right, though I had hoped to find you less insightful for a time longer.” He sighed. “Some reverence is ingrained; Gorkon gives clear orders from time to time—those who harm a mark-bearer are brutalized beyond cognition; doubly so when it involves one with a master-mark—the Blackroses, wielders of the master god-blade Dicebolg, and the men and women of the mire, Feldirk’s line, likewise wielders of a master blade, Caladbrinn of the fallen order; although the latter’s blood-bearing offspring have renounced goblinhood... they have their methods, of which I will tell you, if you wish.”

The prince clenched his jaw, felt his rage grow fell within, for they had indeed deceived him... but also in a way he was relieved. Here was a confession; he had not gone mad, and it had not been mostly the drink talking. The matter was not resolved, but the current thread of conversation was appealing also. And so the prince made a guess as to why the newer births among Caladbrinn-wielders are no longer chained to the goblin death. “They are buried in two boxes, the heart and mind separated, these men and women of Feldirk’s line?”

“Wh... Yes!” Artisan exclaimed, beyond himself from shock. “How did you...”

“The Edict of the Crown,” said the prince. “Grok made me translate it—a forged copy, let me add. It spoke of Baldirk, son of Feldirk the lost king... how his body was buried in parts. A box for the mind, and a box for the heart or soul. And it did set me thinking, friend Artisan... perhaps that is the way to escape as you alluded to in Crucible, but were barred from outright stating. Is that our mission, then? To retrieve our own rotted corpses from the time we were men? To hack up the remains and bury the bits in a fashion more acceptable?”

Artisan glowed like a teacher, fortunate to see his prize pupil eclipse him. “Oh my prince, you have no idea how many experience points you will have gathered completing that quest. I am so relieved I must not deprive you of the joy and the gain, the real tangible gain of discovery. Had you pressed me now, I would have told you, but I am so glad it did not come to that.”

“Will it work?” asked the prince as his heart quickened—the prospect of a path beyond eternal reincarnation in ever-lower green bodies sounded so much like a dream, it might as well be heaven.

“I think so.” Artisan nodded fiercely up and down. “The corpses of those serving the goblin death are shielded from true rot—we will find our hearts and minds... quite intact inside the skeletal remains. But to sever them requires a god-blade. Now there is a bitter irony—the blades that condemn us are likewise fit to undo the sentence. This one has tried, I will have you know... many goblin deaths ago I had reclaimed Ferignost, and because I do not have a blood right to wield it, I stacked three magiguard gauntlets on my right hand... and barely could I wield it. I was strong then, too—level 30 and a raid leader, my body at maximum capacity. But the blade or I was not strong enough. I stood over my own decomposed body, hacked it apart with all I had... but the bonds would not break. And so my theory is that only a master blade can set us free. Dicebolg—you must reclaim it and do what we need done.”

The two sat amiably now, reunited by truth and a grand joint purpose.

“Still,” said the prince, “I have more questions. Too many to count and so I will simply start. How many Blackroses have you guided and why? Have you sworn before, to renew your pledge of fealty? And speak true now, friend, or the kindness between us falls away like frost after winter.” Gael. He had not thought of her when he said the words, but now she was here, foremost on his mind. Where she belonged. It soothed him to know there was still space for her there.

“Aye, now there’s a question.” Leaning back and to the side, Artisan wrenched against discomfort—the hunchbacked burden that was always his. “Five times, my prince. Perhaps more, but five strikes me as right.”

The prince breathed deep, stretched his burning muscles so they would not act before he could. “So you have a Blackrose routine of sorts? You act hard and uninviting, but gradually lure me and my kin, bestowing magestone gifts and the odd compliment? Then you seek discord once more but find mercy in your frail form, as you faint against a tree... rousing pity in the Blackrose of the day? And so on and on, forging a bond through mistrust and trust, through hardship and small victories? Is that your act, Artisan?”

Tears streamed down Artisan’s face as he heard the prince intuit the truth to such great approximation that corrections were undue. “Aye, that is me. I am a coward and a fiend. But let this low one remain what he is also, that I beg you.” He looked at the prince in that searching way of his, scouting through tear-stained eyes. “Let me be your friend still.”

The prince sat still, stirred to some emotion or multitudes thereof, ones he could not place.

Artisan stood up, cracked his fist against his hollow chest. “I will tell you my full truth.”

With a nod from the prince, the man sat back down, farther away... but the prince again intervened, getting up and moving gently, grasping the arm of a man showing shame—the tears were real, the moment true.

They sat close together, and the prince patiently waited for his friend to start talking.

Chapter 31 – The chains we forge in life: Artisan’s tale (First Evolution arc)

“He does not let me forget.”

The first words from Artisan’s mouth. Then a long silence.

Sitting back with his head bent, the prince did not intervene. He respected the silence. It belonged to them, to Artisan who suffered to speak. To the prince, who suffered to hear grave words spoken.

“Ah, I must tell my tale from fairer beginnings. My mind does not permit the words to flow otherwise.”

He took a deep breath, Artisan. Closed his eyes and he was there in mind, a thin smile on his hell-dead face. “When I was young, I met a girl—no, a woman. We lived here and there, took what we wanted from the ample land, giving back by planting seeds and spreading nature’s gracious bounty. She is the one I love, and losing her was death.”

The man’s tone had gone from wistful to animalistic—the final words were a rancour-filled hiss.

At length he went on.

“She moved like the wind and her eyes were as diamonds, so fierce, so brilliant. Fire and frost were hers to command, though she favoured the sword—the steel seemed to her somehow less tainted. Then the years went by, and I grew old. But not her. The woman I loved was as sharp and clear as the winter dawn, not a streak of grey to mottle her hair. Sometimes I think she loved me also. A man can but dream of the stars; they remain where they are. Soundly out of reach.”

Stretching his sore back, but to no avail—the pain was constant—Artisan winced and then sat still.

“Can you guess her name, my prince?”

“Thanell,” said the prince in the same beat; their hearts were both lost to loves no longer living—it sounded better that way. Not as far gone as dead. “Or Yulvolde the half-fallen, if I infer correctly.”

“Aye, prince.” There was no sign of surprise on the stoic man’s face, no sign of anything—he was searching old memories.

And the prince did the same, eyes going hazy as he let his gaze drift to Gael and to Gendrin, the two locked in forever, starkly opposed and together. He felt hate and a thing he could not place. His fists balled and... no. Now was not the time—it was not his moment but his friend’s.

Artisan sighed. “Why is it so that the righteous perish? That the world is so hard and cold and dead—ah, don’t burden me with answers, prince. There are none.” His stare was empty, and so too the prince’s; they were both looking past the other, seeking answers to questions better left unasked.

“She was the light itself, but they took from her everything. Her only sin was mercy—she wanted peace, true peace in heaven. For Kageru to confess to his sins and disavow his foul creations, the goblins; indeed, prince, so sweet was she to think the devil not beyond the pale of atonement. But her kind-hearted nature was turned against her. Her efforts to reform the devil were falsely construed to mean the opposite, as aiding and abetting the fallen god. Madness of course—she fought hard against his goblin hordes during the Battle of the gods, and ever after... for centuries and perhaps millennia—time meant little to her and she did not know how long had passed. Oh prince, how many hundreds of full-grown greenskins that woman has slain... yet it was all for nought.”

Artisan shook his head, then dipped down from the sickbed, started rummaging through the stowed-away stuff at the back—the place was a mess. Knives, bone saws and tourniquets strewn all over, the ground beset with bleeding bowls and clay containers with salves or ointments or unprocessed herbs. But it did not take long for the old man to locate what he needed—a bottle of hell’s finest, some mildewed ale that took the sting from soulful retrospect. “Bjegh,” Artisan said or belched, then tossed the bottle and looked for better. He soon found some half-evaporated sample, an ale so thick it was syrup. But by the long-gone gods it was potent—they passed it around and the weight was less felt. The past more remote.

“She was not yet a woman when they cast her out,” Artisan went on. “This graceful, well-wishing creature wanting nothing but to heal the broken dealings of broken gods. For that, she was stripped of her full divine grace and left to roam as a demi-god. Forced to watch her kin leave this hell-tainted world. Aye, she’s said it to me once, prince, what it was like, watching ‘em fly off to... gods know where. Spiteful bastards. Can you imagine that, shaping a world and seeing it’s good and then when it’s not, you just shrug and spread your wings and abandon it? Some gods they turned out to be. And it’s the hell they’d caused, don’t forget... anyway, said she felt small and fragile then. Wanted to crawl away somewhere and die.” He took a big swig, drowned her sorrow as though it were his, and it was.

“But that’s not what she did. She stood up and took the weight of the world on her skinny damn shoulders till it was too heavy and I too weak—oh prince, it was me that necked her, old Gavr... ah, you know my lost name; I cannot speak it, for that is my right no longer. We had set up camp near the mouth of the Lothunc river, the roaming magi and I, for the lady Thanell knew her end was nearing—she looked as young and divine as ever, but I had seen her soul; she taught me. And demi-gods are not quite immortal. Her long life had been spent gathering and guarding the known shards of Ziegbölt. Ferignost was hers before it was mine. With her last full strength, she had ridden to the gates of hell to challenge Gorkon—can you imagine, a full god gone goblin versus his fading sister? Not quite a fair duel but still a dead draw, so the lady Thanell told us when she rode into camp blood-covered; that fiend Gorkon had withdrawn after some hundred bouts—they duel the old-fashioned way, gentlemanly or godly I suppose. Except that rotten taskmaster did not keep to his word; the lady arrived with a warband of goblins trailing her...”

Artisan fell silent, taking more than his fair share of ale, but the prince did not mind it, would forgive a roundabout way of hearing it, as long as the words came eventually. It is not every day you recount the tale of your dead demi-god love.

“Ah, that’s the good stuff; I feel lighter already. You know, there was no central command back then to reinforce us, before Feldirk tried to rise up from a land then essentially ungoverned... bah, the ineffectual muck of a peerage parliament—but he was a true man, prince, charging in first before the men, Feldirk on his plate-coated destrier, wielding the irreverent blade of his line, deceptive Caladbrinn; it is a runesword first, but also...”

“A staff,” the prince cut in, blinking slowly as though facing down a sworn foe in a deadlocked stare. “Fires a void sphere of high magic calibre. I know it all too well.” He smiled despite himself. Before his time would come to go mad or be obliterated from being... he would look upon the corpse of the veiled darkmage and smile as he did now, a sick dead grin that was nearer to madness than any man might have need to know. That’s what made it beautiful.

“Aye, the acolytes got you too,” said Artisan. “Landsbury, I know it, prince. Gorkon’s doing if you had not gathered—ah, save your strength, prince... stew in the hate till it’s good and ready. Listen now and lash out later; this drunkard’s words are not written down, so cherish them, please.”

The prince had risen in rage, though without target, stalking like the shadow of wrath along the healers’ hall, pacing its length and then back; they were in the second-grade ward, behind the shimmering wall, where there was no place for rookies. Save for Artisan, who would go where he wanted... on Gorkon’s orders, it was now apparent.

“Where is the Lady Linaria?” asked the prince, relenting as he saw her sit there in memory, his hands reaching out to treat her—the poultice of honey on her scabbed-over mark.

“In the egg, went in yesterday—she’ll be fine, it’s not her first time.” Artisan swilled a large gulp, then tossed the bottle to the prince—it was nearly empty.

“Proceed with your tale, before I ruin my name and this room—the rage is growing deeper.”

“Aye, prince, it does. And wait till you get to the third stage... one more time in the egg, and there’s no telling what comes out. It’s got Gorkon worried, you should know—if you’re like Rodrich he’s in for a hell of a time, wrestling you for control. But that’s the thin line he has to thread, needs you strong but not too strong... and that’s the one thing he can’t control, what a Blackrose royal can become. It scares him and I love to see it—you better get that damn bastard, hear me, prince?”

The prince emptied the bottle, threw it down just to hear glass shatter. “Go on, what of Feldirk? The ale has you swaying in word as in step—there’s no straight line to what you’re saying.” But the phrase came out slurred, and they smirked both, knowing the other’s mind better than most times. “And cease with the aye’s—you’re a sworn knight with a golden soul, not some damn pirate.”

“Aye, my prince.”

The two men shared a laugh, heartfelt and bitter—they knew it for a thin distraction. No time now for reprieves.

Artisan coughed, a phlegmy rasp and he spat on the floor. “Feldirk was grand, not but a shade lighter than great Rodrich in the scales of history. How many men can boast of such a legacy? It was fate alone that did him in—a virulent sickness on the campaign trail. The man marched for weeks without breath, rallying men under his banner and his bid for kingship; it was promised him if he quelled the goblin incursions that were rampant then, ravaging all the plains and crops and outskirt towns. Had he lived, it would have been different. Rodrich might not have become what he was, and thus no ruling Blackrose line... ah, but again I digress. It is hard to give words to what is always in mind, within, where it should be and remain.”

“Take what time you think you need, friend Artisan. Tell me then of your downfall.”

“Still ongoing, my prince. There is no depth I have not seen, save for tomorrow and the day after. But my first and true death came at night in the Northern Hold—you have heard the tales. This one was holed up there, staving off a warband worth of goblins, but failing; the place would become my grave. I was nearing one hundred years of age, relegated to token defender of a trivial outpost... not a smattering of men under my command. The taskmaster had sent his full force at the time; he had need of Ferignost, shard of Ziegbölt, the weapon I wielded with great solemn effort—it is no small feat for one without the ‘ancient blood’... did you see the tome in the scholar’s hall? It is worth a read, the goblin rendition.”

“There is not enough ale in hell to keep me calm if you don’t soon get to your story’s end.”

“Ah, but the hero dies in the end—what sort of tale is that? Vol’krin was warchief then, when the Northern Hold fell. It brought me much joy to see you choke the life out of him—my plan was to lure him astray into the forest, to litter the ground with caltrops and descend on him three on one. But you showed me greatness then, and I began to believe.” Artisan leaned back, closing his eyes; the man looked beaten. A shade removed from death. “It was me and a handful of men that remained when they tore down the gate. Hundreds of goblins—Vol’krin had a true talent for command; to impel so many raiders and captains, that comes once in a few generations. Most warbands splinter when a few dozen troops travel too long together—they get to infighting. I should have been so lucky. When they barged in, fangs bared, I knew I was done, and that the shard Ferignost would be reclaimed by the devil’s side. All I wanted was a clean end—I had sat down mindful, cutting out my own guts. Seemed honourable enough. I had instructed my men to hack me apart and bury me in two parts; you know the deal. But they must have shat themselves when they felt the end coming, and they did not heed my command, evidently. And here I am now, and that’s my tale.”

The prince furrowed his brow. “I have let you flit from here to there, and still don’t know the proper end. What of Thanell?”

“Ah, you don’t forget, do you, prince? She was half dead when she arrived at camp, and with about a hundred goblins trailing her... we fought, the magi there gathered. But it was a hopeless fight. Too outnumbered. Most of the magi the lady Thanell had trained abandoned her, left her to die... the cowards took the last of the horses; the ones that had not already bolted off frightened, poor animals. So there we were, and I fought and she fought; we would both have died, and I wish it had been so. But she needed me for something more. We had fenced our way to the ruins of a fortified inn, seeking refuge in this building long since abandoned—there was little left but the structure. Thanell was bleeding out; her body was smashed. Then she pleaded and I stepped up, closing my eyes as I swung that dark blade Ferignost. Cleaved the head clean off my beloved. Then I grabbed it and tried not to think; I torched the place down—I had some command over fire then. My love’s body burned and many goblins with it. Then I ran out the back door, carrying the head, rushing past goblins and axes and arrows—barely made it to the river, and I dove in. Most goblins fear moving water; they cannot swim, so gradually I lost ever more assailants. When my body and the remains of hers were safe... that was the last time I felt whole, properly aligned to purpose. I procured an ornate box with a magestone lock, and I dug for hours and hours, found a nice patch of woodland. Then I buried the head of my love so deep that I knew—she would never be a goblin. Part of my soul died that day, and I buried it with her. There is a part of us that goes with the dead ones we loved. And so I had done right by her, and I was glad. For days I was there, slept and wept without food, simply scared and broken; I wanted to stay, to be with her.”

“But you were strong and lived on,” the prince offered. “The stuff of heroes.”

“Aye, and when my time came, one death was not enough for this hero—again and again I must perish. I cannot forget, though I want to more than anything, prince. Scour my mind; obliterate my senses. Have it all over with. But the bastard does not let me. Gorkon. When I spawned green with the sign of Ferignost on me, he knew—here’s the man my sister had cared for; the man who had killed her and kept her from his grasp. He has toyed with me ever since. It is not I who stave off the madness. No, prince... I do not possess the inordinate will I have claimed thus far. Rather, it is the taskmaster cursing me anew each time; he wants me to know what I did and be haunted forever. But to keep my mind, he has to break my body—he is limited in godliness, and this body’s deformities are the acts of compensation required. He has promised to release me if I guide a Blackrose goblin back to Dicebolg and beyond. Almost had I done it with the first, Rodrich the great—I will tell you of him later, but first learn what you can, both from books and your keen intuition. Discovery is gold when it comes to experience points; that is a key tenet of statistics. Other elites are told where to go, get picked up by their classmaster; but you are left in the dark on purpose. Explore and see what fine halls hell has to offer. That is how you attain your maximal strength the fastest. Level 30 is the final goal. The impassable barrier for all goblinkind.”

Artisan stood up then. “I must report to my captor on your state—shall I say it is sordid?” He laughed, though only to hold back the tears.

But the prince did not laugh as he stood up also. He walked to the man who had just bared his soul for the second time. His friend now, truly—there were no more reservations. “It is all too late for this young fool to say what he will. You are proven to me, friend Artisan.” And the prince grabbed him by the shoulder, in comfort, in praise. “Allow me to elevate the credence of words already spoken.” Then he did the unthinkable—the prince dipping low to one knee, deepening the solemn oath he had sworn before. “I will break Gorkon and rule in hell. You will be free from your bodily sorrow. Then I will free your mind and mine. We give our true bodies the proper burial due, so that our souls may soar and not linger. This life or this death will be our last one. Believe me, for the blood of kings is strong in me. I will do what Rodrich could not. Vengeance will be ours—Gorkon will die like a gutted pig, and my own archnemeses will hang by the neck with their hands cut off and their feet. The bleeding will be staunched, and the noose loosened when death is near. Their futile struggle will go on until even I am repulsed; only then will they have repented. Trust in me, friend Artisan. I will be hell’s darkest prince yet.”

Artisan pulled the prince to his feet. “Don’t you do that—don’t you ever do that. A prince should never kneel.” Then his chest heaved, and he cried those long-imprisoned tears; not a moment of respite had this man been granted, not in all his years in hell. “I can’t do it no more, prince. Have mercy on this old, broken man. Save me, please.”

They stood for a while in earnest embrace, one comforting the other as tears flowed; both were stronger for it.

“Aye, time to go—the taskmaster does not like to wait.”

“Why did he not come to see me?” the prince asked.

“He is dead tired from commanding a new batch of hatchlings, as well as several raid captains who had returned from minor missions.”

The prince thought for a moment. Should he ask the question when a damning answer loomed? But he was done being a coward. For now. “The huntress... will she be among them?”

“Perhaps, but have no illusions, prince. I placated you then, for you were raw from birth and battle. She was not brave but merely obedient. Infatuated—your aura as a Blackrose royal strikes deep in some goblins and deeper still in others. She acted on an implicit command you would not then have given voice. Yet it was there. Do not think of her. Think of vengeance. That I ask, prince, and now I must depart.”

“I will walk with for a while,” said the prince, unperturbed. It was a comfortable thought to be rid of her yoke if indeed she was nothing but goblin. “But you lied then. A prince is not equipped to handle lies.”

“Ah yes, the court magistrates are paragons of virtue—truth and only truth from their fattened lips.”

They again laughed, a thin but true chuckle.

“A final question,” said the prince as they left the rookie section of the healer’s hall. “Final for now. Have you ever steered one of ours into certain danger, either to safeguard or challenge me—the huntress, Linaria?”

Artisan walked on, shambling in that brace-assisted way; they were nearing the elite quarters and the door to the great halls just beyond. “It gets cold in these halls—hell should be hot, even at night. Wouldn’t you agree, prince?”

The prince stood still, felt a strange twitch of his lip. Tears began to well up, but he pushed them back and turned around. Back to the healers’ hall, where at least the night was his and his alone.

“Oh, and prince...” Artisan said from a distance, “be fresh for tomorrow; he has you fighting the groundskeeper for training. Not a single soul dead or living will envy you that.”

“Groundskeeper? The one in charge of digging holes and burying boxes?”

“Aye, doesn’t sound formidable, saying it like that. But he is old as the hills in this life, used to be a great champion. Served under high warchief Alaric—that bastard was the one Blackrose who did better as a goblin, though he lost his mark and most memories in a matter of weeks. Plied easily to Gorkon’s will. Always had been a halfwit, that one. Ah, but the groundskeeper—he’s the rookie game judge as well in a sense. The one you get your weapon from.”

“The one adorned in skulls would have served for an explanation.” The prince sauntered off for a night of drink and, perhaps, gods willing, some dreamless sleep. But knowing the gods far better now than he should like... only the drink seemed assured.

Still, something burned within. Tomorrow, the arena would be different. With the bone-warrior there waiting for him.

Chapter 32 – The girl and the ballistae, an early morning intermezzo (First Evolution arc)

The prince awoke early—his body could tell, though there was no light of dawn. He got up and roamed the halls of hell; the empty beckoned. A handful of guards stood stoic near the major entries, there where loot could otherwise be had by some mindful nomad or other. Greedy goblin hands unattended in the night.

The trappers’ hall was closest, shared with the tinkerers—they worked on similar stuff, goblin gadgets meant to maim or worse. With the door half ajar, a guardsman held watch, ears pricked to the sounds of earnest toil. The nighttime shift being worked.

As the prince sought to enter, the guard gave pause, assessed the hopeful entrant clad in beggar’s drag—still the same brown cloth of a starter. Then the mark on the forehead lit up a light blue, and the time for doubt was done; the prince walked in to see what his soon-to-be subjects were building. He was getting good at harnessing the mark’s power—he had but to think of Gael or Gendrin or Gorkon, one of the three hard G’s, and the boil of his blood did the rest.

There were a dozen goblins present, all of them rookies going by size and lack of strength—not a single one had a breath of aura; the prince could sense that now, he thought. Zazra and the raid captain... even Uggon, they all had a scent, thinking back. A warrior spirit that clung like sweat to their warrior-lean frames.

None of that here—only runts manning smithy benches, making tools of all sorts: knives, scythes, hatchets, hammers, chisels, and thongs; others made construction hardware: nails, hinges, and brackets. It looked rather efficient, and the prince was somewhat impressed—these runts would do well in the hell he now envisioned. A lesser form of tyranny, focused solely on output quality and quantity. Anything to bring down his treasonous half-uncle.

At the other end of the room, three goblins worked a run-down old smelter, shovelling in scrap metal and sawed-apart chest armours—the ones so busted that the dents could not be hammered out.

Yet more goblins were labouring alone, weaving wicker into baskets; carving out trinkets, spoons and bowls from larger slabs of wood; sewing up leather bags to hold water during travel; sharpening tools and weapons at a lever-operated stone grinding wheel; and most strikingly, there was one clever-looking rookie off in the corner with a pencil and blue paper—she was drawing up plans for rudimentary siege weapons. Next to her stood the woodgrain skeletons of three ballistae in the making, complete with wheeled carriages for easy positioning on future battlefields.

The prince moved nearer to the girl, eyeing the ballistae that looked crudely carved but close to ready—metal reinforcements seemed soundly in place, along with the torsion springs and the winch mechanisms.

“Did you make these?” asked the prince, though his deep voice or mere presence seemed to startle the girl—she jerked back and froze, crumpling the blue paper plans as she stood stiffly at attention. Waiting to be told off by a second-grade sentry or supervisor—someone with force and authority; this much was clear.

The prince took a small step back, giving her room to breathe or at least passed on the notion—it is alright to be scared, though for now there is no need. He pointed at the ballistae, gave the girl an inquiring nod... and she nodded back, holding his eye to assess his status. Clearly someone superior, but who?

“Your name?” asked the prince in a softer tone, maintaining his distance—there was a lesson here, trying to accommodate the not-so-savage spawns that were now his kin.

The girl shook her head. Nameless. Wordless. A strange combination of intellect and its absence.

“Were you human once?” the prince tried. The girl shrugged.

There was little sense in further questioning, so the prince simply held up his hand, a ‘wait here’ motion that served no purpose save to maintain rapport—the girl was not going anywhere. They were all captives here, though some seemed less cognizant of the fact than others.

The prince walked back to the healers’ hall, searched through the cupboards and the loosely arrayed everythings—the place was truly a mess. He opened up pots and looked into cups; there was a certain consistency to what he was after. There—a wooden container sealed with cloth... inside a yellow-white creamy substance, more liquid than solid, and with the telltale sheen of tallow. Animal fat. Perfect.

He rummaged around for a good while still. Surely, there were more multi-use products around. Ah, here—opening a cupboard in the second-graders’ section, he saw a cloth bag, further wrapped in leaves to protect the item within from dust and dirt. A deep yellow colour shone through, and the prince moved in close to catch a whiff of its scent... it gave off a subtle and sweet aroma, betraying its floral origins. Here was a well-stowed-away block of beeswax. The smells of nature and not the damp cave... it moved the prince to know that the world was still out there. But reflections could follow whenever—right now he had a task to complete.

Returning to the nameless girl and her ballistae, the prince strode in slowly, bearing gifts. He put the round wooden container on a desk to the side, bidding her closer as he peeled off the cloth seal. She saw the shiny substance underneath and showed intrigue, eyes darting from prince to tallow, a quiet question on her lips. The prince grabbed a stiff brush from the nearby workstation. It had seen minor use as a tool for cleaning metal parts and debris... and though some of the bristles were frayed and bent, it would suffice for a demonstration.

The prince dipped the brush in the tallow container, then twirled it round to avoid excess drip. He rose gently and inched toward the ballistae, offering the girl his goblin-best smile as he saw her move to the ballistae, standing guard before them with her small arms outstretched—a barrier and a warning. Stay back.

And the prince did not press the issue. He sought for a softer way to alleviate her worries... a worn-out tool or weapon would do, something ripe for disassembly. Ah, a crude-looking crossbow lay on the next nearest workbench; the prince pointed at it, nodding and keeping contact with the girl, who walked up and grabbed it, then came towards him but not too close—she set the crossbow down on the workbench before him, and then scampered off, back to the defence of her treasured ballistae.

It was a gradual process, earning trust from a skittish one like her, but the prince found it oddly rewarding—for once he had the chance to be seen as not a menace or violent warmonger... if only he could convince her to trust him with this ploy he had concocted.

He grabbed the crossbow, overly delicately, to show his reverence before the crafts—both wood- and metalworking were involved in the making of a crossbow. A rather refined weapon that took some definite skill to assemble.

Gently, he applied a coat of tallow to the parched wood and the metal parts, to which rust clung like a deep-seated infection. But with deliberate and lavish strokes of his tallow-dipped brush, the cracks and crevices began to be less noticeable—the wood regained some of its lost lustre; the metal shed its coat of rust, and the thing on the whole looked restored or at least more resilient. There was life in it left.

The girl sat staring... rapt amazement shone from her sharp eyes that seemed alert as ever, but less alarmed, perhaps.

One way to find out. The prince set aside the crossbow, dipped his brush in tallow again, and put on his kind face—the sort that might startle Artisan and even Linaria, for they would know the prince was up to something... something presumably no good.

He did not approach the ballistae—that was for her to decide if she felt comfortable. But the prince did hold out the brush, an invitation for her to try it.

She eked closer, pitter-pattering with eyes wide and pupils dilated, letting all the light in to continually gauge his danger level... her body eager to bounce well away if need be.

Swiftly reaching out, she grabbed the brush and leapt back, smiling broadly at her newly acquired tool and mission... and also at the prince, who had kept to the implicit social contract, and was now one step closer to trustworthy.

The girl darted off to her ballistae, started coating the first one in a nice protective sheen of animal fat, seeming pleasantly engaged with the new work—it enhanced the look of her pet project, and she appeared able to envision the finished project: the luxurious gloss that would make the ballistae, in her mind, closer to works of art than tools of warfare.

The prince put the round wooden container with the tallow on the ground close to her. Then he grabbed the cloth bag further wrapped in leaves, removing both to get to the block of beeswax. He gave a soft whistle to attract the girl’s attention as he put the block in a metal pan lying around near the smelter. Gently, he guided the pan into the smelter... the girl came running to his side to see what he was doing, this fun second-grader who was somehow not quite like the rest.

Motioning at his eyes and then at the pan... and then to her eyes and at the pan, the prince made it a joint process—they were both keeping dutiful watch so the wax wouldn’t vaporize or catch fire.

The prince looked at her and saw the fire from the oven reflected in her eyes—she was all attention, this keen little pupil he did not know he wanted.

When the wax starting melting, she jumped up and down, jerked at the sleeves of his cloth overall. Slowly, the prince pulled out the pan; he blew several times on the liquid to show it was hot hot hot, and the girl laughed, a real emanation of happiness—even hell cannot quash the true spirit of man and woman. There is joy to be found in the slightest of corners, always, to those who go looking.

The prince walked the pan over to the ballistae, looking back first at the girl to see if she might protest. She did not; she was excitedly nibbling at the cuff of her sleeve, the drab brown overall that hung like a gown on her—she was tiny as a hatchling, not fully two feet tall.

He set down the beeswax pan next to the tallow container, then looked up to see where she had gone. The girl had run off... had he somehow misjudged, and was he now an intrusive bastard like the rest?

But then she made a turn, came bopping back, and ah... gave the prince a second brush so they could work together.

The prince dipped his brush in the beeswax, blowing on it again to ensure she knew—it was hot and dangerous... he waited for her to chuckle, a sign of acknowledgment, then applied it to the wood of the ballistae in neat and even strokes.

He offered her the brush, nodding as if to say—you can handle it, with the hint of a question lingering. She nodded a quick yesyesyes, and gently grabbed the brush, going to work as the prince had shown. He then took the second brush, dipped it in the tallow, applying lavish coats to the metal elements to keep them rust-free and functional. The prince tapped her softly on the shoulder, stealing her attention from the beeswax to the tallow—this they would use on the metal; the beeswax was for the wood. Did she understand? Yesyesyes, she nodded, and the prince nodded back.

They sat there for some time, engrossed in earnest toil with the brushes and ballistae, coating these works of art and war. She looked at him from time to time, to ascertain if the job and the mood were still right, and they were. The prince tried to make her laugh as often as he could—she deserved a bit of fun in between the brutal rest of days unending and nights cold with longing.

Then the morning bell rang, and the prince had to say not farewell but bye for now—he would be back. Tomorrow, he signed and said, hoping at least one part of the attempts to communicate would resonate in that clever sealed-off mind of her. What ghosts hid there, he might never know. Was she human, yet mostly erased? A full goblin ought not to behave as she did, so calm and inquisitive.

Ah, of course—magestones. He would bring her one and see her reaction. Now there was an experiment worth trying.

But first the inevitable, no more dawdling. The prince walked into an arena packed with bodies. The rookies, the captain, the lean stone-eyed watchman. They all watched him walk in, giving half-greetings or nods or bows, various motions that shared something real, something akin to reverence.

No sign yet from the bone-warrior.

So the prince joined in with the rookies—there were more now, newer numbers. “A gauntlet,” he offered, “from thirty-sixth to first, attack me. All duels. Winner gets nothing save for undying honour.”

The rest formed a circle as thirty-six lumbered up to the prince, trying hard to hide his buckling body, its tremors. But failing.

Chapter 33 – The fight and the slight of a champion (First Evolution arc)

The first five had fallen in shameful fashion—the prince derived no joy from seeing them wilt under his gaze and steel... no, wood. They used training swords here, the rookies.

A single slash each, then some half-hearted kick or push—that had proven sufficient for thirty-six and co.

Now thirty-one was up, his own number previously, before the prince had learned that climbing ranks was for the lesser ones only. Those soundly beneath him and his god-blade-given mark.

Thirty-one was small, even for a rookie, and not too fast either. The prince dodged his blow, moving under and staying close, shoving the man lightly aside, though he proved a fool who had no footing—he was sent flying to the oohs and aahs of the captive crowd... rookies that did not seem to gather they would be next.

Soon they came at him in twos, then in threes, with the watchman shouting slights and strategies at the befuddled men—the prince was to them an unconquerable giant, his strength that of a god in comparison. Hardly ever did the situation call for more than a single swing of the prince’s wooden sword—it broke the guard of whichever unfortunate rookie was on the receiving end.

And though this was sound practice for his princely ego, which had already grown to untenably large proportions... this training did little for the honed body of a second-grade Blackrose goblin—he was not receiving the stimuli for growth, for he had figured out, he thought, what experience meant, and what gaining it felt like. There was this strange sensation at the back of his head, a low pleasant hum that occurred, as though the spirits and cells cavorting around in his brain were finding out new paths to the well- mapped-out goal—the tactile pull of proper training. It brought that same sort of vibration each time, the oddly lovely sense of learning. Regardless of the specific impetus.

The prince had felt it reading Crucible, the refutation of his outmoded notions, how they ceded to higher truth—he had felt that happen in his brain and skull, the rumble of antiquated thought unravelling. Making way for something more enduring. The goblin truth of the matter.
Then also when he had fought Uggon—he had been in real peril there, and it was his mind that told the body... here are the right feints that will lead to victory, and he acted out the plan envisioned. Reward had come rippling, the same felt strain in the back of the head, his goblin brain adapting. The accumulation of experience points. He could feel it, thinking back.
And so too with his trip to the Tinkerers’ Hall, applying tallow and beeswax with the shy goblin girl who had warmed to him. Both the calm approach and their tinkering efforts, every motion measured and exact... something real had been gained there. The stats could be counted, residing in the realm where magic and science collide. The greater intangibles were beyond the reach of all.

But this now felt fruitless by contrast, his self-assigned role as master duellist. The prince whipped twenty-two and twenty-one aside in a single swift cut, swords and bodies sent clattering together—another mismatch for the ages. He thought of Zazra, how lithe she had been and then how deformed. Made a mere instrument before the taskmaster’s despotic will—the force of a god gone uncontested. How he would show that rat who’s boss—a prince is no god, but higher still in merit and mettle than a cave-dwelling coward who takes only the title. A god without name, Faruikis the deserter. No, his time would come. Soon.

Though the prince tried his best not to harm, the rookies seemed keen on flying in at impossible angles, landing harshly from the tactful rebukes that held the might of a second-grade mark-bearing goblin—quite a mouthful of titles the prince had acquired. As above, so below.

“Gruh,” the captain appealed against his men’s decision to keep funnelling more bodies into shameful defeat. He stepped up, and the stone-eyed plate-wearing watchmen walked with. They smiled at the prince, warriors’ tokens of praise, for they knew they would fall... but they also knew the prince was aware there’d be hell to pay first.

The prince swirled back, retreated to the rack to pick up a wooden shield—it seemed only fair to have full equipment versus two hard-lining veterans... rookies or not, these goblins could fight.

Barrelling forth with abandon, the captain hurled himself at the prince with a diagonal slash, sword on sword, then dipping low and vaulting, both legs upswung, pushing clear off on the shield before the prince could retaliate... for the watchman had joined with measured step to offset his ally’s feral footing; the whip he had ditched in favour of two short-bladed swords that he twirled high and low and at all angles, a mesmerizing dance of imagined steel—the finesse of his strokes, their unpredictability... it gave the prince some initial trouble, and Cedric’s body moved back so his mind could assess. The right window for a counter. There. Sweeping low with greater speed—he could crack hard through the twirling which was menacing only to those of lesser force. It was a gut check, and the prince would not fail.

Bounding in from below, the prince bent to shield-height, relying on his forceful new legs to break past the barrier of blades—the watchman’s skilful all-in-one motion, attack and defence both... but all men yield to greater force, and the prince came crashing past, hurling in a momentous back-to-front sweep with the tip of his blade shearing the edge of the twirling blade-barrier... breaking apart the rhythm and then the stance of the wielder, the watchman sinking back in shame—the man stumbling only slightly at first, till the kick of the prince found his midriff, sent him tumbling wide. Bladeless in defeat and broken. The man did not get up.

Then the captain, leaping in again from the blindside, acting out the animal he was not—flailing crescent-shaped strikes against the vague form of the prince, the latter so elusive as to be functionally one with his shadow. Unassailably fast from the eyes of a rookie, no matter how great a warrior one might be. Nature is cruel and therein lay the commonality and difference both—we as goblins and men share with nature the basest of our inborn inclinations: cruelty is rife; it gives breath to hate and vengeance, and in a sense to love, the dead part that comes after. The difference is we are boundless—there is no word that curbs the vile wants of the flesh; in love and hate we are unequalled. A tidal wave can break, and an earthquake rests when the work is done. But man is unending. We are the plague and the great sundering. The rip-roar truth that will bear blood and linger; we will watch when the world ends and shall be there after. There is no stopping a mind that simply refuses. There is no give.

All this thought the prince as the captain pressed in again on his shield, grabbing hold and finding footing, aiming then to leap off and clear... but no, not this time. The prince gathered all his bulk and blitz behind his shield, battering forth like a one-man wall. Pushing harder out than the captain pressed in, forestalling the latter’s momentum. Floundering to a fall a foot or four away, the captain was left to the prince’s oncoming mercy—the second-grade body bending fell towards him, wooden blade scraping the earth to let the world know: here is where men make war. The captain gave a feeble flick of his blade from a lost position, and the prince beat it away, tomahawking the foe’s sword in some blind direction with the force of his own true-found aim.

The fight ended with the watchman broken still in the distance, and the prince standing over the captain’s writhing frame, a shameful clawing at the ground he owned or hoped he still did—the arena that knew none but the one. The victor.

But the fight is never ended. Not truly.

“Grruuhahaaaaaaa,” exclaimed the raw voice from a new entrant, one clad in a cloak of bone and adorned in skulls that were the real dead deal, no token trinkets to impress. He was blood-mad, a misfit creature from the feral wastes, save that his talent eclipsed it—he was a warrior first, a champion undaunted. Worth too much to simply cut loose.

“You... bastard,” roared he to the prince, and the latter pieced it together. The sword of the captain—the one the prince had unwittingly slung along some unintended trajectory... it had landed near the groundskeeper coming in, the hulking mass of third-grade flesh known simply, to him, as the bone-warrior.

Though the sword was of wood, and it lay harmless at the bone-warrior’s feet, it was the thought behind it that mattered most... or the perception of that thought, for in reality there had been none. And let this be a rare case where truth gives way to a stronger something—the notion of a felt disdain that cut like a blood curse so deep.

The champion should be seen walking in; he expects it. The respect he is due. And be it wilful or accidental, his entrance had been sullied. And to sully a champion was to challenge him.

“I accept,” said the bone-warrior, taking thunderous breaths, like a stallion who had gone too long without mare.

And his eyes shone of death and the brutal negation of fear; he welcomed it. There was nothing you could do that had not already been done—every sin and wrongful act he had taken in stride upon himself, laughing in the face of righteous penance, that noble concept of mind forever without form in this world. His heart was a mass of beating flesh and nothing more.

He advanced now on the prince, locked in motion and fight; his mind was an arena always. Here was one whose rage could match the prince’s.

Two hyper-charged anomalies yearning to clash.

The prince leaned back with the air of a regent, tossing the wood he called plaything, not weapon proper. He plucked a steel longsword from the rack, and its slice sliding out was divine. A shield too, for a prince fought with grace and not bitter fury, not alone.

“You will beg me,” said the prince, adding fuel to the wildfire. “But I am without mercy for nameless dogs. Know that you fight the Prince of Lothrian, Cedric of the Blackrose. That is my name and I call upon it. Let madness descend should I dishonour it.”

And the prince, too, had the eyes of a beast enraged—the hateful fact that talk would not suffice... there had been no slight, but no sense in explaining it. Matters among men move beyond words before they begin. He was forced into this, a fight he did not want, though now he did. The inevitable collision made him captive, a slave to the situation in every sense and every scale. And gods... no, begone with gods... that made him mad.

So the doom-lit arena was transformed. It would end in the grave now, what was meant as a mere fencing match for fast experience. But so be it. Violence was a better lover than most; the prince longed for it, caressed it like one would a woman.

Then the prince set off strong, hurtling all-in like a hell-beast toward his hardest foe yet.

The air again wove electric.

Chapter 34 – Death surge of a prince (First Evolution arc)

Weightless, a moment frozen in time, the two moving nearer together; they were the same and they were opposites, splitting the large open grounds of the arena in two.

In one part silence reigned—the bone-warrior walking with the sure-footed stride of one habituated to having nothing and no one to run from. The last line of defence before Gorkon. His days of conquest were long since over, fighting human elites and jockeying for status against goblin raid captains and warchiefs. But his status as ex-champion held a certain weight still, palpable to those who stood near him too long; he had this way of exploding in a fit of madness only Gorkon could curb.

Then on the other side of the arena, the prince cut through the distance like a man possessed, testing the limits of his new legs—it felt like flying. Far behind him now, the rookies hid at the edge furthest away from the entrance and exit, captives with their captain and watchman, all beholden to the outcome of this fight they had no business being near.

The prince heard his heart, its penetrating beat, flashing past his breath and step, all three so heavy and clear. He ran so hard to stop from thinking—his will might fade if he slowed down a hair. Leaping into his opponent's reach, the prince curved his steel steeply upward, ready for a crash he hoped; his mind trailed a pace or two behind.

Colliding then, the bone-warrior dug in his heels. An effort to brace, though his body slid back, surprise flitting in the hollow of his eyes—he did not expect the strength of the prince; they were a realm apart in the chain of evolution. But the sordid smile he then gave showed the truth—he held power in reserve, a vast tank left untapped. Saved for that rare worthy challenge all warriors want.

The prince felt the flaring of his aura, the royal blue striking out like a sword. A sinister red struck back—the bone-warrior’s force that matched his own, steel for steel and might for will. No... it surpassed him. By the second blow the prince was driven back; the third landed on his shield, and the fourth he ducked under, barely, swivelling to regain a stance that made sense, further apart, for his mind had caught up now. Bade him extreme caution.

“Greha... hu... huaa,” the bone-warrior’s sound was as his look, rattling to the core—the skeletal cloak that clattered, accentuating each step; it was constant. The reminder of death.

Sliding aside, the prince sought to evade rather than block—the blows were too heavy to take in succession. Though moving deftly and with purpose, the prince found no reprieve from the brutal onslaught. The distance between them did not increase; not an inch of ground was given by the aggressor, the bone-warrior moving in close like a shadow—their ways would not part, save for the one and final time.

The prince then stepped in instead of out, wielding his shield as a weapon, surging up to meet a downward strike. The bone-warrior’s blade cracked down on the shield moving up, shearing along its ridged edge, sending sparks flying. Now then—bending low with his abdomen braced, the prince hewed at the feet of his foe in an unguarded instant, so he hoped. But the bone-warrior raised one leg in response, catching the blade on his plated greave—the bastard had armour on, of course... most high-ranking goblins did. Only the prince was still clad in beggar’s rags.

Spinning away, the prince heard his own frantic heart again; it rose with each beat over the clamour of battle, the frayed panting sound of his lungs breathing fire—gods alive, he was spent. A handful of bouts had him reeling with shame and exhaustion; the foe was simply too strong.

Relentless in pursuit, the bone-warrior lurched in, his eyes ablaze with a red mad fervour. Metal clinked under his cloak of bone, and it was only then that the prince fully realized the folly of his endeavour. The foe was an impenetrable mass moving at impossible speeds—Zazra’s pace was ponderous in comparison. He parried where possible, took the full force of the bone-warrior’s blows when not—his shield was as breath, both vital and fleeting... his arm was aflame with weariness.

How much longer could he keep this up? Now there was a thought a warrior would discard.

Discard—the notion flashed past, swift as steel and likewise incisive.

The prince flung his shield at the face of his foe, the latter half-ducking as he sliced at the strange projectile wobbling through the air toward him—there was no great might behind the throw.

Meanwhile, the prince had whirled clear, taking a breath to himself, but no more than the one. He ran at the weapon’s rack, scanning its contents—was there anything here aside from a second sword he could wield? No, nothing at all, the prince concluded, until his eye focused in on the blurs in the back. The cowering rookies. The captain was there, and the watchman, and... his whip, the prince thought in a reckless moment. A weapon so light and strictly for offense. It was bold, but hardly a decision—the prince felt nothing but dire necessity.

Looking over his shoulder to assess the distance, the prince saw the foe and his plodding gait—there was no cause for speed beyond the swiftness of steel and step in the heat of battle. The bone-warrior walked the prince down, knowing full well he had no place to run, nowhere was safe inside the arena. And the exit was too far.

They were locked in this together.

Searching the ground for the whip, the prince saw the captain’s arm stretch, pointing as his mouth moved, though there was no sound—only the pulsing of blood could be heard. The off-beat pump of a royal heart.

He followed the path and grabbed hold of the whip—it was there for the taking. The prince spun back round, saw the bone-warrior stall in his step till he merely stood still, waiting. A blatant taunt, the prince thought at first. But then his ears pricked up to a far-off chant... soothing sounds that sought to sway and not command, not outright.

The source was a seeress, her large and bell-like frame stationed at the gated arena entrance. And her singing was a spell, aimed at the bone-warrior, though the prince gave a twitch too, his body bending in awe to this creature’s charm—a fallen angel if ever there was one, her droning melody boring deeper down than a sword could cut.

And the bone-warrior stood entranced—this must have been the plan from the start. A mirthless duel in which the odds were ever in the prince’s favour. Some handpicked enchantress sent by the taskmaster, ordered to quell the bone-warrior’s will if he threatened to win.

No. Not like that. All his time down here had been hell—the notion of free will torqued to the point of breaking; there was nothing of the sort. His every conquest had been gifted by the golden hands of the ruling god, the one of his kind remaining. Foul Gorkon had a decisive say in his every captive hour. The ruthless stain of his artifice clung to the very air the prince could but breathe—there ended his say in the matter; his lungs did the rest. And in the same way his will. Sculpted to suit the master’s plan. To make the prince think his acts held the weight of consequence, when in truth they were vapid as air. His resolve meant nothing; all victories were hollow. Gorkon would not let him die, not before he had secured Dicebolg and done what was needed—even this was unclear. What malevolent means he would have to enact, the prince as a puppet. To revive the true devil. Kageru.

He was scared and tired—his body shook from awe still, and now from outrage. Begone with these meddlesome deities, the ones that had left to good riddance... and the one that remained, he would root out later. Gorkon would die at his hands. And for that he needed strength, which Gorkon might grant him. And he needed his own mind, the freedom of will that the taskmaster toyed at, seemed keen on bestowing in false acts that felt real—but no more. The prince would carve his own path, severing the safeties installed by that bastard Gorkon’s contriving grace.

“Stop,” said the prince to the seeress, loud enough so the command would ring clear. His voice moved beyond hers, though in different timbres. But the result of the clashing, her chant and his command... it was not in doubt. The seeress ceased her song, stood there wobbling with eyes glazed over. Her hold over the bone-warrior broken.

And the bone-warrior leered at the prince with all shades of malice glinting, the reds of his ire and aura, the purples and blacks of a singular doom—that was the promise made to the prince who had saved him from disrepute, a fangless and seeress-led duel. One he was built to lose.

The vengeful gaze was one of recognition—the bone-warrior seeing the prince as an honourable challenger, worthy of the final resolution two warriors bring to bear on any inquiry: who is the grandest? The one who remains when the other is dust.

But the prince had his own heart-felt notions on what pride would allow in the context of duels. No outside interference, that much was self-evident; it’s why the seeress had to go—she was violating the sanctified yet unspoken pact between two high-calibre men.

That said... the prince was not above plaguing the foe with his worst weaknesses, be they combat-oriented or outside of that scope. The bone-warrior’s body was beyond rebuke... but his mind was soft in places, the prince recalled. When he and Artisan and Linaria had returned, were given entrance to the tribe’s great halls... the bone-warrior had stood there, dazed and aloof in his role of groundskeeper. Babbling on about the rookie games.

And let the psyche be the penultimate factor in battleground success—so close did the psychological reside to the physical forces with which a war is won, that the difference seemed to most seasoned scholars, among which the prince, infinitesimal at best.

Time, then, to bring in a different kind of warfare. Targeting the mind and not directly the body.

“Welcome to the rookie games!” bellowed the prince at his foe, who was again rooted to the ground, the hard lines of him blurred as his body went slack. The bone-warrior mouthed something in response, though inordinately faintly for a man with a resounding voice, the kind he possessed. “Pick one,” he said, utterly frazzled as the prince had foreseen.

The bone-warrior lived on the edge of reason, a half-snap away from breaking. Gorkon kept him there not with hateful intent, but because it was the best possible state still achievable... this veteran groundskeeper had grown so old, had been through so much, that most of his self had by now eroded. An identity in tatters. Some shade or two removed from madness, that was where he dwelt, by his will or its opposite, the strict enforcement from above—nay, below. Gorkon’s unwillingness to let the man go. And in that case, the god had again proved the greatest bastard living. The prince would grow and gut him like a boar. With his god-blade Dicebolg. Let us soon see if a god can bleed.

The prince moved in close, lashed his newfound whip at the chest of the bone-warrior, who did not stir; the bones rattled over the sonic boom, as did the sharp grating clink of a ricochet—the whip striking the metal of his breastplate.

No damage was done, naturally—a whip could not pierce or dent a knight’s armour. It was a test, to see how the bone-warrior might react to being struck.

“Gruhe... gruhu... GRAAAH,” the guttural gasps of the bone-warrior rent the soul of every goblin in there. He barrelled straight toward the prince now, running and leaping. No hint of his earlier composure. No semblance of defence either.

The prince lashed his whip hard at the exposed parts of the foe’s hulking form, drawing blood at the biceps and elbow, but not enough, for the charging foe did not relent.

Then the prince cracked the whip at the madman’s face, inflicting brutal deep wounds—blood came gushing from the split lip and the spliced-open nose... yet the bone-warrior strode on, unperturbed by the pain and irrevocable disfigurement.

A true warrior, exalted by his strife—and the prince felt a flick of remorse that was promptly extinguished. In one calmed-down beat of a dead man’s heart. The prince could not allow the real-world sway of emotional vicissitudes. He felt what he felt in the privacy of his mind, giving no great meaning to any topic arising; they were all to him the same, akin to stray thoughts of sex or love or other past things. Each one fizzled without follow-up. He shook them all off, then moved in for the kill.

“Rise tall and honour yourself,” said the prince as he cast away his whip, took a two-handed grip round the hilt of his longsword. “The mark of the enemy is the mark of death.” All quotes from the rookie games, cracking at the mind of his foe like a whip does to skin.

The prince sought to strike, but the foe was still swift—their blades crashed together, and the prince did not budge. Nor did the bone-warrior. Deadlocked they stood in a test of final mettle, the strain and weight of metal grinding, staring at the soul with eyes both hollow and venomous—the two qualities could coexist. The two men could not.

“Welcome, bastard... to the rookie games,” taunted the prince once more as he leaned in with his full might, incensed by the struggle he still experienced. The foe should be a convulsing heap from the mental turmoil: the split between mind and body, the former long gone and the latter retaining ground and gaining. Again, the prince was pushed back.

He let it all go then, tapping from his own vast pool of anguish—he saw Gael’s rotting corpse, what it must look like now. “Graaaah, gru... gruueh,” he heard himself utter and it fuelled him more, to sound like a goddamn greenskin and not a prince. What a timeless affront. And someone would pay. How about the bone- and metal-clad body here before him?

The prince flared out in blue, the royal mark lighting up strong and spreading—his sword caught the same hue as the air jolted round him, sparking out parts of his great and untenable rage. His eyes pulled wide with hate, for the world that had doomed him, and for himself, having allowed the world in.

The stalemate seemed then to resolve—the prince being of a single mind, whilst the bone-warrior was torn between unyielding rage and a broad hell-born confusion.

Sweat poured as the prince gave a final surge forth, pushing past the foe and his faltering guard, blade slicing through the air and looping round, faster than his foe’s defence might recover. With a final hard slash, the prince forced his blue-lit steel through the metal and bone at the foe’s chest and abdomen, raking through flesh till the sword stalled at the midway point—close to cleaving the champion in half.

“Hah,” the prince let out in unearthly fatigue, closing his eyes and relaxing, the fool he was. Had he learned nothing?—the thought spun around in his vacant head; all effort had gone to expunging the face of Gael, the way she would look now, so pale and grey and with flesh gone missing to maggots and...

He opened his eyes and it was too late—the bone-warrior had shambled toward him, his vile green hand reaching out, grabbing the skull of the prince and squeezing with all the might that remained in that dead broken body.

Death surge. Like that other old champion, Vol’krin. There is no give in these goblin warriors. Savages down to the rotten core.

The prince jerked back, grabbed the foe’s hand with his and wrenched with all the bitter-wrought fury he had left, though his vision went warped and the lines of reality blurred... then he heard a loud breaking as if from afar, but he felt it—his own damn skull cracking. The last thing he saw was the blood, spurting from his crushed eye-sockets.

Falling down, the prince thought of home, of Gael and of Gendrin, a knee-jerk thought of the three things that anchored him straight to being still. He could not die, though his body was ruined.

He heard the wheezing grunts of the one who had got him—the dreaded bone-warrior who was damn near bifurcated but breathing. This sick bastard had done him in. Why was he alive still? Why was anyone? The hell with this.

Death surge.

The prince gave a goblin-true howl as he flailed upward in freefall, grabbing onto the sagging form of the foe so they fell together. Though the prince could not see, he could feel the metal chest, then the flesh of the bone-warrior’s face, and he gripped tight like a vice, swivelling round or flopping onto his body—whichever way it looked, the result was what counted. The prince lay sprawled on top of the bone-warrior, could hear his sick grunts of pleasure and pain—the man relished his own demise, as long as he went down a champion.

He would not.

The prince pulled the foe’s skull hard toward him, as high up as he could manage. Then he called for a final time upon his weight and his might, smashing down the skull to the arena ground.

He heard a dreadful laughing, as though the bastard was enjoying this, mocking the prince in his feeble last efforts.

Moving on instinct, the prince’s fingers felt around for softer tissue, finding the foe’s eyes. He angled his thumbs just right, pressed in and through, a loud pop and then a yell of fear and grave agony.

Now the prince let out a sick laugh, pulling the skull in again and bashing it down, harder—he was coming alive with the yielding groans of his blood-sworn foe. Five more times the same, and the back of it popped out; the skull was both hard and soft, a slushing sound of mush as it hit the ground.

The prince went on without vision and sound, slamming the slippery mess down until there was nothing much left to hold onto.

Only then did he roll off his foe, shocked by the motion into feeling, grasping at last the immensity of his pain. This was the feeling of death; he had endured it before. He thought of Gael as she once was, lively and young... or tried to—he could not trace out the feeling she gave. The prince and his mind, they were too far gone.

The world fell away.

There was only darkness.

Chapter 35 – Hell beyond hell (Pre-final Evolution arc)

“A warrior of the blood does not rest easy,” said a faint but familiar voice, stately and remote—there was a certain dignity to it. “For each moment of repose, the shadow of darkness stands to lengthen. What will you do when the light fails at last to illuminate?”

Dazed and uncertain, the prince pried open his eyes, saw the ghost of a memory standing before him—his august grand-uncle decked out in full regalia, royal blue velvet edged with golden filigree.

Gustave Blackrose, the warrior-poet.

The symbol of the senior branch shone on his chest—a silver-studded medallion with on it the old Blackrose symbol entwined with the new. A wilting rose vine wrapped around the low golden crown of a duke.

Another dream, then. But not some self-made concoction, no. This was a true window into the past. All of it real but gone, save for the memory.

“...” Wordless, grand-uncle Gustave stared the prince down, to see if he would wilt or flourish under pressure—there was always the mental battle to look out for, with the warrior-poet around.

“I had the strangest dream,” said the prince, and he heard himself say it like he had all those years ago, with the voice of a child—the princeling he had been. “There were gob...”

“Dreams can tell us things,” Gustave broke in, ponderous as ever. “Mostly, this one tells us you’re late for breakfast.” He gave a big smile, parting his petit handlebar moustache over his thin lips—the man had a penchant for appeasing other nations, having adopted the stylish quirks from the Verdillune empire to the west. ‘The warrior-poet is a diplomat first,’ he was known to remark; ‘only when earnest negotiations fail does the sword get unsheathed.’

The prince got out of bed—the memory played itself out; he was stuck inside his own mind, a captive onlooker. His body went to the mirror, beheld itself draped in the royal blue of his line, a finely tailored tunic and trousers to match.

“Here.” Uncle Gustave held out the ceremonial white cloak of the heir, and the prince donned it, studying his image in the mirror. He was a boy of about twelve, not quite endowed with his teenage frame—at fourteen he was tall as a full-grown commoner, and at sixteen already he stood well over six feet.

“Come,” said Gustave, “Why are you are testing my—your mentor’s—patience?” He sighed but it was playful, not quite real.

Real, the prince thought, casting a final glance at his boyish face as Gustave dragged him off. Down to the last detail, all was true to form. A memory proper.

The prince moved slowly, encumbered by his festive garments. Clasped at the throat with a brooch of gold, the white cloak was heavy, made from a thick brocade weave meant to confer the weight of impending rulership, and...

“And done.” Gustave placed a thin circlet of gold on the prince’s head, letting it rest lightly upon his brow—it was less a crown than the promise of one.

The dream was still on track, the reliving of a day that stood out in recollection.

His father Bartold’s coronation. One week after the abdication of grandfather Byron, king of the Blackrose—the man had grown too cynical and sickly to go on. Too forgetful. The gravitas of the monarch had gone from him, his ailing mind, and it was in the kingdom’s best interest...

Gustave pulled the princeling by the hand. “Come, the oaths of fealty are due to commence. Breakfast...”

“Can wait,” the prince cut in. “The marquis Venrôme cannot.” He knew it to the letter still, what Gustave had said all those years ago—here was the defining formative moment of his early adolescence. To see his father crowned.

But by speaking out of turn he had tarnished it, the sanctity of the past—he had somehow taken agency, ripped it from the princeling’s mouth.

Gustave grimaced, a hard and mean look flashing past the warrior-poet—it did not quite take hold. He pulled harder on the princeling’s hand, and the room whorled away, a vortex that ripped at both vision and cognition—the truth of the past seemed to the prince less certain. As though his mind could not now retrieve the moment after.

--

When the quaking within ceased and the world in the dream took solid form once more... the prince saw his father. Freshly crowned, sitting atop the Blackrose throne, gem-encrusted gold in all its glory. He held a ceremonial staff in one hand, Dicebolg in the other.

This was again real, as far as the prince could tell. He was quite certain it was.

His grand-uncle Gustave kneeled before the new king, then rose at the latter’s command, taking the staff and handing it to Garanech II, magetower archmage at the time, a low-bent man of little scruple.

Then the warrior-poet bent again before the king, and it was Bartold who rose from his throne, holding Dicebolg high.

The king knighted the kneeling warrior-poet, brushing the dark blade on both shoulders. “Arise, sir knight,” Bartold said in a solemn tone, sounding hollow almost. Not at all the loving father the prince had known.

“My tireless devotion,” said Gustave, rising. “Always.”

“Swear it again,” the king exclaimed, louder than before. “Swear it on the sacred sword.”

And the warrior-poet took firm hold of Dicebolg, turning to the crowd—nobles from all around, old blood from Lothunc and Rhianmere, and new-forged peers, penniless most, beholden to the crown.

All applauded as Gustave held the mighty sword without a hint of strain—the blood was strong in him. Ten long seconds passed, and the king reclaimed Dicebolg, bade the warrior-poet gracefully depart.

Two lines then formed: one with all the cadet branch Blackroses; they thronged before the king. The second line was comprised of all others in attendance, those without the Blackrose blood; they would swear to the archmage who had sworn already to the king, holding the gilded staff of ceremony—none of them could touch the dark blade, not without mortal peril.

The prince watched it all now as he had then, the faceless Blackrose cousins, relatives from afar, sweating as they awaited their turn. First among them was the bald earl Jannis, a minor Blackrose in name, but he had harkened to the call under king Byron, defending the northern border from feral goblin hordes. See here what loyalty begets.

Earl Jannis swore the first vow, kneeling, then arose with ardour, grabbing Dicebolg by the hilt as though zeal might shield him—it did not. The sword singed its mark in the fat of his hand; the man trembled but withstood, a wide-legged stance so as best to bear the burden. Enduring for the ten seconds of duty, his whole body heaving—fierce once, the prince had been told, but big-bellied now from peace and wine and the passing of time.

When at last it ended, the king nodded in approval, taking Dicebolg from the brave and scorch-marked hands—hellfire itself would not bloat and blacken the skin as did the darkest of blades.

As a boy, the prince had loved it—the pomp and parade, all the right kinds of dutiful splendour. The force of the sword he would one day inherit.

All the lesser Blackroses swore the oath twice. Those of the diluted blood. Most of them wore a magiguard gauntlet, though the howls of their terror pierced through to the core. A handful refused and rescinded the name—they were called Blackrose no longer. Forced to the shame of attending the second line, they swore on the staff to the archmage. Worthy no more of bowing directly to the king.

And then the grand finale. Once the two lines of nobles had taken their seats, sworn true to the new king... the prince was called to the fore. His body kneeled like it had then—there was nothing he could do now to change the past; to interfere meant to tarnish.

He bent and swore, his young brittle voice rising over the masses, this great silence of the watchful there gathered.

The dark blade gleamed as his father regarded him gravely, passing Dicebolg from king to heir—it was not the son per se, but the prince who grasped the hilt.

Proudly, the prince turned to the audience who bore witness—not a half breath out of pace, so in line was he with the sword that would be his to hold, in life as in death. The weight beyond lifting.

Inside the boy’s mind, the dreaming prince tried to abscond, to break free of this sword and its dreaded hold. Though he knew he should not.

Still, he fought with all his mental might, vainly trying to revert what the future would bring. Had brought.

His hands let go and so did the boy's, releasing Dicebolg to the bitter earth. A hard clang echoed through the silence.

The fool he was... again he had interceded, broken the spell of the sordid past—it was not then the spell of doom the prince knew it now to be; for the boy it was joyful. The first time he had touched the blade of his heritage. Its timeless burden not yet revealed.

Then the boy looked up and the memory shattered.

The lost souls of hell were there, boring their baleful eyes straight through to the heart of him, the virginal soul that had now been scathed. Fierce and fanged stares they gave him, the green-grown bodies of the damned—all the Blackroses gathered, made singular under the righteous curse of god.

Goblins. The wilting rose marked on their forehead.

A sinful vitriol reigned, for even the king was made subservient. His father turned before his eyes, a salivating greenskin looking ready to pounce, claws out and writhing with fury. His gaze scarred by an irreverent hate.

The prince felt the fear as the boy might have done in so surreal a circumstance. He ran and cried and he was captured. Flung to the ground by vile green hands, scraping him bloody and raw.

Howling in fear and then in rage, the boy sounded more and more goblin.

“Stop,” he yelled, though to no avail—the horde rent him flesh from bone.

Then the fear faded, and there was only the sacrilege. The hellish strong urge to maim and kill—when all hope for better had faded... it was better to be torturer still, than the one bound on the rack.

“Stop,” the prince called, with the voice of command, a mere boy no longer. His body turned green and strong, the way it had been before, in the brutal duel last-remembered. Neatly prior to the end, when his skull had been caved in by that bastard bone-warrior—but at least he had won. At any goddamn cost. That rat bastard was dead...

But what about him, the prince?

Was he bound now to a dark limbo, reliving shards of his haunted past?

He stood up in the dream, staring out at the vacant-faced masses, the goblins bent to his bidding. Here was an army alright, but where was that archfiend, Gorkon? Also here, in this warped realm of mind and memory?

“Have at me, you foul bastard,” cried the prince, and the goblins scattered, bewildered by this challenge lain at the feet of the divine, the one last god living. The taskmaster of hell. Faruikis former. Gorkon.

And from the rift between dream and dire dead-faced reality, the god appeared before him, clad in the simple white robes of one so exulted in sin that nothing more was needed—no armour in hell could provide more protection... the green skin of the taskmaster was absolute. His will shall be done.

The prince reached for Dicebolg... but too late—the god was at his throat. Blindingly fast, the difference incalculable. Man versus one from above, a being from a higher order altogether.

“You have slain my sacred groundskeeper, little Blackrose,” hissed the spectre of Gorkon—he was not fully there, but only in essence. He heaved the prince up, one hand around the neck and not an ounce of strain. “I might have shown mercy to thee, after the conquest, your reclaiming of Dicebolg. But now it will not be so. You will do as needed, free of mind until I, Gorkon, see fit to break it. Once your aid is required no longer, and my great brother hath arisen... then I will take from you everything—your precious few friends, this hobbled traitor and the mage with the low mark of Truorúst... all but a sliver of the self will be ripped from them, and for all eternity will they wander my halls, knowing what they were and are not. The greatest torment lies in faint remembrance. Prepare yourself, Blackrose. The next time we meet...”

“Speak more now that you have a tongue still, coward Faruikis.” The prince tore free from Gorkon’s grasp, felt the royal blue course through him like never before. Lightning cracked through the air, emanating from the wilted rose-mark on his flesh, this crass emanation of aura. A hate so pure it could fell the devil. “All I have known since my fall is fear. You think it frightens me still, to know this emotion, the quickening of heart and a fever of mind? I spit on it. Fear is my slave. But it is your master. Before my life ends, I will show the world below that a god can bleed. YOU, TOO, WILL BOW TO THE BLACKROSE.”

Gorkon snarled, contorting his vile and great visage—it was both at all times, both goblin and god. And the prince simply stared, eyes hard with hate. Not a breath lost to fear.

Then the taskmaster turned away. “You are bold, little prince. I will savour the taste of your anguish. Rest now. Your skull was shattered by your own dismal doing, challenging my groundskeeper.”

“And winning,” intervened the prince.

“And winning,” said Gorkon. “Here is your prize. Your broken body was carted from the brink of death back. By me, the god you renounce. Think on that, little one. I have seen fit to place you inside the chamber of final evolution—harken to it, for this is your greatest challenge yet. Convince yourself for now that, indeed, a god will be smitten down by thee—the rage and true belief will see you through this ordeal. It will be hell, but know that you have brought it upon yourself.”

“I am in the egg again, so soon?”

“Too soon. You will burn alive and be transformed... to a goblin lord or to bitter ash—your resolve alone is decisive. Three of my greatest seers are here to guide your roiling mind. They will maintain the spectral bridge I have conjured; it links the world without to your world within. Dare not fail now. I will be the one to crush your throat and your last living dreams. Return to me a worthy enemy. Keep yourself and the mark whole. The latter is sacred.”

“How long will...” the prince started.

But Gorkon’s form vanished from the plane of dreams.

The prince blinked and the world within shifted.

“Tally ho,” he heard roaring in from behind, and he saw before him the twisted gate of Landsbury.

No, gods, no. Not this.

Some fair distance beside him stood Gael, fierce and devout and a creature beyond beauty. As she had been that day and every day.

And the prince was swiftly proven wrong. His heart and his mind, they knew fear beyond fear.

Once was hell and it was not enough. He was here to again behold the death of his beloved.

Hell beyond hell.

Chapter 36 – To relive is to live again(?) (Pre-final Evolution arc)

If he could but avert his gaze, stare blindly inward and wait. But no. His plight was to witness and preserve. The scathing past he longed to discard like a blunted blade.

He heard her fateful words. “Call upon the clerics.” How he had missed her voice, her force and presence. The long windless nights, the smell of her hair.

The prince saw Gendrin, his bulging frame and the red of his face—years of drink and the easy life. That traitorous cur.

There were no words for his rage, none he could express, though he thought of plenty.

For the first time now, for true and real, he would heed his own warning. To not interfere as his mind forced dire remembrance upon him. The past two times in this wretched long dream, he had caused a disruption. When waking up to Gustave’s call. When holding Dicebolg at his father’s coronation. And grasping back, both memories appeared now incomplete, as if seeing them through mist. It was clear the first time, what would happen. And still he had faltered.

Here he was, blotting out his own existence. Always charging in blind and calling it brave.

No more.

The prince watched the world end before his eyes, clad in the skin of man, but a goblin in mind. All the hate of hell surged within, and he let it, surveyed it from afar like the warrior-poet would... whatever remained of that fanciful fiction. There were no poets who made war, not proper. Art is a higher cause, and it cannot be stained, lest it ceases to be. And only in tales can a knight’s hand remain blood-free.

All of it he took in, the silent beholder. The goblins ran wild, hurtling like wildebeest across the town’s crumbling structures—it was good to think of the aftermath, how the land might be naught but ash, that field of sorrow and death.

Gael’s fall brought him low as oblivion, but he honoured her now, taking in her valiant last stand—this he told himself, and it had to be true; there must be hidden a silver morsel of atonement, somewhere in the act. This mindful reliving.

His own fall was felt but barely—it was nothing in comparison. He would die a thousand times if Gael could live. Or if Gendrin...

Startled, the prince looked with disgust and vested interest upon the one he had called half-uncle, this fiend gloating over his demise, flaunting his bare hanging gut and chest as he prattled the words. “Take a look at the cause of your undoing.”

These blood-hammered runes on Gendrin’s body... one of them was oft-repeated in the folds of his flesh. It was the kanji for Ruin (崩), as bestowed to goblins cursed by Truorúst, major shard of the god-blade Ziegbölt—the devil’s own sword. Kageru’s.

What a fool he had been, yet again, the prince lambasted himself. Could he not have discerned this vital fact the first time he died? Here he was now, thankful almost for the opportunity to revisit. His latest demise a blessing in disguise.

Ruin was the mark of the Lady Linaria also, but it made sense on her—she was a goblin.

What dreadful forces had Gendrin been entangled with, to bear a mark of eternal death whilst nominally still a man?

And amidst the strange lesser symbols on his skin, there hid another major mark—one as pronounced and recurring as the Ruin kanji from Truorúst. Weary-eyed, for near to death, the prince made out the kanji for Rise (昇).

Might that mark then correspond to Ferignost, the second major shard of Ziegbölt?

Although Caladbrinn was also, in theory, possible—the prince had not seen the mark made by that god-blade. But it was fair to reason that the two whole blades, Dicebolg and Caladbrinn, would leave similar blemishes, both symbol-based. Not kanji.

The prince combined the two kanji in thought: Rise (昇) and Ruin (崩). That seemed fitting for the devil’s blade. Kageru’s Ziegbölt. He who will rise and bring ruin.

“Hey, don’t you die on me just yet.” Gendrin’s blunt intellect brought the prince back to the image conjured by his dream-state. This ham-fisted lowlife towering over him.

Don’t you worry, dear half-uncle. You will see me again, in blood and death. I will come for you.

Though the prince wanted so to speak the execration into being, he relented, boldly—for to sit idly and take it was more damning to his immediate state of mind... that fleeting hold on sanity he held dear. If only out of accursed necessity.

The prince’s path was clearer now and coming to an end—reclaim Dicebolg, thwart a god and overthrow him; then hack apart his own corpse and bury the parts, so his soul would be whole once his goblin-form died. Free to go on. To where was unknown. Anywhere but hell. And finally and above all, destroy the lord Gendrin, that sacrilege in the flesh, who seemed somehow connected to the broken god-blade Ziegbölt—of this the prince was now certain. And what to make of the fool’s unlikely ally, the darkmage wielding Caladbrinn?

Oh gods.

Artisan’s words—why had he not thought of them sooner?

“... Feldirk’s line, likewise wielders of a master blade, Caladbrinn of the fallen order...”

The darkmage must by blood be of high heritage, one in Feldirk of the mire’s direct line of descent. A combined thought drifted in, commanding attention: the prince realized what might be gleaned from the forced memory before. The coronation ritual. Whole god-blades can only be wielded by those of the proper blood. Rodrich’s line for Dicebolg, Feldirk’s line for Caladbrinn.

The prince stared at her, this foul darkmage with her conical hat and bandaged-up face, fully obscured and revealing nothing back then—the first time. But hiding nothing now.

A brief yet brutal stint as a goblin was all he had needed, to deduce beyond reasonable doubt precisely why Caladbrinn was monikered the runesword ‘of the fallen order’.

Till now he had reasoned the cause to be simple: Feldirk’s line had failed to ascend to kingship, his line banished from noble circles following Rodrich’s ascension as first king of the Blackrose. But no, they had fallen far lower, those highborn bastards of the fallen order, hailing from the far-off mire. The old Lothunc boglands.

They had thrown in their lot with the devil, or his placeholding brother to be exact. Caladbrinn was in a way already in the taskmaster’s hands; the veiled ally to Gendrin was of the same mind... she and Gorkon, they both wanted to revive the dead god Kageru.

“The dead know more than you imagine,” said the darkmage standing there in lifelike memory. Ah, if only she knew, thought the prince, resolved to ensure she finds out.

“... Devulgo.” The void sphere spell killed the prince again, and he was oddly unphased in the moments before and directly after—with death so commonplace, its meaning is lost. Mortal minds or not.

And on one thing he could pride himself: he had not intervened; the horrid past had played out utterly unaltered. As long as he stayed strong and faced the facts of his own cast-away life... his mind could not falter. He would still be himself when finally he woke up.

Then the world within twisted and writhed, convulsed in an earnest effort to find the prince some firm enough footing. What next in this maelstrom of loss?

--

The forest.

He was holding the hammer, trudging through that woodland hellscape. Sent on a quest to procure the blue ore—the key to open one box of soul, at the cost of many more.

How long had it been, the rookie games? A lifetime it seemed. When the goblin world revolved around stats and not philosophy—such was his muted perception back then.

The prince steeled himself for the fight... no, the slaughter—the feral lake-dwelling goblins. How many shards of how many souls had he shattered there? And would now again?

The path led ever on.

“My liege,” he heard a distant voice exclaim, coming from behind. It was Artisan’s. Unsettling. The man had not called for him then. “Tarry a moment and I’ll come with,” Artisan added, speaking from afar, most definitely acting out of step with the past—he had spent the time leaned back against a tree, near where he had almost fainted. Both the huntress and Artisan had waited there for the prince to return. These extra lines of dialogue... they did not belong in the script of remembrance.

Turning back, the prince hesitated, unclear on what to do: ignore the out-of-place call of his friend, or embrace this diversion from the true past—one he had not himself initiated?

He felt his legs begin to linger, in essence deciding to take the path astray. It might as well be so—the prince trusted his body over the mind in matters like these. Too much thought leads only to inaction.

The prince waited for Artisan to catch up, this hobbling and panting man he had doubted and hated and loved—he was a friend in the end; the prince chose to believe that. He had to.

“Finally,” said Artisan, “a memory with me in it—I can lead you out now, for a time.”

“What folly is this you speak of?” retorted the prince, wary of his own brittle cognition, the limited hold on matters of the mind. Certainly whilst stuck in the egg. “You are there with me now, in a room with my body?”

Artisan nodded—yes, he was there, a real spectral intruder. “Aye, you cannot impede the reliving of a true memory. Not without grave consequence, that is so. But I can. My interference is not yours, so come with; it will not shred your mental state—the seers have assured me as much. And Gorkon. I trust him in this; he needs you whole for now.”

Wasting no time, Artisan clasped his arms around the prince in earnest embrace. “I made you go there once,” he said, inclining his head toward the deep-down forest, toward the lake, “and I cannot apologise enough. The one time was more than enough.”

Releasing the prince from his grasp, Artisan held out his hand. “Come along, away from this place.”

The prince grabbed his friend’s hand, and the trees and hard truths of the forest receded, a scene folding inward as they were swept into the currents of another recollection. But not the prince’s.

Artisan relaxed, looked less aggrieved, his back settling in a lesser state of misalignment. “I want to show you, if I may, two things that may aid or harm you further,” he said, shifting sedately toward the prince. The man was himself enraptured by the vital image he had conjured: a snow-clad grassy field, with kneeled upon it three dozen magi or more, women and men engrossed in meditation. They had on robes of silverweave or greater fabric, and major magestone-lockets that shone like dawn.

“Is that...” asked the prince, as he beheld the fair lady standing central in the field, arms spread and golden-hued as all the realm’s riches—her soul bared without the faintest effort; one need not possess the power of farsight to see she was sublime. More than merely mortal.

“The Lady Thanell,” Artisan affirmed. “In the flesh. Gods, have you ever seen so clear an intimation of the divine?”

The prince could only shake his head.

“She taught us,” Artisan went on, his gaze transfixed still on the demi-goddess, her changing stances in silence—no great need for commotion; she was holy in the simplest of ways, sharing stillness from her soul. The tempered essence of a being beyond man.

The ground-bound mages took it in, staring up at the Lady Thanell who had started to soar, spinning in a slow spiral going higher, lifting off a foot above the snow.

Soon thereafter, a monk-like figure started to stir, one among the many, sitting down with the other magi. At peace and entranced, he rose, his body fluttering some inches above the ground, enrobed by a pale golden hue. The emanation of his frail and young soul.

The prince recognized it, even from afar. The soul, though nascent and without fell conviction... he knew it was Artisan sitting there, one of the roaming magi. Stalking out with the pack. Led by the wolf in the west. The Lady Thanell.

“Come,” said Artisan, spellbound, not far from tears, though his true hurt was not so readily expressed—no sorrow as this could be shed from the eyes or the body; it stayed with the man like the beat of his heart.

They wove into the pack, stopping three long breaths away from the Lady, not more. All things seemed clear standing so near to a sinless true being, the last living godkin that had not failed from purpose.

Though they travelled merely in memory, she looked straight at them both, not through but directly at—a soft-eyed glance flitting from heart to face to soul. Mournful for Artisan, the hardships he had braved. Prayerful for the prince, the hardships he should bear.

Always had she known this would come to pass—that was the shared sentiment the prince and Artisan exchanged, a single strong look was enough.

They both then sat down, kneeling in reverence. Sensing the might in this joint meditation.

Most of the magi made some form of breakthrough, edging their soul close to the surface, as near to the skin as their focus allowed.

The prince took in the shapes of their souls, all without looking. The silver and gold, the hues of great worn resolve... he sensed them like one would a lover’s approach, or an aura of battle. The visceral reality that all three things shared.

Beside him, Artisan began humming, the sound made not by his mouth but his body. The man drifted gently up from the snowy cold floor.

There were two Artisans now with their souls exposed: the young mage who had been here in the true skin of man, and the old spectral goblin one. The differences were clear, all the hurt and virtue eroded... the young soul so righteous and naive; the old one self-righteous and abundant with stain—the power of knowing does that to a man.

And what of the prince? Sitting in stillness, the outward act looking right as rain. But the inward strife, nary unseen, save by the odd ill-fitting grimace. The strain held him back. Held him down, ground-bound and not afloat.

“I have trouble,” whispered the prince to his friend enthralled.

“You must want to see,” the man responded, cherishing the brief moment of delight, basking in the light of his holy love for her, the enlightened lady so close and far beyond, hailing from the great above.

Heeding counsel, the prince gave in to his demons, the hard-earned worries he had. What would it be like, the splintering soul of a low-slung hero?

Let it be hidden no longer; the world may see what he has become.

Allowing his core-most essence to rise, the heartsore prince grieved. With a forlorn stare on her, he let the Lady Thanell guide him.

In fitful spurts his body rose, hanging lopsided in the windless space.

A shattered hard gold eked through the walled-off centre; it was dark and red around the cracks, thin and frail at parts, like a light sheet of ice.

The Lady let her eyes rest upon him, the horrid soul he had brought to the fore. With pursed lips and a slow mindful nod, she gave him assent.

It is alright to be.

--

For a time it went on, the Farseeing ritual. Then at once the visions ceased, and Artisan was ripped from the fold. “It is alright,” he said. “I must rest; the spectral bond is heavy. But I shall return, so hold on, brave prince. Hold on.”

Then torment scorched the prince’s bones—here was hellfire come alive, fierce in anguish like no pain before. How it ripped through and split him straight open... it was perfect in a way. The penance he sought. For letting Gael die and Gendrin live.

One sin could still be rectified.

Rage is what he needed. As pure as the Lady Thanell was in her chaste divinity... so pristine would the prince become in the realm of hard hate. Timeless and total, he would be its avatar.

The flesh seared off his bones; his bones off the hollow still deeper—the current form of him was being erased. It was sublime, the unstained agony tearing him asunder. To forge him anew. Ripe for a greater destiny.

To break a god one must himself be broken.

Chapter 37 – The lady of loss (Pre-final Evolution arc)

Eternity lurks in the succession of moments, each one divisible to a near-infinite extent. A long wreathed flow with no cause for an end, save for the final one. Why then is joy so easy to measure, both in depth and duration. And why the hard opposite—like chains interlinking, the flow of fell agony. Inexpressible by words that have meaning.

The prince posed no questions; his mind was lost to wonder. Or its inverse, the rueful stagnation that skinned him alive, always alive. And all too aware.

This stream of hellfire boiling over, dissolving him. His every cell and the whole parts of his soul.

There was no end.

The prince screamed in rage, at first—he felt strong still, equipped to strike back at the pain that lashed him. Then panic set in, and that too was an attack—his own mind adding pangs of hysteria, leveling it out over time to a constant. The terror of one moment that endured till the next.

Hell was here, inside the egg.

--

At times, soothing chants sought to pierce the veil between worlds—the three seers Gorkon had assigned to watchful duty. They anchored him to being, reminding the prince of his state in the egg, for it would not be hard to forget. To fully mingle with the waves of unending torment.

They spoke to him, the seers and the statistician also. The latter’s voice was sharp and as always too cheerful. She had tried to talk in a dozen or so stints, but her words were lost to the ruin of him. Still, the attempts stood out, like landmark-posts in a long-stretched field. Her voice a measure of distance, interspersed with the infinite. Cutting it down to sizeable chunks.

“You are drifting closer to the surface, Blackrose goblin—we are all so very proud!” The statistician reaching through, the thirteenth try that rang clear enough for the prince to hear. “I cannot get a read on your stats,” she continued, “but your level... it has gone from 22 up to 26, simply by sitting in the interstitial goblumen—ah, the environment of the egg I mean. What a marvel you are. A growth rate beyond what the greatest of goblins can boast!”

Her words had no body; she was speaking down from the dark.

“Soon the second phase will start—more of your memories will start to materialize. Do not let them drift and do not interfere. Embody the points of your prior experience. Each one is nothing, but summed up in total, they are you. The whole that is more than the parts.”

A mindful lull in her busy chatter. Though to her, the esoteric was still strictly statistics.

“Oh—and they give a lot of levels, all the memories. You are training the mind as your body reforms!”

Then the chants took over, the three seers singing for one wayward prince. Afflicted by the past and the purely physical. Pain came in many forms.

--

“My prince, finally you spare me a moment.” Artisan stared at the prince, a close-lipped smile to soften the strain—stepping in from the spectral bridge was not so straightforward.

The roar of a battle rose behind them, rookies flaring out simple and savage. It was the end of the rookie games; they were near to the birthing chamber. Right after the huntress had left them. Had saved them.

How many shades of the past had he seen by now? Too many to bother counting.

“Hell is here,” said the prince, avoidant. He did not seek his vassal’s eye. It was the first time in years, it seemed, that he used his own voice. There was effort involved in the act.

“Aye,” Artisan offered. “Final evolution is level 25 and up, ordinarily. Reduces the hurt and the ever-present chance of failure. But you left them no choice, leaking brain matter all over—what on earth were you thinking, taunting the groundskeeper?”

“Whereto?” the prince stated; it was hardly a question.

“Straight on for now. There’s someone else here to see you.”

True to memory, the prince held the buckler and dagger. The wooden toys he had used in a hell long ago. He tossed them both—no sense in keeping old relics. They meant nothing now. The present can void the past in its essence.

Walking through, they heard the crackle of eggshells underfoot, wading past Gorkon’s desk and into the chamber proper.

Linaria was there, the blue sparks of her failing magic. Attempts to unlock her soul box with Artisan’s medallion.

“Linaria,” said Artisan. “He is here now, our liege. Try your best to cross over.”

The past image of her spasmed and jerked, proved hard to displace.

“Prince,” Artisan whispered, so that Linaria would not hear if she were to arrive. “The lady has... had a rough time adjusting. She is fresh from the egg, a second-grade goblin... but I can tell her heart wavers. Holding on is a challenge after some deaths, and she’s had three, I believe—the body does not quite endure; leveling up becomes seriously more difficult. And her mark... it is dreadfully faint.”

The prince gave no comment, saw rookie-form Linaria sitting there still, in the corner of the chamber, jittering as though possessed—the struggle between the old and the new. Current-form Linaria was trying to travel along the spectral bridge, to meet them here in the joint memory that was theirs, then, to reshape.

The three seers joined in a single vibrating hymn, trilling their tongues to aid the lady who was halfway there, from the looks of it—the bent figure of her was bigger but not solid, a ghostly apparition holding the box with her soul.

“She will fade soon, I am afraid,” whispered Artisan. “The lady knows the folly of her purpose—her body is too worn to ascend to the third grade. And without the power of a level 30 frame, there is no chance she can wield Truorúst... not that it would do her much good—half a god-blade is not sufficient. Believe me, for I have tried.”

“So her purpose is dying,” the prince surmised. “Will she be herself still?”

“For now,” Artisan said, “but it is vital that you learn her soul, so you may recognize its pattern, the traces that linger in her real body, half-decayed from first death and buried in the Arcanifactum graveyard. Locate it later, and use Dicebolg. Free her.”

The prince nodded, for words would only harm—the Lady Linaria was beaming through from the real world to within.

Her mark was scarcely there, the Ruin kanji so dull it was barely a blur.

“Ah, my prince,” she said, looking slow and uncertain. “Worry not; I am well,” she lied. “Soon we will be all three together again.”

Again, the prince only nodded, moving in close to support the lady—help her up or sit with her in comfort, whichever way she preferred.

Artisan joined, idly reminiscing about their first time here, the oaths they had sworn. The one for the three and the three for the one. To outsource one’s own vengeance to a higher force, the prince in this instance... would it serve them? To make matters so cast-off and remote? Sure, the odds of success were greater now, reasoned the prince. Though the cost was that of no self-attained satisfaction; it must be deducted. And is that not what vengeance is, its very nature? The good hurt of hurting another.

“Have you faith in me still, noble friends?” The prince needed to know.

“Always,” said Artisan.

Linaria took a breath. “And I for longer still.”

But a flash of concern rippled through the two men, seeing Linaria so absentminded, setting aside the box with her soul item. The magiguard gauntlet to wield Truorúst.

“Speak of your vengeance,” said Artisan to her. “It will embolden you, fill you with resolve.”

The lady merely shrugged. “The hooded acolytes that ambushed me that night. All of them should die.” The words were strong, but they lacked fell conviction. It sounded rehearsed, a line off a script. No force and no purpose.

“Let us all three sit,” said Artisan, “and show our souls now we have the skill.”

They sat in the corner with the dazed lady, and though she was three times the mage Artisan had been, even in the days of his unfettered youth... the two men had to guide her—she was that out-of-touch with her true inner self.

With painstaking effort, the prince followed Artisan’s lead, pushing his battered soul close to the skin so that all might see—this is the fallen prince you see as saviour.

And it took a great while longer for the master mage to manage. First in flickers and spurts, like a fizzling spell, the lady emanated a pale blue and silver, tattered and worn like a path well-trodden. Featureless for the most part, and devoid of essence, with growing gaps in the ethereal fabric. A soul ready to fade, the light failing to a long hell-dark night.

The prince took it in, the evanished form of her. There was nothing besides, no great sadness to lean on. He felt hollow like a burnt-out star, once hard and bright. Naught now but a void.

They got up in silence, the prince and Artisan first. Watching the lady peel the magiguard gauntlet off, the one she always wore. She did not speak and neither did they. Better to grieve in silence, pre-empting the loss—that way the pain is more scattered. One can take in the parts, then discard it in full. Till at length it wears thin. A feeling of nothing.

“I had two things to show you,” said Artisan to the prince, walking away from the lady who lingered. “Thanell’s wisdom was the first.”

“And the second?”

“I was there,” Artisan started. “When a god and a king fought for final control.”

“Gorkon...” the prince mused.

“And Rodrich. The man was a genius... and he was bested.” Artisan sighed. As though he were there in thought already. “It is time for you to see what lies in wait. To learn how a god does battle.”

Chapter 38 – The king and the god (Pre-final Evolution arc)

The two trod silently into the void—Artisan’s memory taking shape. Swirling away, the loss of tactility. All senses gone as the world reformed.

Visionless, the first thing restored was sound, the thronging of a savage horde. Heavy breaths and goblin feet, a long windless march.

“We are as ghosts here, my prince,” Artisan said as he limped along, one among the many. “My mind’s recollection in your inner world. They cannot perceive our presence.”

“Thanell could,” the prince rebuked, thinking back to the single speck of joy in the hard lonely stretch, living in the egg.

“Aye, but she was divine.”

“So is that other one, the fiend I am to slay.”

“The same damn word should not apply,” Artisan glowered, trekking on. Relenting. “But it does.”

They were inside the mines, past the rookie quarters and the arena, the familiar hell of old. Through sprawling hallways where a man could get lost, they travelled as two and as dozens—perhaps hundreds. Goblins flocking in from every which way, led by some unseen warchief or other, whoever it was at the helm of this force.

Some had on rags of armour, swaying in step with a mace or sword, the rusted-over relics that would serve for a final time. The gloom that set in was of a death mission—most would not make it back. The fact floated with them; it was left unspoken. Better that way, giving room to deny.

“Whereto?” asked the prince, believing he knew but the truth seemed uncertain. He was reeling inside, pulled from realm to realm, shuffling along through his own dogged past. And now another’s.

“To the wretched plains of destiny, as you doubtless have gathered. Though I am not one to judge—we all need the odd bit of assurance.” A mirthless tone took hold of the old man’s voice. The weight and the fate of the world.

“Landsbury,” the prince completed the thought.

“Aye. The place of eternal unrest, where many a man and the greatest of gods have fallen. Most of it scoured from history—a grave mistake, I find, no matter how nobly contrived.”

“Who by? Tell me their minds, those well-intended that have paved the road to hell.”

“Not minds, dear prince. One man set it all in motion. The great king who came close to killing a god.”

“My own line,” said the prince, incredulous. “What a timeless affront to be thwarted by the very blood that flows in my veins.”

Artisan did not respond, save by nodding curtly as they filed onward into seedy corridors, a lightless maze of mineshafts left half-abandoned. Studded by timbered guards at the crumbling edges, the length of it braced with an old-forged metal. The halls of the underground. Groaning now from the heat of green bodies, the weight of hell and the earth above.

Some of the goblins seemed at length to defect, stalking off down other corridors to enact either well-impelled plans or personal savagery—there was no telling which. Even the proudest warband could splinter at the slightest hitch.

But the prince moved with the pack, striding forth as a unit. Artisan’s pace began to dwindle; it was his own fleeting past, and he could not quite keep up. Might he not have skipped to the meat of things, the god and the king waging war? But the prince thought it wilful—the old man relished the hurt. Stretching his back and the failing limb, dragging ever on. There was no reprieve.

The march ended abruptly; they came to a broad reinforced chamber, wooden beams to buttress the walls and a coat of iron—the bulwarks were physical, yet some worn essence clung to these halls. It was felt; the goblins were restless, knowing not why, but the fact remained.

At the far end, three ladders stretched high into the void—climbing up, there was no light, and it was by feel alone that they reached the next rung.

There was sound up there, waves of a wingless chant—the seers sang like angels. It rode out to meet the climbers, beckoning them to ascend. The prince and Artisan foremost among them. A momentous occurrence not far above, its balancing on the verge, close to unravelling... the prince could sense it, a clairvoyant instant. He was not one to bend in prayer, not before and certainly not now, knowing the gods and their all-too-human failings.

Where the ladder ended, emergence into a vaulting chamber began—the hordes of goblins funnelling in through the hatch for the fight and spectacle. Sweat and a death-fearing unease, those were the scents permeating the languid space. The prince felt it, and Artisan too. This grand and encompassing force that bade both of them yield. Awe does that to a man. But the prince would not bow to a mere feeling of godliness—no, let the bastard beat that out of his lifeless body. Gorkon. The prince gnashed his teeth, a bite of supreme royal resolve.

They clambered onto a slate tile floor, stood clustered around a broken pillar at the centre of a large and hell-dark room, circular in design and unembellished, at least as far as the prince could see.

Silence reigned among the green brutes gathered, all standing solemnly at attention.

“There I am,” said Artisan, alerting the prince to a tall and broad specimen, some third-grade beast shifting in place to arrange his spine, the slight hunch in his muscle-bound frame. “I was strong then. But not like Rodrich. Never li—ah, it begins!”

The Landsbury church bells clanged hard in that mournful tone, more a wail than the graceful start to a service.

Rumblings came from the floor upstairs, a creaking shuffle atop the weathered floorboards—the prince could picture it well, the sound. This house was alive like an old castle, grumbling in protest as its denizens went about their own sheltered existence.

Then the sudden snap of magic high above, a glyph-locked door coming unsealed. It squealed eerily, swinging open, letting in slivers of light that lit up the room just enough.

In a flash of instinct, the prince jerked back as he saw the conduit hex, a rune-inscribed circle hammered cleanly in the slate, right beside where he had been standing. It was mirrored by a second circle of the same might and proportions, one at each side of the broken pillar. They were perfect works of horrid dark magic—two spellfields to channel the force of one’s aura to a suitable vessel. Enhancing one mage at the cost of another.

The church bells tolled on, the clamour resonating through the room and the bodies in the room—this was the basement floor, the prince intuited. Or some hidden hall deeper down still. The unholy grounds of Landsbury, where prideful men faced their destined fall.

Through the opened door, four hooded figures emerged, descending into the room from the far end, a spiral staircase leading down. Behind them, a fifth shadow entered, a tall male lurching in with lengthened step, featureless in the dark but hardly concealed—the gleam of his mighty sword said it all, hues of purple and red, shifting with the light or its lack. Caladbrinn. Here was one of Feldirk’s line.

“Here he comes,” said Artisan, peering up under furrowed brow.

And the prince had no need to ask for clarifications—the sixth descending someone was a goblin, taller than all but the taskmaster, though his step seemed forced. He was fighting and failing, the subject of mental control. The great king Rodrich, a third-grade goblin holding Dicebolg—the dark blade glowed clearly like Caladbrinn, though in counterpoint. Its shine had a singular shade, carved from night itself, the void-like black, deeper than the darkest shadow.

“It is hard to see him like this,” Artisan said in a bitter tone. “The great king so reduced.”

“So you came late?” the prince queried. “The war has been fought and lost?”

“Aye, in a way. The scuffle with steel and spell. But the true fight is the mental one, the god and the king vying for total control.”

Before the prince could reply, a seventh figure entered, shutting the door behind him. It was the final fiend himself—the dreaded taskmaster treading down, holding nothing in his hands save for the will to end things. First Faruikis and now Gorkon, a god gone goblin, yet still a servant in truth. Seeking only to revive his lost brother. Great and wicked Kageru, highest of the fallen.

“They are all the same,” Artisan mused, eyes still locked on the captive Rodrich. “All kings think their rule transcends, that the land they control is the core of the universe.” He looked at the prince now, a direful stare that cut through to the heart. “By nothing but luck, the kings of Lothrian are right. Theirs is the land where the gods roamed. What a hard fact to learn, that the ego of the crown is justified. Rodrich knew, and look at him now.”

In silence the seven descended, all the ground-bound goblins making way, pressing in tight to the edge of the room—they were here to fight or witness. Not to take up space.

The first four hooded figures split off, three of them moving slowly towards the centre, where the broken pillar stood. The fourth one lingered near the foot of the stairs, a pace or two removed so the final three could pass—the two god-blade wielders and the god.

“Have you pierced through to the truth?” Artisan asked as his gaze drifted, from Rodrich to the descendant of Feldirk, from Dicebolg to Caladbrinn. “There was no time, as per your own decision, to consult the Ancient Blood tome.”

“My free will, you say—to get my head bashed in by the groundskeeper’s fist?” The prince seemed stricken, but soon relented. There was no sense in acting aggrieved. “The blood means more,” he offered then. “It is not just a claim to nobility in the realm of man.” He swallowed hard. “Am I from the line of Rodrich... and from a greater heritage still? My furthest forefather a god—the creator of Dicebolg?”

“Aye,” Artisan said, boring daggers with his glare, eyes trained on Gorkon, the white-robed goblin striding for the pillar. The god’s own gaze seemed then to lift, much like Thanell’s had, slicing past the crowd and finding the two who were there in memory alone, the prince and Artisan. Witness here what rebellion begets—this was the clear and only message in a look that lingered. Scornful but remote—he did not judge them worthy of more.

Artisan broke away, turned his head to look at the prince. “You get him, hear me, my liege? You break that bastard Faruikis. I cannot watch you lose like I have Rodrich.”

The prince nodded, jaw clenched and fists balled. “I will.”

Then the three hooded ones disrobed, looking normal from the neck up—they revealed ordinary faces, two males and one female. But when they stripped to their bare chests, the woman with sparse undergarments, their role in the ceremony was clear to the prince. The blood-hammered runes in their skin left little to wonder—the kanji for Ruin and Rise, bestowed by the large shards of Ziegbölt: Truorúst and Ferignost. These fools were just like Gendrin.

“Are they...” the prince started.

“The children of Kageru?” Artisan pre-empted the question—correctly, judging by the prince’s silence. “All of them, yes. Thanell told me how the gods lived among us, briefly, in the long-gone past. They... mingled, better than one might suppose. But while Reduvex and Paldufaer, master-smiths of Dicebolg and Caladbrinn, sired only one line each of godblood-bearers—the ‘Blackroses’ and ‘of the Mires’... Kageru knew no such restraint. He fathered several bastards, five at the least, the descendants of whom ought in theory to be attuned to Ziegbölt... but they are all found limited in practice—wielding even both major shards has proven for most candidates to be unduly arduous. Gorkon believes it is so because Kageru shared himself less fully than the other gods, imparting only a fraction and not the whole of his essence. Hence the blood-hammered marks you see before you—the candidates’ bodies are brutally prepared; the marks of the major and known minor shards of Ziegbölt are carved into their very being, a blood magic to increase the odds of satisfactory service.”

“One of them is to wield Ziegbölt,” the prince reasoned, “after Gorkon reforges it... by smelting the shards... whilst using the conduit hexes to draw power from Dicebolg and Caladbrinn.” His tone lilted, on the edge of a query as he sought Artisan’s eye. To gauge the truth of the matter. A brief nod in acquiescence—that is all Artisan added.

They watched on in silence, saw how the two bearers of the god-blades took their places—one with a dead will and glazed-over eyes, the great king and goblin, Rodrich; the other with a bold and unerring step, the man of the mire, keen eyes lined with hunger—this one was ready.

Feeling a clear surge of revulsion bubbling in his gut, the prince asked why. “Why did the mire-folk bend willingly to a foul-hearted goblin?”

“Power or its promise, I suppose,” Artisan pondered. “Once routed by Rodrich, the mire-folk withdrew from the world. With the public death of Feldirk’s son, Baldirk, who was buried in boxed parts to preclude goblin-birth, they turned vile... with Baldirk’s hidden heir at the helm.” Artisan inclined his head, singling out the man holding Caladbrinn. “Had Rodrich as king known the man’s true blood and status... he would not be standing there now.”

“And the Blackroses proved too proud to bend to the devil,” the prince asserted, again with the air of a question.

“Aye, wouldn’t that be grand?” Artisan shook his head. “There is sparse evidence—goblin documents are like man’s, always questionable. No, prince, in all the centuries before, and in the time before kings... there have been Blackrose men willing to kneel. But this unholiest of rituals has sharp demands: two god-blades and two men, you may think, but you would be wrong. One man... and one goblin, because the d—ah, you will see.”

Gorkon flung out a loose fist, cracked it hard against the broken pillar that shook and rattled—the whole room did. Then the pillar shimmered like a ghost and vanished. A high-level concealment spell that shocked the prince, or it would have, were there not a god before him casting it. Such a feat would take three or more of the greatest mages half a day, at the least.

What came in the unmade pillar’s place was the seat of divinity. Rising out from the magic ether, there came a golden forge and a golden anvil.

The godsmiths’ altar.

This is the place where gods were made. Gods and god-blades.

Gorkon bent over the anvil, kneeling in shown reverence, briefly. Then he arose and took the hammer. Went to work.

Chapter 39 – Ziegbölt reforged (Pre-final Evolution arc)

Slamming the old-forged hammer down, Gorkon gave an anguished look—he was all-in involved, striking chords that echoed and clung to the air, weighing it down with a hard tone between reverence and irreverence.

Each fell swing sent gold sparks scattering; they drifted up high and hung still, like motes of divine dust, suffusing the room with a bright flood of light.

The prince looked up in awe, eyes flitting past the vacant walls to the magnificent ceiling—the pantheon of the forged gods were depicted there in masterful fresco; it was almost like heaven, with the soaring sparks from the anvil serving as the star-lit scenery.

The drawings had the four lesser gods make up the outline, hovering idly and shoved off to the circular sides; they were shown in subdued shades of blue and green: Yulvolde, Eteraenem, Maienexis... and Faruikis, the one goblin-god truly present.

Nearer to the centre, the three greater gods were pictured, two of them in vibrant hues of yellow and orange, Reduvex and Paldufaer, taking up warlike stances, wielding Dicebolg and Caladbrinn respectively; both encircled and accosted the fallen great god at the centre. Kageru.

The mighty devil was oddly lifeless; his was the pale hue of death. He was half-man and half-goblin, illustrated as both saint and sinner, holding two swords still, though his body was nailed to a cross, and... oh god.

The illusion of sanctity promptly broke, and a terrible truth imposed itself on the prince, who stood sombrely staring up—he could avert his eyes no longer from this haunting tableau, knowing now what he was seeing.

Blurring the lines of art and afterlife, the figure of Kageru was not merely painted but physically part of the structure, a three-dimensional relic plastered into the scene. It was his half-decayed true form, affixed to the ceiling. The corpse of the devil, partly decomposed and partly divine. There for all to see. The brutal line between the immortal and impermanent. The fallen god that could come back—with Ziegbölt the rot could be shorn from his heart and mind, and he would live. And then all the world would fall dark. Creatures of death would swarm up and reign above as below. Hell on earth was never far off.

“Hell is here,” said the prince, knowing full-well the multitude of times he had uttered the words... but now was different; there was no getting closer to the core of hell than standing there, staring up at the starlit corpse of the devil that was due to revive.

“It begins,” said Artisan, alerting the prince to the present moment, the motion of living bodies and the evil they brought.

Holding a glyph-locked wooden box, the hooded figure near the stairs strode forth as the seers on the floor above sang—a hymn of war and death, the prince thought, for the tone was strident. Not at all serene like the chants he had known.

And as the hooded man bent before Gorkon, a high-ranking goblin raised his sword to command the rest, storming up the stairs with the might of dozens.

“A token resistance outside,” Artisan said. “The weak king Alaric, son of the great king standing broken before us. Have you not wondered why he is called interloper? He has lied to his banners and summoned them, claiming Dicebolg had been stolen by a fiendish cult, devil-worshippers hiding in Landsbury. But it was all Rodrich’s plan from the start. And the weak son handed the sword to his goblin father. All that so that armoured men can die in a pointless siege—they do not mean to take the town. How is that for a lesson in lost history?”

The prince took it in but did not respond—his eyes were glued to the box, the glyph lock cracking open at Gorkon’s behest. Two great swords were revealed, Ferignost and Truorúst, and three nameless minor shards, all splintered from the god-blade Ziegbölt.

“There is my bane,” Artisan lamented. “The red blade Ferignost. But see how it pales in the light of the two—Dicebolg and Caladbrinn, the master swords. To be held only by the hands of the worthy; they cannot be contained like luggage. Hurling flame as they singe through skin, so do the god-blades exert their living will.”

“Why does he not take them?” the prince asked, noting Gorkon did not reach out; he demanded the blood-runed woman rise and take the two swords.

“He cannot or will not; I do not know which.” Artisan paused. “I think the latter—he is a coward above all. Hiding still in the shadow of his brother.”

Both men let their gaze flick up but not for long—they tore away, lest their eyes become spellbound by the body of the devil. He would always be there, if not nearer still.

For now, the true ceremony was here. On the ground below.

The blood-runed woman took a breath, then retrieved the two at once, Ferignost and Truorúst. The runes lit up red under her skin as her shoulders sagged; she sighed, seemingly in relief—her hands had the power to hold the two blades without fainting. Without much strain at all, it appeared, for in a single beat of her heart she stepped in close to the hooded man with the box, stabbed him straight through the stomach with both swords. A single gasp and then silence as he choked on his blood.

Gorkon grabbed the man by the collar and slammed him on the altar; there were muffled groans of horrid pain, but the room did not care.

The prince watched with bated breath as the taskmaster dug into his robe and produced a magestone, placing it on the dying man’s chest as he brought the hammer down. The clang resonated hard through the air, melding with the man’s sharp cry. Lifeless for a moment. But then he rose, his body jerking to a twisted state of readiness. His tongue lolled out as his skin shrank back, eyes fervent and ablaze with a yellow glow.

“Necromancy,” the prince whispered, mostly to himself—it brought him back to where they were, the blighted grounds of Landsbury. He felt the grip of Rory, the frenzied townsman who had been impossible to shake. Until Gael intervened. Always Gael.

“Aye, puppets of the devil,” Artisan affirmed. “His final antithesis to creation. They are dead like us, but in all other respects our opposite. Fearsomely strong but for the briefest time only—they wither and die within the day. And they stay dead. You ask me, they have it good, considering.”

“Considering what?” the prince snapped back—the hurt and loss seemed again so raw, seeing this new-formed creature of hell arise.

“The other end, us goblins. We are weak even at our strongest, not a match for a well-trained man. And how we are built to endure, with some reaching a hundred years of age, still spry enough to fight... and die. And be reborn again as the same thing but worse. No, prince, I’ll take the necromancer’s curse any day over this. But w—”

In a roar, the forge had come alive, consecrated by the death and rebirth of the necromantic thrall sitting there with ghastly eyes and shrivelled skin. Red-golden flames spat up from the forge; it yearned for feeding.

Gorkon waved the sacrificial thrall away, sent him up the stairs and off to war. Then he ordered the blood-runed killer woman to commence, and she did, reaching both Ferignost and Truorúst into the forge, sending red and gold flares jetting forth as the blades began to melt... as did the skin of the woman; her hands blistered over, became unsightly and red as she groaned from the strain and the honour—it was a crucible to her, in her mind. A rite of passage to be deemed worthy.

Gorkon seemed to approve—even a curt nod in acknowledgment is a rare thing from the taskmaster, one so self-absorbed and cowardly as he.

By the time the swords had melted to the point of malleability, the woman’s arms had completely charred over—a full destruction of skin that could not be undone.

Then the three minor shards were thrown in the forge and left to simmer...

“Now the transfer,” Artisan said. “Dicebolg and Caladbrinn lending their power.”

“And the wielders,” the prince added. “They confer their essence as well, to be left hollow after?”

“No, nothing quite that insidious. They are merely drained of their magic stat; both the man and the goblin f—”

“Because Kageru is himself half-and-half, both goblin and man still,” the prince interrupted. “That’s why this satanic ritual demands one of each.”

Then they fell quiet, the prince and Artisan—their eyes were on Gorkon, who had collected the sheets of malleable metal on his anvil, and was now pounding away, blasting the hammer down with the force of a god, and with the speed of one also—the thunderous rhythm he maintained was immense.

“The parts are incomplete, so it takes longer,” Artisan said. “Only three minor shards and not all five.”

A crescendo everlasting—Gorkon had this dreadful might that made the prince go pale, not in fear, but in knowing. Looking at Rodrich standing in the leftmost conduit hex, upright in body but prostrate in the true realm of mind, where things are finally decided... the prince was all too cognizant that, soon, it would be him.

“How will I fight him?” the prince asked, reduced once more to bitter awe. “He has the strength of ten men—human elites, mind you. Not the goblin rabble we measure up against now.”

“He can crush you with a single strike; his fist would do you in. No doubt there.” Artisan fell silent for a moment. “Look at him, fighting with all he has still.” He nodded up at Rodrich, whose eyes were glazed in compelled obedience... but there was a fire still; the man had not given up. Sweat poured off the great king and even his body shook, faintly, and only at times. “Even here he impressed me—believe me, prince. The man was a marvel. But you... you are greater still. You must be. For me and for Linaria, for yourself and for the world. One among us can stop this mad god. It is you. Only you.”

They watched on for minutes, though it felt like hours went by, gauging the strain on the faces of the gathered—Rodrich foremost, but the Caladbrinn-wielder also: a grim fatigue clung to him now as he was drained by the hex, his magic stat fully depleting.

And then there was Gorkon, grunting loudly and with a grimace, looking almost mortal from the weariness and sweat—even gods were tested on this day.

“Watch now, prince,” said Artisan, “for this is why I so revere him.”

With a final clatter, the god threw off the hammer and sank to his knees. “At the ready,” he roared to the three blood-runed humans, and they all came running, stumbling over one another... for cooling on the anvil lay the third great weapon of the world—Ziegbölt reforged.

“It is done,” Artisan said, “But still taking in power—note the hex conduits, how they are still lit.”

And indeed, the prince saw how Dicebolg and Caladbrinn were still funnelling their divine might into the third god-blade; it was forged but still charging.

“GAAAH GNYEEEE,” a new fell voice cleft the silence—it was Rodrich, tearing free his mind from Gorkon’s hold. “AVENGE ME!” he pealed at the goblin horde gathered, then he lowered Dicebolg and slashed his own gut open. All spent in a second, the concerted effort of his kingly will. Not enough to kill a god. But enough to thwart him.

The conduit hex grew cold, and the reforged Ziegbölt began to rattle and crack.

Gorkon rose in the starkest malice, slaver dripping from his snarling mouth—he was every bit of him goblin now. And though he shattered the troops that the dead king had sent against him... plunging his green fist cleanly through the armoured torsos... the prince made every attempt to excise the moment and keep it, burn it in his retinas forever—for a god in a tantrum is not almighty, no. The taskmaster looked as mortal as he ever had.

Artisan raised his brow at the prince—the latter was smiling.

“I will fight him,” the prince said, drawing himself up regal and tall. “With my mind I will fight him. There is no use for the sword. He is petulant and brash—those same slights have been levied against me, no, friend Artisan?” A broader smile now, one Artisan mimicked, seeing the prince rise to the call. “But I have pride,” the prince continued, more solemn now, contemplative almost. “And that part he will not break—no man or god living can take that from me. For I am the Prince of Lothrian. Vengeance will be mine.”

They watched as the clamour intensified, goblin bodies flung limbless across the room, the taskmaster strong and wild, but like an animal. “STAND Down,” he tried, and some troops obeyed, though the ones most faithful to the late Rodrich went on, breaking themselves on an impossible foe.

In the meantime, Ziegbölt had shattered, thus reverting to its base constituents: Ferignost and Truorúst, and the three nameless minor shards.

The three blood-runed humans reached in a stricken daze for the loot, safeguarding the swords and shards or attempting to—they ran up the stairs with a throng of goblins trailing, not far behind and crazed from competing instructions. Savage and wild is what they are, what they revert to when true order or its sense is lost.

“The blades were again lost that day,” Artisan said. “It took some time to reclaim them.”

“Am I the first since Rodrich?” the prince asked.

Slowly, Artisan nodded. “Aye. Some honour, no?”

“Fit for a prince.”

They both laughed, partly in madness, there can be no doubt... but mostly in a strong-hearted will, as though destined to beat back against the unrelenting current.

This was a belief more than anything. Not in a god or some half-baked religion. No. A belief in man. In the power to persevere. To fight against impossible odds.

And win.

Chapter 40 – Two times evolved... the prince prepares (Final Evolution arc)

It is no great feat to entice madness in a man’s soul. Take from him the vital parts, all of what tethers him to being. Make it so rage and rage alone can fill that vacant heart.

The worst kind of monster is a man with nothing to lose.

The whole room shook as the prince emerged, slicing through the mist of mind and its hard encasing—the egg was like stone. But the fist of the prince was stronger still. He felt his new form settle round him, the meat on his bones that would win him a war.

The thirst for violence was there, though not all-consuming. He could temper it now, wield it later like the sword he would seek. They were matched now, the dark blade and he, a creature of spite and torment. Bring on Dicebolg. The time is nigh.

The seers had gone, and so had Artisan—they must have sensed he would in the end prevail. Only one body there besides his own.

Jarred awake, the statistician came running, stepping over the muck that sloshed from the egg. “What is your name—do you know where you are?” she asked in a sleep-dazed blend of both worry and duty. Her watchful eyes shone as she scanned the prince, in mind and body.

The prince looked down at her—he was a giant now, in goblin terms. “I have gone through hell in all its layers. I know all too well where I am, and the only thing worse is forgetting—a fate I am told we all share in time.” The wilted rose of Dicebolg glowed fiercely on his forehead as he grasped at the far-off past. The high noble life of heraldry and purpose. Fields of homeland green, the easy mornings. A frostmage he loved in a world long ago. Yet above all there was hate—the primal motive that breaks and affirms us. “I am a fallen prince by the name of Cedric, heir to a realm so remote I could cry. Tell me my status and whether I’m ready. Can my hand hold the sword that raised me from death?”

“A flair for the dramatic still, I see,” she said, perking up now the prince had shown mindful. “Level 30 like me and like most third-grade goblins—you hold the record for speed, but now it is done. No more to gain.”

She grabbed her notebook, jotted down his stats.

--

Level 30 Third-grade goblin

Constitution (CON): 82

Intelligence (INT): 50

Dexterity (DEX): 66

Strength (STR): 75

Magic (MAG): 10

--

The prince studied them, these numbers that were true and meant nothing. Not without comparison. “Rodrich, how strong was he?”

She shook her head. “Too long before my time. The records were destroyed.”

“Next we meet, you work for me,” said the prince, walking off to see the hard job done. It made it more real to him, to speak the words into being. Made him strong in mind and body.

“See the armourer,” the statistician shouted after, ignoring his brazen declaration. “Just beyond the alchemists’ hall.”

This sounded like a relayed order from the taskmaster. One of the last he would give.

--

It was night, for the halls were empty, save for the odd guard grumbling about. A minor blessing; he had time on his side.

Two tasks first, before the big one.

The prince went to the tinkerers’ hall, staring the guard off as he entered. Both the nightshift girl and the ballistae were there still. He had need of the latter.

Approaching slowly, the prince tried to connect like they had before. But the girl recoiled at the sight of him, a real behemoth now, larger and taller than all the dead souls she might see here and fear.

He was in no great mood to smooth things over, for there was a limit to his patience. A finite resource better spent elsewhere. On things that mattered more. It was due to his goblin body, the prince knew, the fully evolved state that impressed its wants. Nearer now to lashing out in a fit of fury. Empathy was lower down; it would take too long to kindle—a conscious effort he could not seem to justify.

And so the prince strode past, heaving the most battle-ready ballista on a wheeled cart, fastening it down with a sturdy long rope. Then he left, pulling the cart behind him. Promising that she might get it back.

The prince eyed the guard again, just outside the hall. “I am to reclaim my sword today,” he said. “Gather what men you can, on Gorkon’s orders. Bring the siege weapon to the mineshaft near Landsbury. It is to arrive there by midday, well before I do.”

“I not have... authority,” the guard said in a broken drawl. A lack of intelligence, clearly.

“Then relay the order to one who does. The taskmaster commands it.” Briefly, the prince raised his aura, ensuring the felt urgency of his word.

With the first task done, the prince went down to the scholars’ hall. To crack the code in the forged words of Rodrich—the Edict of the crown he had so generously translated.

He slid the latticed door open—there was no guard posted outside. Nothing here to steal, save for information. No great treasure to most goblin minds.

Recalling what he knew, the prince made straight for the desktop. The Ledger of Tomes was his best shot to solve it quickly, this riddle planted either by Gorkon or a long-gone ally—what other options existed?

‘Jerilin Mandrake’ had stood out—the name that was added to the Edict. Leafing through the author list contained in the ledger, the prince felt his eye drawn to the H of Haldonn the wise... Artisan’s pseudonym. His hobbled friend still had a role to play, but that should come later. Would the man have the strength that was needed, to man the ballista?

First to deal with this, on to the J of... Jerilin—there it was, the prince noticed in surprise. Could it be so simple? The frost and fire—mastering the master elements. By Jerilin M. Her third-grade thesis as seer.

Though the title did not seem pertinent, the prince searched the rack, scanning all the books starting with ‘The’. They were not neatly organized, and so it took longer than he wanted, sifting through the old tomes with worn-out spines. He thought of Gorkon and Gendrin, and of Gael. Timeless distractions in the hell of his mind.

He sat down with the book and opened it, all without truly knowing—moving like an automaton as his conscious thoughts slipped. Was the weight intact, his world from before? Or was he acting in principle, vengeance for its own sake? As the end was the same, the prince let go, dismissed his self-made inquisition. Always the worry if he was whole or whole enough still. The rage was there, and it would serve; that should suffice for a man with no morals. A practical man, not lost to ‘ruminescence’.

The book held discussions on magic, formal and outdated ones. Not a speck of value here... though he thought on, recalling the other falsities in the Edict. The ‘IV’ in Janil IV Redlent. And ‘The Lost Prospect’, the title attributed to Baldirk of the mire, buried in two parts like his father before him.

Chapter four, then? Page 48, said the table of contents; the chapter title was ‘Advanced fire bolts for the intermediate mage’. But that is not what he found on page 48 at all.

‘IV. The Lost Prospect’. Here it was, the hidden message. Eagerly, the prince started reading.

I have lived my life dismissing the chance of failure. I have meditated on it, what it means to fail, so my mind may embrace the notion, yet reject its hold. I am not beholden to what comes of me, in my great and final effort. Yet reason compels one to leave a note such as this. For you, son of the Blackrose, who has taken the care to decipher the clues in one of many forged versions of the Edict. Know that in service to the blood, I have taken to compelling a seer to adopt the name Jerilin M, and to then add my words to her fruitless toil. If you have come upon my words in this way and not out of interest in this tired old manuscript... know then that I have failed despite myself.

At the bottom of this was Rodrich’s signature—the prince would recognize it out of a thousand. He was reading the great king’s words. Not a trap by Gorkon, unless a highly convoluted one.

My aim is to thwart the god of goblins, the one you call taskmaster Gorkon—though if you had not yet gathered this, then the rest of my words are air, for you are not ready. And may never be.

As a boy, I watched a great man die for no cause but the lack of grace, so I thought for a long time. Feldirk of the mire. I was there when he rode through what is now my heartland, gleaming like a god on his mighty destrier. Now that I am dead and by volition made goblin, I must recant what I spoke into being, for Feldirk was not great but shortsighted. And a coward. In life, he fought the goblins tooth and nail, attempting to cull the strength of their numbers, settling a priori for an ever-present amount of residual pests, praying them ineffectual. I spit on this. I say we rise and kill the leader—that is the only way to dispense with the goblin threat; they will never stop. Not unless the fallen god guiding them dies.

And so when Feldirk died to disease and not the sword, I knew it was providence. The man had stipulated in his will that his body ought to remain intact and preserved for the duration of three years, after which it was to be burned and buried in two parts—ample time, I suppose he reasoned, for a tentative stab at the goblin god. And see what it begets, this half-in, half-out weakness of mind—he failed to achieve anything, in life, and as a goblin. His mark is known to have faded upon first evolution.

I reject the idea of a fallback option; it is a sign of wavering dedication, and so one invites failure by entertaining it. This basic truth is my fundament; I believe in it wholly and call it holy, for it has done more for me than idle worship. Begone with the gods—give me courage, oh mind, and give me strength to withstand. Forging my own mind in such a way is the greatest thing I have accomplished; the rest has been corollary to this, including my kingship, which was arduous but predestined—not by a god or their collective, those futile abandoners. No, by me and my own hard will alone.

To become the great leader I was, I alone conspired to hang Feldirk’s body and defame him, cutting him up before burial—partly in accordance with his own frail-hearted wishes. Such an act was unseen, unthinkable; it struck discord into the populace, a partisan rift between those devoted to me, and my detractors. The rest was simple: overwhelm with greater force. Meet violence with more violence. And in the end I was uncontested. Feared by all, and it was right.

Then I hung the son like the father, Baldirk the spineless. Buried him in two boxes as well—to show my disdain, the people thought as they chanted my name in terror. Thus erasing from the Feldirk line their last prospect—what an infantile title, to be called so. Prospect. A may-be leader. Utterly opposed to the diametrical truth of mind. If you are, you know you are. Only cowards know the doubt inferred. But alas, it is the term the devil once conjured for a hidden class, offered now by the taskmaster to those he most values. I have rejected the honour, as I am sure you have also. Pride is in our blood alone; it is not conferred by some cowardly goblin. It means nothing; it is a debasement.

A Blackrose will be the one to quell the eternal curse. I cannot deny the trepidations of my body—it is soon time to fight. Gorkon has might beyond what I fathomed, but it is all inherited; he was made thus on the forge, and so his mind is weak. I trust mine to conquer his. This I say knowing all too well the burden of this goblin body, and the sordid unease it enacts—I have felt... weak, at times. As a man, I thought tears the domain of the woman, but now I tremble at night, and grandstand my way through the day; that or bestow savage beatings on my lessers. There is a goblin rhythm that is hard to shake, the verse-like drumming thoughts I endured in the forest, and in the main hall also, near the table of the gods. Even my own name seems foreign to me now—‘Rodrich’. It is a word almost without meaning, and I think of myself as king always. That way I cannot forget what made me the man I am or was. As I fade further away, there is no doubt that there is enough of the great king left still to bring low this ageless coward, a god in name alone. And names are nothing to me now.

All the arrangements have been made; the magetower I scrubbed clean of defectors, those that would not deign to hide the destructive truth. For ages us mainline Blackroses and the men of the mire have been buried in two boxed parts, to avoid the dreaded curse of eternal death. But what of the greater curse of cowardice? We know what hell is and turn cravenly away. No, to hell with that. Know that it is I who have condemned you. So that you may free the world in the event I fail. Believe that I have tarnished the taskmaster’s will with my dissidence—I see the strain of fear in him.

I must go now, to reclaim the king’s sword, Dicebolg. I will fight with all I have. As self-crowned king of Lothrian, I am beyond gods, for I have earned the right to rule.

To free the world, one need only the force of mind. Rage against the frailty of doubt.

Rodrich, king of the Blackrose.

--

The prince was emboldened and dispirited, the two raw sentiments competing. The great king was a flawed mortal man. So sure of his own strength that it cost him. Was he brave or a fool, to come to hell of his volition? Only to fail and doom the rest of his line.

But one thing they could agree on. To hell with backup plans. They were a false sort of comfort. Detracting from the swell of resolve when it’s all on the line.

He tore out the page Rodrich had written. It was a weak moment the great king had suffered, and none but the prince should bear the burden of knowing. And none would have to. The true threat of hell stops here, today.

The prince got up right when he heard the morning bell. It was time now—Gorkon would know of his emergence. To Landsbury, then. Dicebolg was waiting.

And to the cowering god, the prince had but one thing to say.

Come get it, you bastard.

Chapter 41 – Alone in fury: Dicebolg reclaimed (Final Evolution arc)

Goblins trooped together, roaming in packs through the green-lit halls. There were slews of rookies, the prince noted, with a handful holding on to faintly glowing magestone gems—their mind or soul items. Perhaps there was no new groundskeeper to bury them again.

As the prince strode past, making way to the armourer’s, he saw hordes of commons and mid-ranks, led out in chains by a stronger guard, their savagery bound till the time was right.

He considered waiting around for Artisan. But the man was clever; he would find the right way. And Linaria... frankly he hoped not to see her. If she had faded further, there was nothing to be gained by meeting. It would only unsteady him, or worse, trigger no true feeling at all. The prince rallied to the fact that someday he would free her. As master once more of Dicebolg. Soulgazing first to locate her remains in the Arcanifactum. To then release the trapped parts of her soul.

As he waded deeper in, past the rookie halls and into the network of mineshafts... the prince thought of home. Had his king-father known all the long while, how his heir and son now suffered? Would the man mount a token offense like the weak king Alaric, Rodrich’s son who had given up the sword so meekly?

“Are you aware or merely drifting?” asked a friendly voice not far behind. Artisan’s.

“Always the latter,” the prince replied, grateful that his dark thoughts were interrupted.

They gave a hint of a smile each, easing the strain of knowing. The fated day that would alter all things.

“You look well,” Artisan said as he caught up. “Strong.”

The prince gave a slight nod in affirmation—he felt strong and more than ever like a goblin.

“Gorkon?” the prince asked as they tarried their pace. There was a long march still waiting.

“Notified the second you emerged,” said Artisan, craning his neck to look at the prince. “You need not worry—he will meet you when you have your sword.”

“Why should I worry?” the prince retorted.

“Aye, no damn reason at all.”

--

The armourer fitted him with a chain-linked mail and the leggings and greaves to match. Then a placeholder sword he picked out from the rack, and the set was completed. There was a minor enchantment applied to the mail, but the stats did not matter—not to the prince who was either capped out or too strong to notice. The magestones meant nothing to him. He did not intend to return as a rookie, so their merits were void. The bond of continuity between lives.

Merging in with the stream of goblins, the two set off to the blighted grounds of destiny.

“Who is warchief now?” the prince asked, looking around at the strident green bodies, all stepping in staggered formation, the sense of disunion that travelled along.

“No one,” said Artisan, starting to shamble already. “The warband was broken some long weeks ago... I think you know where.” A gentle pause then, to let the prince process. “It’s only raid captains now, commanding what troops they can.”

“It might serve us. Their division is our strength. I see the chaos now, when I defy the taskmaster’s will and imprint my own. They will look for guidance and find none.” The prince mused to himself, then turned to Artisan. “There will be a ballista; I have made preparations. I want you to man it, position it so that its shot hits the god.”

Artisan shook his head. “You think a mere bolt of wood and metal will pierce his skin? Nay, I’ve seen spearheads bent and arrows blunted by simple contact... the taskmaster is too strong.”

“Wrong god,” said the prince, staring hard at Artisan, nodding down once to affirm—did his friend understand?

Artisan’s eyes whizzed around, calculating the implications. He nodded slowly, then vigorously. “Brilliant. That might work. It will shock him at the very least. Enrag—”

Shh, motioned the prince. No talk of tactics once the order is given. It brings bad luck to indulge in analyses. Let the moment to come speak for itself.

They walked on in silence for a while, Artisan keeping up admirably despite the progressive limp. There was no talk of Linaria, and that alone said enough. If she was well, Artisan would have mentioned. And so the prince did not ask. The only question was to himself: did he cherish her presence, and would he miss it? Yes, though not to the point of true melancholy. In the moment it may harm him, to see her not be herself but less. Though in truth, he might feel nothing but bad for himself. The emotion of loss was his own; it was her fault he had to know it. And the prince would concede it is not a virtue, to be so shut-off that everything, every rueful thought and injured feeling occurs inside, reflecting only within the bounds of the self. The lady was made secondary to her own fading. The prince was the real victim if he had to endure it.

What a bastard he was, but let none speak this truth—he would flay them alive. That was the real nature of the creature called prince; he realized it now. How long he had been hollow, savouring only snippets of engagement, the ones that fit beautifully within his own sectioned-off chambers of heart and mind. Walking here now, he felt every bit the ghost he had been in memory, marching along the same path with Artisan. Unseen and unheard by all.

--

When they arrived at the reinforced chamber beneath Landsbury, the prince saw to his delight that the ballista had made it there first, and he gave an agreeable nod to the ragged guardsman tasked with its provision. A team of three brawny types were busy guiding the ballista from below as it was pulled up the ladder—some clever lorekeeper had seen to the construction of a robust enough pulley system on the floor above, so the tiresome process of heaving was made feasible by the added leverage.

Then the prince and Artisan climbed up the ladders, unfaltering, though knowing what lay beyond.

The basement chamber felt the same as in memory, but so dimly lit that the ceiling was not yet revealed. In the centre stood the broken pillar that would shimmer away and show why this place was holy once and unholy since.

The prince noted mainly the practical; it soothed him. Kept his mind from straying. He searched along the slate tiles near the centre, to see if the conduit hex was visible now. But no, too dark. On then, to another facet of the room and those in it, to stop the thoughts taking over. The troops—there were dozens gathered already, goblins of the rank-and-file sort. A surprising number of rookies, though it stood to reason. They were more readily bent to the minds of higher-grade warriors and their own leadership, the raid captains like Zazra’s thick-bodied boss. And speaking of...

“Up you go, Blackrose,” said the raid captain, twirling her two short swords in token threat. Zazra and the flock of fools stayed well behind her, seeing the prince and what he’d become. “Get your heirloom sword and come back to die.” Her voice cracked at the end, and she grimaced at her own shown frailty.

“Be silent; you do not command me,” the prince replied without granting her as much as a glance. He instructed the ballista crew to pull it up the spiral staircase; he had need of it outside. For now.

“You,” said the prince then, addressing the four-foot giant serving under Zazra and the captain. “Go scout outside. Count the enemy troops, both infantry and cavalry. And do not dare return without a detailed report.” He gave the bastard a look, having not forgotten what threat the man had posed once. To himself and to the lady he had banished from his mind. This foolish giant would have split her in two with his axe, had it not been for Gorkon’s pre-ordained intervention. That scheming bastard god and his pet goblin rats. Oh, the prince was getting angry. It felt good, like the heart of him was almost alive, not merely an organ beating. “The rest of you stay put,” said the prince to the captain and hers. “Your presence angers me. And I am better for it.”

They all did as bid, for the prince veered away, brooked no counterargument. It was clear that he did not bluff; there was no need at this stage. Only Gorkon was his master in the realm of physical combat. And on the mental front, the god would have to prove it—the superior one was whoever walked out in an hour from now.

A feverish thirst roiled in the prince’s gut. It was a gift of sorts, to be chosen as saviour-apparent. The fated hero who could stop the world from burning. He was glad to be here now, in the penultimate moment; a capstone day in the annals of history. The chance to finally uncork the rage he had dutifully kept bottled, the odd skull-bashing duel notwithstanding.

All he had to do was remember. The thoughts he had pushed aside as best he could. Then the taskmaster would know. What true hell entails.

The prince followed the ballista outside, giving a nod and wink to Artisan, who had lagged on purpose, uncertain when his part in the war was due. The man came limping up the stairs, his blood-engorged leg bulging from the brace—their path has been long, yet still it went on. But the end was in sight, and the merriment of a free future beckoned.

They were swallowed up by a sombre church hall, grand and impassive—there was no hold that time could have on the holy and its opposite. Three goblin seers stood at the front near the altar, chanting hymns that had Artisan shaking; the felt awe struck deep in the goblin-made mind. But the prince was untouched—their voices were too low in power; they no longer reached to the core that could rattle.

And he had seen something vital: the door was not glyph-locked now as it was in memory. This was good. One less thing to worry about at least.

“I feel him,” said the prince, scanning the hall for evidence. “He is hiding nearby.”

“Waiting,” said Artisan. “For you to return with the sword. To your destiny below.” The man wavered, then spoke his mind. “Will you fight him first, with the sword alone? It is... your judgment to make. You know what I might say.”

The prince pondered the implication. But found his thoughts latching onto something else entirely. It was time he find out.

“There is no great war outside, is there?”

“No, my prince. I do not think so.”

“Then my father has wittingly abandoned me? He knows what I endure and leaves me the sword... to do what he was too craven to attempt?”

“Aye. The truth is passed from king to king—this was Rodrich’s will, and the Blackrose loyalty runs deep for their first and greatest ruler.”

“Then to hell with him also. I renounce Bartold as ruler and claim my birthright in name, though without the blemished rank that has brought naught but ash—I see it now so clearly, friend Artisan, all the kings in all their defects... no, I decline that wretched inheritance, the lies upon lies. My name is Cedric, Sovereign Prince of the Blackrose, and soon-to-be lord of all goblins, when I oust that feeble god from his nest. And now at last I know there is pride in neither title, but only in me. My heart alone will be tested—the fury that it holds. Step aside now, friend Artisan. You know what is to be done. I can count on your assistance.” There was no lilting tone, and thus no question. A statement of fact that needed no answer.

The prince went on alone, exiting the church and surveying the ruins outside, eyes peeled only for danger, ignoring all things peripheral like the sun’s warmth and the stench of death.

There were goblins standing guard and bodies strewn around, human flesh in various states of decay. Some had been piled away by the goblins, a mound of corpses to dissuade their foes seeking entrance.

The prince saw traces of recent skirmishes—blood that still glistened on Lothrian faces. A handful of scouts, going by their armour. They were dead for no reason, a symbolic sacrifice at best. Killed, perhaps, by the ones they called allies—Gendrin and the other blood-runed zealots. No doubt they were here, hiding with Gorkon till their moment would come.

Cursing under his breath, the prince again disavowed the king who had washed his hands of the matter, his dead son and Dicebolg. Both left to rot in the town of Landsbury, haven to sinful acolytes. Home to the host of hell.

Only the sword mattered now. Or for now at least.

The prince walked on, dismissing the ballista crew from their duty. So far, preparations for the siege weapon ploy had gone smoothly. The rest was up to Artisan.

As the prince sank deeper into the absent heart of the desecrated town, he saw the four-foot fool not far ahead—the one he had sent on a mission. Expecting nothing from this hardened coward, the prince had sent him off purely for satisfaction. To compel with mere words and not his voice of command. That one would die soon enough. There was no forgiveness for what he had caused to the lady whose name need no mention.

Retracing his steps in the foulest of memories, the prince carried on, wading through corpses of some he might recognize. If he looked more intently than he had reason to now.

Toward the market plaza, where the smell of blood clung to the air as it soaked the ground. His sword would be there, utterly unmoved—somehow he could sense it. The dark blade called to him, and he to it.

He was almost glad to not be alone. The goblins around were a source of some comfort. Like the place was made new by their baleful presence. A random old town that had just been sacked. Not the weight of a foreign lifetime, estranged and still raw in some untold felt way.

Moving like a spectre through the streets, the prince closed his eyes—the pull of the sword was so strong. It erased the need for vision. He was near to it now, and his breath turned shallow under the fierce beating of his heart. The sword’s darkness was a void and a beacon, blacker than the absence of light, so it guided him, flawlessly through the corpse-addled path.

The prince held his breath, reached out for the sword that was his bane and salvation, hesitating a hair with redemption so close—what if there is only disappointment? The god dies and Gendrin dies and still the world is hollow? There is no antidote to the endless impulses, the prevarications of a brooding mind. Save for the intervention of the physical.

He opened his eyes and saw his own mangled corpse, the rot in his princely armour. The absence of flesh and the stench that pervaded—or it must have, but his rancid new nose could not smell it that much. He wanted to beat apart the remains of his old self and this green filthy body he dwelt in. The rage was surreal and he knew it was time—hold onto this, and a god cannot touch you. There is nothing in hell like loathing, the hate of what you were and are now. All you will be. He tore at his own face, nails so deep in the forehead it bled in big drips. Then he screamed in fell agony, doubled over in hurt but there was no way of folding his body to relinquish the pain—no true escape but the final one. To reject all of being. But first wreak some goddamn havoc.

The prince took the sword without thinking. It felt right but not good; the anger that fed—he on it and vice versa. A match made in heaven nor hell; there is no one looking over us.

He did not walk back but run. Like a beast unchained, hurtling down the path of death.

Gorkon stood outside the church, waiting. The prince saw him, but he did not slow down.

He let the fury run wild, fixing his gaze on the bastard’s green stare—wide-armed and white-robed he waited, like nothing could phase a god. But the prince had seen one dead god’s corpse in a blood-riddled memory. And he would see another fresh one dead today.

Fuck Rodrich for failing and fuck everyone for trying.

The prince slid into range, let Dicebolg crack out like in the days of old, a darker-than-black slice, aimed straight at the taskmaster’s face.

Chapter 42 – To break a god (Final Evolution arc)

Gorkon stepped aside as he swung his head under, evading Dicebolg by a hair and hardly ceding ground; he rotated with the prince as the latter spun into a follow-up strike, sweeping in low with the dark blade. Another minimal movement in response— Gorkon dodging to the back but staying close. There was no retaliation. The taskmaster was playing with the prince more than anything. Taunting him so as to show the boundless gap. That between god and man.

But even gods can be deceived.

The scheming prince stormed inside the church, having just forced Gorkon away from the entrance. “Gendrin!” the prince shouted as he rushed to the antechamber past the altar... the ceremony participants were hiding close by, so why not there? It was worth a shot—the chance to eviscerate Gendrin. That would rouse his spirits to the utmost.

“STOP,” Gorkon yelled after, his aura and commanding voice rippling the air.

And the prince felt his movements jerkily draw to a halt—the taskmaster’s order caused his body to freeze up, as feared and as expected. Resisting slightly, the prince tried to gauge the strength of the command, to assess whether opposing the taskmaster here and now would work. But the bind was like iron—inescapable, save for with more-than-mortal effort. And so the prince relented, electing despite his fury to be mindful. His chance would come. Later, when the taskmaster was spent from forging.

“It pleases me, prince,” said Gorkon as he entered. “You wield the sword with such ease.” He walked over to where the prince stood rooted, sought his stare to further the humiliation. “It will hurt less if you just give in.”

“Do... it,” said the prince, concentrating hard to squeak out the words.

“No foul-mouthed distractions? You disappoint me. But have it your way.” Gorkon drew in breath, held it for a moment as he channelled his raised aura—allocating all of his force to the command he and the prince both knew would come.

The air cracked electric as the taskmaster spoke. “LEND ME YOUR MIGHT AND DICEBOLG’S SO I MAY REFORGE ZIEGBÖLT.”

Wholly spellbound now, the prince felt his eyes glaze over, the world growing dim. He was there still, in some deep-down recess of conscious presence. He was now, himself, like a far-off memory. Retrievable only with great and enduring strain.

The church bells tolled, and the seers sang. Then the darkmage appeared, silently, her features unobscured—she was almost beautiful. The haunting blue eyes that could kill a man and had. She had on the same conical hat—it was part of her attire like the scowl she always wore. In her hand was Caladbrinn, not the staff variant of her preference but its runesword form. Perfect for a sinister ritual.

Four hooded acolytes came rushing after, all emerging from the antechamber, their heads bent in pre-emptive reverence. Though a man he loathed was likely among them, the prince stayed too far down in stupor to reflect... exerting only such force as strictly necessary to maintain his sense of self—the fallen god would not lay claim his identity; this he had sworn and swore now again. Never would he fade as the lady he thought of no longer.

The procession commenced, a perfect copy of the one in memory. The four hooded figures went first down the stairs; then the darkmage followed, and then the entranced prince. Last of all came Gorkon, shutting the door behind him.

Observing the untold gravitas of the moment, the ground-dwelling goblins made way, scattering to the sides. They were the mostly unwitting spectators to the devil’s resurrection... or to something else entirely.

To start the proceedings, Gorkon slammed his fist into the broken pillar, overriding the concealment-spell and revealing the forge of the gods.

He brought the hammer down and produced the divine lighting, same as before—the scattering sparks of gold that hung windless in the air. The room was bright from hexed floor to ceiling, the macabre display that overlooked them all.

Three of the hooded figures disrobed, baring the runes blood-hammered deep into their skin. Two males and a female. One of them familiar. The oath-breaking cur, Gendrin. It entered the mind-space of the prince, penetrating past the surface level of sensory input. There was a flicker of rage that danced through to the core, but no more than that.

The prince and the darkmage moved to one conduit hex each, ready to stand vigil and lend both their own magic force and the might of the god-blades.

Then the hammering stopped, and the fourth hooded man came forth and bent respectfully before Gorkon, presenting a glyph-locked box that snapped open immediately—the taskmaster had no desire, it seemed, to draw out the ceremony.

The box housed the treasures of old: the two major shards of Ziegbölt, Ferignost and Truorúst, along with not three but five minor shards—they had all been located. All seven constituent shards. Ensuring that Ziegbölt, once reforged, would be less liable to breaking.

“Now,” Gorkon called on a blood-runed servant to come and do what must be done. It was the other man, not Gendrin—and though he did not speak the goblin tongue, it was clear what was required. He grabbed hold of the two swords and grimaced; smoke rose from the palms of his hands. This one seemed ill-attuned to the godly blood, less suited to wield the mighty weapons than the woman in Rodrich’s time. Though for one in the room, the result was the same.

Stabbed twice through the gut, the fourth hooded man buckled, yet he did not scream—perhaps he did not think it proper. A chosen sacrifice might delight in honourable silence. The privilege is only bestowed once.

Then the taskmaster flung the man on the anvil, hammered a magestone in his dying body as blood spouted from his mouth.

The forge roared to life, emitting red-golden flames that sparked in the hazed periphery of vision—the prince felt estranged from it all. Like a ghost he was wont to drift, tethered only by the body to being; he could not move. Not in spirit nor in flesh.

And the hooded man jerked back to fleeting life, his eyes ablaze with the yellow light of madness. The taskmaster sent him away, up the stairs and out the door. This was a vital sign for his friend outside, the prince knew, though the thought was faint and he could not piece the whole plan together. He was reduced to simple hope—when the time comes, he should know what to do.

The blood-runed man inserted both blades into the forge, spasming hard and growing pale—he was weak but unfaltering. His hands ballooned to twice the size, blistering over as he wailed in agony. The runes on his skin began to bleed, and the other two hurried over, Gendrin and the woman. Both placed a hand on the failing man’s shoulder, granting him an infusion of strength... and when at last the swords melted, the man’s arms were blackened and bleeding, well beyond the point of healing. But his task had passed, and so too his purpose. The taskmaster reached up and gripped around the neck, squeezed his hand with the iron grip till the man’s eyes burst apart from pressure. Limp like a rag he was tossed to the side. No use here for the frail and fragile-hearted.

Then the five minor shards were added to the fire, melting and melding with the two blades in the crucible. All elements of Ziegbölt, soon ready to be reforged.

When the metal sheets were plucked from the fire, the taskmaster went to work, hammering out the pre-extant pattern of divinity—the metal would know what shape to take. Though it took a god to get it done.

The conduit hex lit up, and the prince felt the tug of his meagre magic draining away—a mere side-effect from the procedure. The essence was in Dicebolg’s power and Caladbrinn’s, the two god-blades giving their energy without fading; the source of their strength was evermore renewed.

And for a while the taskmaster beat on, settling into a frenzied state and rhythm—his chest heaved harder now than ever it did in fight. Though in a sense this was the greatest battle: a god pitted against himself; he was his own equal. No man or woman living could hope to come close.

The prince felt his body sway under the strain of the ritual, though jolts of cleaner awareness pressed in also—the taskmaster was weary, and his control waned at interim moments, a fraction of a second each time, right after banging the hammer.

In those precious few lucid timeframes, the prince caught glimpses of the crowd, studied their reactions. Some were staring up at the door where the staircase ended, growling in shock or disapproval. And the prince centred his focus in response, sniffing out the mild soulful aura he knew so well—the ethereal scent of a packmate.

Artisan.

Though reeling still, the prince found the strength to rouse the part of him that knew... clawing out at the plan they had concocted. The ballista. Artisan was to fire it straight at the god—not the taskmaster, no. The other god. The dead one hanging on the ceiling. Kageru. The big brother Gorkon worshiped. The shock of such disrespect would diminish Gorkon’s hold on the prince... just enough to break free. So they hoped.

But more moments passed, and no shot was heard. The prince saw the faces change—the crowd shifting from anger to glee. Puzzled and alarmed, the prince fixated his every ounce of attention on the sound that ought to come but did not. Worse yet, he heard an empty click and snap, be it from mechanical failure or a jammed trigger mechanism. The result was the same.

The shot would not go off.

No intervention of the sort to frustrate Gorkon into lapsing meant the prince was in deep trouble now. How the hell would he break free if the god was not rattled from the outside? He sensed around for the aura of his friend, and found it missing. Artisan had run following the failing, and he was alone now. Truly alone. A sick despair rose up like bile, and the prince saw himself as Rodrich, a man doomed to fade as an almost-winner in the annals of unrecorded history.

Still, the prince stayed with it, this disavowal of hope. He pondered what it meant to have it and to have not, analysed his emotions from before and after. A warrior-poet’s way of surpassing the fear and loss of perspective—to scrutinize the facts till true meaning is found or eroded.

Thus retaining a semblance of presence, the prince readied himself for the all-or-nothing moment, when Gorkon declared the hammering complete and was at his most exhausted. Then he would break away like Rodrich and...

His thoughts were interrupted as an unknown projectile thudded on the ground, something large that was flung off from up high... by Artisan! The prince sensed his friend’s soul back in place. This alone was some measure of reassurance—he was less lonely already in his greatest ever trial. But now to get his bearings... and to try and grasp what Artisan’s new plan was. A backup plan by all accounts, defying Rodrich’s all-in-all-the-time-mentality. Yet the new Prince-Sovereign of the land would abide it; Rodrich’s time had ended, and so had weak Bartold’s.

As the prince tried to piece it all together, Gorkon yelled a clear ‘Get him!’ to the goblins, who were mostly dazed, staring in confusion at what Artisan had thrown, and why.

Several goblins made for the stairs, ready to fulfill the order and kill Artisan. The prince noted this, yet was rooted to the ground still, cradled by the infinite lull of the god’s command and the draining ritual. But there was no time. He had to act now and save his friend. And to do so, the prince would trust him first—in the end, it would come down to faith of all things. Faith in the decisive importance of whatever thing Artisan had hurled down.

With all his might, the prince fought against Gorkon’s command, though it felt futile, like trying to shift the course of the stars. A sliver of clear vision is all the prince could wrest free. But it was enough.

More than enough.

He saw the blue robe of the frostmage, how it draped around the death of love. There was no bright blue left in the rot of her eyes—the right one gone entirely. Subject to decay or eaten by the maggots that crawled in and out of her, feasting on the liquefied flesh of her hands, her face. A single lock of frayed blonde hair still hung from the skin and blood near her open scalp, decayed now to the bone of her skull in parts. Morsels of her smashed brain seeped out from the hole.

The prince took it all in, processing the visual, contrasting it to the living memory of her. He wanted at first to reject it, the truth flung right before his eyes. But that lasted only for a single beat—he renounced his own disavowal and his weakness. She was dead and he was alive, emerging fully to the present now, borne on the lofty wings of unbearable wroth, swelling like a cancer within him—the prince on the point of bursting.

He wanted to rip every fibre out of bleak existence. Rampage against the light itself. What dark, cruel and godless world would permit the unspeakable? Better then for it all to burn, thought the prince, whether consciously or not—this was unclear, for what he felt was the fire of his and her anguish. The two of them could fight for a final time. Together. The prince and the frostmage. Together they could tear at the heavens or what remained. Beat apart this fallen god.

And as fate would see fit, the work had just been completed—Ziegbölt lay there on the anvil, freshly reforged as the final blow of the hammer rang out. Right in the metal-sounding aftermath, the prince pulled free with a hell-raising shout, rallying his every cell to strike out at injustice, for one and all, the pale hopeless sinners he had known and loved: Artisan and the lady and above all himself.

He lunged out in a blue-clad mist, the blaze of his aura brought out in full, moving as fast as any mortal man with the sword behind him, dreaded Dicebolg arcing in with a wind-up strike. Here was all he was worth in one single goddamn effort... and time slowed down for the two of them locked in here together—the prince and the god, so they both might cherish it, the second that was like an hour in the moment their eyes met, the fierce look of vengeance and flame; the brittle gaze of a newfound fear.

Cleaving in raw and hard, the prince proved it for him and the frostmage.

That a god can bleed.

Dicebolg ripped through the flesh and bone of Gorkon—a swing so divine it tore out half the midsection, then sheared to a stop in the broken god’s spine. He did not speak or try to. There was only the fear and disbelief, this faint glow in his eyes that dimmed.

The prince staggered back, likewise struck by the incredulous truth of what he was seeing—the god that had died to one man’s will and conviction. No. She had given him the strength. He looked again at her, the rotting puss that once was perfect. He shivered and collapsed, caught himself on the way down, heaving from anguish and exertion. A searing pain enveloped him; it was beyond reckoning. His body was spent in that one superlative moment, exceeding all the limits of muscle and bone. Convulsing in feral jerks, the prince tipped over, writhing in agony on the floor. He gripped at his head that seemed near to shattering—the same torment as when he had faced the groundskeeper. The cracked-skull feeling that went deeper still somehow. It was his mind, the worn-out identity he had been burdened with. Scraped together from torn pride and hate.

There is no man alive who cannot be broken.

“GAEL,” the prince howled, taking in her name for a final time, or so it felt, for his mind and heart and vision... they all went dark, succumbing to a pressure too great to withstand.

Victorious and spent, the prince passed out.

But the shout itself endured, resonating in all the goblin minds and bodies—they felt it like a curse, this hard word of command. What their new-arisen leader demanded was unclear, but that hardly mattered. Savage roars rose up to meet the prince’s dying call. And they moved like a pack, wild and unburdened, seeking chaos for its own sake. Thronging in around the outsiders—the foul-smelling humans with runes in their skin, and the one with the pointy hat, holding the sword that was also a staff.

Let there be blood.

Only thus could the horde honour their fierce lord and his first command.

Chapter 43 – Death of a prince (Final Evolution arc)

There is a hopeful truth to the nighttime hour, one we all buy into. That sleep restores and does not erase—the body that lies down is the same one that rises. An unconscious drift, steadied by a firm state of mind. But how do we know the dream does not lay to waste some living part of us? A sliver of self that is slain or simply replaced. There would be no telling. No one there to miss what is lost. Mourn now for the you that is not yet gone but will be. There is nothing that tethers us securely to being.

These were the last thoughts the prince would have, yielding to the warrior-poet’s wisdom, the from-the-outside-looking-in style of analysis designed to supplant emotion with pure reason. And it works. Briefly.

Sheer unrelenting terror—that was the last true emotion the prince would know. Screaming from the deep and ever deeper within. Till the ‘prince’-part was far removed from the operative mind of him. So far, even, that it might as well cease to exist. The functional outcome is the same. Death.

A hard fearful scream. The last conscious uttering from the prince, caged away beyond the impenetrable layers of hell and mind that make up the new inhabitant. He is housed in the same body that had been his.

This new being answers to one name only.

Goblin Lord.

--

The Goblin Lord opened his eyes, for his ears snapped up to the sound of turmoil. There were goblin troops on the staircase, entering the room from above... at least five or six, going by footsteps; the surroundings were dim now, without the light of the god-forge’s sparks.

He got to his feet, arranged his face in a proper snarl of contempt—whatever look might suit a leader.

The glint of the dark blade caught his wandering gaze; it was right there at his feet. His muscles were sore as he bent to pick it up, placing his hand firmly on the hilt and... “Graaaa!” he uttered with foul and deep hatred in his gruff goblin voice. Fire seared through his palm, blistering over where the blade had rejected him.

“A...at your service, new taskmaster,” yelled one of the goblins trotting down, picking up the pace so as not to disturb the leader further.

“The taskmaster is dead. I am the Goblin Lord who has slain him,” replied the Goblin Lord as he stared the lot down, freshly descended and standing there ill at ease. He glowered at them to ensure it was known—he gave out the orders.

“I come to report, Goblin Lord,” said one further back. “Are you... well? You have lost the mark.” He pointed at his forehead, standing tall. A giant among goblins.

The Goblin Lord recognized him as a ‘four-foot fool’, and how right that was—how dare this low-rank raider ask such a question? Narrow-eyed, the Lord bore into them, lips sealed in oppressive silence. Thus inducing further speech.

The four-foot one bent his head in respect. In wordless submission. “All the humans are dead,” he started. “The witch woman took out two raiding squads with strange magic, but we got her good.” He motioned at the smashed-apart corpse of a darkmage; the large hat on her head was the only thing left intact. “That one was already dead,” he continued, pointing at the human male with flame-blackened arms and runes on his body—the one whose neck and eyes had been crushed by Gorkon. “And these last two were piss weak.”

“Them?” asked the Goblin Lord, receiving an eager nod in confirmation as he studied the bodies. A fat human male and a female, both with runes on their body. They had been stabbed to a gory death, sporting fifty or more tiny wounds each—the result of greedy goblin hands working their daggers from every which angle.

The Goblin Lord let his attention linger on the male, regarding him more closely than he had reason to. Perhaps he had known this one in some horrid past, sensing the spurts of a distant aversion roll over him. Then he turned away. Done with the matter, whatever there had been between them.

“One more thing, my lord,” said the four-foot scout. “No casualties outside... except for one.” He shuffled around uneasily, shrinking before the intense gaze the Goblin Lord gave. “The old taskmaster had given the order... to slay that hobbled friend of yours. And I am...” he looked around at the goblins nearest to him, his cobbled-together new squad. “We are... sorry to report this order was completed.”

Ponderous, the Goblin Lord took a moment to himself. Tried to envision why he should care. “His last words?”

“He was frantic, running around yelling ‘He will win; he will win... he will free us!’ as we... ah... they chased him down.”

“Hmm,” the Goblin Lord mused. He had indeed won. The hobbled one had been right in that. And servitude to a great master is freedom of a sort—all goblins united under the Goblin Lord’s banner. “He died without dignity then?”

“Yes, my lord... not a warrior’s death at all. Was shitting himself knowing time was up... ah, if you were to ask me what I think, that is.” He bent low, the four-foot scout. “A goblin should die on his feet, weapon in hand! But this one with the brace... got delirious at the end—mumbled something about free souls and bashing corpses.”

The Goblin Lord snorted in disdain. “Goblins who don’t die well... are no friends of mine.”

He turned around to leave, noting three final things of some importance.
The first was the old taskmaster’s hardened body—like his divine brother, Gorkon’s corpse was strangely intact, as though gods would not die but merely slumber.
The second matter was the reforged blade on the forge—Ziegbölt. It had not shattered, and seemed stable now, perhaps because all seven shards were gathered within it. Though the humans with the runes were all dead, there could always be more—no telling with vermin like that.
And then the third something that warranted a look... the rotted corpse of a female human frostmage. It looked ghastly, and the Goblin Lord knew vaguely their connection—he had dreamed of her once. A strange dream in which he was a man of some status, a human male with bulky blue armour and a know-it-all grin. This female had shown him affection, and he her. But only in the dream. A nightmare, really... likely induced by a foreign hex or dark magic. It did not matter now. She was dead anyway.

“Set fire to it all. Raze the church, this basement floor included.”

And just like that, all three problems would disappear. The god’s half-corpse, the three damn god-blades, and the treacherous frostmage.

The Goblin Lord retreated to his den, for he was now master of the world below.

His stride was assured, proud and unwavering. Regal almost.

Like a king without a crown.

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Epilogue

In Dei Absentia, Hominis Errata

(The faults of man in a godless world)

I, Reignaut IV, the lord Hightower archmage, last of my breed, should like to confess the following, not for once to my noble contemporaries, but to the greater-still next generations. May they mend the world under Her divine guidance.

My health is failing so pray forgive the sparse language and lack of clear focus. I must write this today, for tomorrow the Lord or Lady may claim my soul. In my eighty-three years I have beheld, with my own eyes, both hell and heaven, in that order, laid out before me; these are true and literal states, not merely metaphors as some would and will say, chiefly those born in the age of wealth and plenty, qualities that are hostile like demons to the mind, eliciting naught but a blinkered sense of reductive rationalism. My age was a spiritual one, and in our endless night we prayed for salvation, and were granted more, so much more.

The year now is 1004 in the Age of Strife, precisely the same number of years past the death of Bartold the weak, last king of Lothrian. As the records state, it was grief that ailed him, for he outlived his fallen son Cedric by scantly a year. And indeed, I have tabled with many a scholar with a heart for Lothrian folklore; there are those who allege that disarray came only in the wake of the great kingdom’s fall. But alas, these are emotive contrivances, and it has always fallen upon the magi to rectify the misgivings (be they amiable or malevolent) of the lesser disciplines.

The Age of Strife dawned overnight, with the withering of magic—a sharp initial reduction, and continued gradual loss of the potency of magestones. This has been conjectured by some renowned scholars, including this author, to have been caused by the total loss of divinity in the world. To evidence this assertion: the sages and clerics noted an immediate and complete impossibility in relation to the casting of holy magic, which persisted not quite until this day, but indeed until one week ago.

Moreover, after the last failed goblin raids in the early years of the Age of Stife, when it was made clear that they had increased in number but also in stupidity, and had dwindled in size and combat skills, these foul creatures have gone functionally extinct. Less than half a dozen confirmed sightings in this current decade, and it has been so for at least the better part of a century. I, myself, have never seen one.

It is no coincidence, I find, that with the waning of the goblinkind—and this is well-documented—other and more aberrant beings started to emerge. They are spectral fiends denoted in ranks of lesser and greater daemons, consisting only of wanton magic energy: these are indomitable streams in the minds of us magi, and the best among us can at times sense the impending doom of a spawning, but all are powerless to combat them.

And it is thus that over the 1004 years of Strife, mankind has retreated from a world so blighted. Civilization is condensed in the last hold we call Bastion, at a location I am not at liberty to disclose—we must turn away nomadic humans seeking refuge. Outsiders bring only discord, with feeble minds set on food and sexual indiscretions; and it is not proper to relinquish our high duty to maintain mankind as the elite alone, guardians of knowledge and purpose.

Know that despite all this, and because all this, I will soon die a fulfilled man. For one week ago, She, the glorious and impervious Goddess descended for us all to worship. Having heard of our plight through the ceaseless prayer I and other magi have devoted our lives to, the Golden Goddess has judged us worthy of divine intervention; She speaks only of justice and rightness, her words as flawless as beauty itself, which she personifies deifies. To break with the old, She holds that the magi orders are to be restructured, abolishing the need for a Hightower (or ‘magetower’ in the common parlance) and an archmage. I am blessed to learn of my former usefulness, a life spent in devoted prayer; and of my uselessness henceforth, so that I may die without regret.

Signed,

Reignaut IV, the last Hightower archmage

Post Scriptum:

This writing is to be enshrined in lorebooks as the final Hightower encyclical, Goddess willing.