Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Once every few years, the lords and ladies from duchies and kingdoms met with one another on neutral grounds, near the Forest Kingdom. They gathered to discuss trades, settles arguments, and leave the Meeting Point as stronger allies than before. For these lords remember how painful wars can be for the dead, but for the living also. Those who die leave a mark, whether it was their first, second or third death. The immediate surroundings are alerted of the death through a mental wave of negative feelings. It's enough to turn anyone insane during wartime. The Meeting Point was therefore an effective method to keep the peace in this cruel world, where mass death could literally overwhelm someone.

But this time, the lords weren't alone. Some brought their children.

It was a second part added to the meeting. If everything went well, these children would never know war and would continue the traditions started by their parents, meeting on these neutral grounds to keep the peace. But they were children now; war and fighting were games to play until they lost their innocence. Their parents stayed in the Tower of Peace and discussed matters the children did not need to worry about yet while some soldiers watched over the children.

Naturally, they got talking. Soon, they started to play with one another. After an hour of fun, they got along as if they've been friends all their lives, while some of them only met each other earlier today.

As the parents got down to business, the children retreated to the open space beneath the tower; the perfect place to let their fantasies loose and to solidify their newfound friendships, with minimal interference from the guards. Seven children – six boys and one girl – played pretend around the oldest son of the king of Dogwarts. And a seventh boy ran up to the group, coming from the tower.

“CLEO!” He yelled in a shrill voice that drew the attention. He ran to the group and looked at Cleo with wide eyes and a silly grin. “Cleo, my dad says we’re gonna get married when we’re older.”

Cleo watched the boy – Bdubs, from the Crastle. She glanced at him, from head to toe, judging him.

“Ew.”

The grin on his face faded, but it returned when the boys involved him in their games.

Ren had picked up a stick and proclaimed it was his battle sword, with which he could strike an enemy thrice, killing even green lives in one fell swoop. He wore a makeshift cape and to the children, through their imaginative lens, he might have even looked regal. Behind him stood his most fervent supporter, his younger brother Martyn, ever looking up to his older brother.

“All bow before the king!” Ren exclaimed, and Bdubs immediately dropped to his knees – as did one of the boys, the squire of a knight, who was more than certain to grow into a knight himself.

“Yes, my lord,” said that boy, named Skizz. He'd been standing next to his best friend, Impulse, who bent the knee as well. Ren watched and nodded approvingly at his subjects.

Martyn watched the small group with hawk eyes and pointed out the most timid boy.

“Aren’t you bowing?”

Joel wasn’t the only one who wasn’t bowing – Martyn only saw an easy victim for his feigned wrath. Joel shook his head, taking half a step backward.

“I’ll just watch, thanks,” Joel said.

Martyn decided to leave Joel alone and instead turned to the other boy who did not obey Ren’s order. “What about you?”

“I’m not bowing,” Jimmy said proudly, and he turned directly to Ren. “Why be a king and stuck inside all day when you can be a knight?” The life of a knight, with his heroic deeds, was much more appealing to the young Jimmy than being a king. His father barely had a sense of adventure, and Jimmy couldn’t wait to leave that castle and explore the world and be a hero.

“A king takes orders from no one,” Ren told him. “He gives them instead.”

“Cleo,” Martyn then shouted. “Bow down to the king!”

“I’d rather not,” she said curtly, staring at the boys. If the game progressed to go elsewhere, she might join – but she wouldn’t give Ren the pleasure of knowing he made Cleo bow for him one time.

As Martyn, Ren, Jimmy, and Joel argued about whether or not they should bow, Impulse started to get bored. To his left, he could see a stick. He took it in his hands and glanced at Skizz with mischievous eyes.

Skizz watched Impulse pick up the stick. He barely had time to react when the stick’s point poked him in his chest. Skizz rolled over, hand where the stick had hit him, and pretending to die.

“My lord, I’ve been hit!” Skizz exclaimed as Impulse got to his feet.

“Betrayal!” Ren shouted. “Get him!”

Suddenly, Impulse found himself in the middle of a 1v6. Skizz had gotten up and laughed loudly as Impulse was chased around by the others, stopping to get in fights and fleeing when others arrived and flanked him.

Impulse tripped and fell. Ren pinned him to the ground and they all started to laugh. The chase had been fun, even though Joel and Bdubs had decided halfway through to have a little sparring session among one another. Jimmy also stopped to laugh at Impulse on multiple occasions and throw insults at him – all in good fun.

Until someone came from the trees. The laughter died down. With curious and concerned eyes, they watched the tree line. The person was just a boy, like most of them, but he was different. He moved carefully, as if he was afraid to make a wrong move. Something was unsettling about him, but most couldn’t tell what unsettled them about this boy, who appeared shy and might have had to build up some courage to come here.

Ren took a step closer, electing himself as the spokesperson for the group towards the mysterious boy. He only had eyes for the new boy, who also only looked at Ren.

“Who is that?” Jimmy whispered, but nobody answered him. The tension was too high to break, and at long last, the boy opened his mouth.

“Can I play?” he asked in the most insecure tone. “I heard you play… can I join in?”

“No, Scar,” Ren said, without missing a beat. “You can’t.”

The boy – Scar – seemed genuinely heartbroken.

“B-but… Ren! We share a father! Won’t you let your brother play along?”

“Half-brother,” Ren emphasized. “Barely the good half.”

Ren was aware of the many conquests his father had made; they included peasant women, and sometimes there were consequences, coming nine months late. His father never made any attempts to legitimize the bastard children he produced, and thus Ren did not want anything to do with those children either.

So that might be what was so unsettling. If the light hit Scar’s face at the right angle, you could see the similarities between him and Ren. It was hard to deny they were related, and that could be what made them uncomfortable. But there was something else – something that had nothing to do with his heritage.

“His eyes are yellow,” Joel then said as the realization hit him. Scar’s eyes were already yellow - the tell-tale sign that someone was on their yellow life; their second life. While it wasn’t uncommon to lose their first life in childhood, it still creeped them all out to see someone their age with yellow eyes, as opposed to their own safe green eyes.

“Yes, Joel,” Ren said calmly. “That’s because he got killed by a Creeper.”

“Killed by a Creeper?” Bdubs exclaimed before bursting out in laughter. His laugh was infectious and everyone joined in at some point.

Scar tried to regain his composure. He could not show them any weakness. It was a sure way to make them laugh even more, and that was the last thing he needed right now.

“It was an accident!” Scar tried to defend himself. He pointed an accusatory finger at Ren. “It wouldn’t have happened if you—”

“If I, what?” Ren interrupted Scar. “You ran toward it.”

“You made me do it!”

“I never did such a thing,” Ren said. He denied his role in Scar’s death, but Scar could still see that moment before him.

“My brother isn’t as cruel as you are,” Martyn supported his brother.

Scar balled his fists, so tightly his nails almost left wounds in the palm of his hands. Anger rose within him, but reality also hit him. There was nothing he could do. He did nothing wrong. The yellow eyes weren’t even his work – Ren worked against him again. It was all Ren’s fault.

And Ren had seven others backing him up. Scar was alone.

He just wanted to play.

He relaxed, took a deep breath, and turned his glare to Ren.

“Fine. Then I won’t play,” Scar said. “But you’ll hear from me. You will hear from me.”

He sharply turned around and walked back into the forest. The last stretch he ran, to put distance between himself and the others. Most like to hide the tears; more fuel for the others to start laughing.

“What was his problem?” Jimmy wondered, breaking the tension.

“I don’t know,” Ren said, “but he’s gone now.”

The atmosphere was still a little tense, but after a few minutes, it was all forgotten. They continued to play as if nothing had happened. As if Scar hadn’t come and interrupted them earlier.

At one point, Skizz had lost sight of Impulse. He looked around, a thousand and one thoughts shooting through his mind – mostly negative, mostly doom scenarios. His mind and heart calmed down when he spotted his best friend again, standing close to one of the trees. Curiously, Skizz approached Impulse.

“Whatcha doing, homey buddy?”

“Carving my name into the tree,” Impulse said. He just finished the last letter of his name and then put his hand on the wood. “They remember, you know. If I carve my name here and come across it later, I’ll surely remember today.”

“Sweet!” Skizz said. “May I?”

Impulse lent Skizz his knife and watched him carve his name – short, with a lot of straight lines, right next to Impulse’s. He gave Impulse’s knife back.

“That looks great,” Impulse said.

“It sure does,” Skizz nodded. Then, he got an idea. He yelled at the group of six, a little further away.  “Hey, guys, come carve your names in the tree!”

They all rushed to the tree. Ren demanded to be the first to do so, then handed the knife to Martyn. Jimmy and Bdubs fought over who got to go next whereas Cleo and Joel patiently waited. Joel let Cleo use the knife first, making him the last to carve his name.

Eight names carved into a tree – some looking smoother and cleaner than others, some taller, others tinier. But all names were there; everyone was represented on the trunk, which would carry their names for decades, if not centuries to come.

“To the beginning of a great friendship,” Ren said, and the others agreed.

Hidden between the trees, Scar watched them carve their names in the tree, and he wished he could join them.

Chapter Text

This beautiful summer day was the happiest day these lands had seen in a while. Villagers from everywhere flocked to the Crastle, the capital of the Riverlands. Lords, ladies, and knights arrived days beforehand to partake in the many activities and be on site before the wave of villagers came. Crowds almost left no free space in the courtyard, with some lucky few inside of the main hall. Each patiently waiting for this momentous occasion, because from today onwards, the Crastle would have a lady – Bdubs and Cleo were getting married today.

Scar wasn’t formally invited, as his more regal relatives were. He decided to come anyway.

Why shouldn’t he be there? He was still related to Ren and Martyn and they were invited. Scar should be able to attend, too. It just pained him that he could not attend as a lord himself.

His disguise as a peasant was on-point; living among them did come in handy now. He even clasped his hands together, covered by the long sleeves, in the way these people showed their respect. His hands were sweaty and he hated it, but Scar blended in wonderfully. Nobody suspected any foul play from him. Though he was in the back, he still had a semi-good view of the other side of the hall, where the lords, ladies, and knights were chatting about among each other.

The contrast could not have been bigger. Not only in clothes and hygiene, but also in the number of lives. Most still had their green lives – but the crowd consisted of a variety of green, yellow and red lives. Another way Scar blended in perfectly.

There were more lords and knights present than Scar thought there would be. Some he did not know, but he still recognized some.

To the very left sat Impulse. The second son of a minor lord, ready to make his own fortune. Scar could respect that about him. He talked to one of the servant men. They were both on their green lives, both engaged in what appeared to be an interesting conversation. Scar didn’t think he would be able to keep it up.

A little further away sat a trio of knights – Skizz, Scott, Jimmy. Three noblemen, one experiencing this sense of justice more so than others. They had to be talking about their heroic deeds– bringing up memories and having a good time all together. Scar’s gaze rested on the trio for a while, a pang of sorrow showing up. He looked away, continued to watch the ladies and lords.

Of course, there were others that Scar did not recognize – people Scar never bothered with. They never incurred his wrath. But the man who did was also in this room.

There. Almost on an honorary seat, in the middle of the room; Ren, and a little lower, Martyn, princes of Dogwarts. Ren could lie all he wanted, but Scar remembered the disastrous day clearly. A dare gone wrong; Ren laughed and held back the cat that would have scared the creeper away. And his words, which would haunt him forever, while Martyn watched with glee.

“You’re not my brother.”

They were related by blood. They had the same father, but none of that seemed to matter when that father denied Scar’s heritage. Even if everyone could see they looked alike. But the king of Dogwarts waved it away and paid off his mother to stop spreading these ‘lies’.

Scar’s blood boiled. He almost rose from his seat and walked to the pair to yell at them, or worse. But he could do no such thing; the large doors opened, everyone in the all stood up and watched the new couple enter.

There was no love between Cleo and Bdubs, as was the case with all arranged marriages among lords and kings. From what Scar had heard, there was mutual respect and comradery, which was more than enough to make such a marriage work. Such a shame that Cleo was already on her yellow life. She owned it; her dress was a pleasant shade of yellow, sharply contrasted by Bdubs’ costume. Though her yellow life didn’t take away from the ceremony, she must have wished she could have done this while she and Bdubs were both green.

They stood before the altar. Scar barely paid attention to the pastor droning on – his full attention was on his half-brothers. He’d come for the wedding, but Scar could not lie: Ren’s presence was so demanding that Scar could not look away. At one point during the ceremony, Ren looked around the room, even turning his head. He had to feel those prying eyes. Eyes that wished nothing but harm upon the lord of Dogwarts. A pair of vengeful yellow eyes Ren was unable to find in a sea of different-colored eyes.

At long last, the Crastle had a new lady. The ceremony came to an end. People stood up, cheered, and applauded, chanting well-wishes and congratulations. Scar rose from his seat, too, and clapped politely. He had no qualms with the Crastle; only with one of the lord they let into their humble abode.

Then the lords presented their wedding gifts. Scar was not as interested as those around him; they were probably all exotic and extravagant gifts that had little to no use except as a form of decoration. Still, Scar paid attention again when a familiar voice spoke up.

“I knew I needed to bring something special for two of my dearest and closest friends,” Ren said, as the voices of the crowd died down again. “I sent emissaries to far lands, searching for the greatest treasures, and we have found something. I am giving you a llama.”

Scar scoffed. Really?

“A llama?” Bdubs exclaimed, eyes wide. He hadn’t even seen the animal and he was already enamored with it.

Ren nodded.

“Indeed.” He turned his head. “Martyn?”

His little brother hurried away, to the double doors. Then, with the greatest effort, he pulled the rope, to get the llama within view. Scar could not see the animal from his position, but others did. They awed and clapped, and Cleo and Bdubs stared at it, too. Bdubs seemed to be happier with the present than Cleo.

“Look at it,” Ren said, pointing out the llama with his hand, a smug smile on his face, “Such a beauty!”

“It is a beauty,” Bdubs agreed, nodding.

“What are we going to do with a llama?” Cleo wondered out loud, a laugh in her voice.

“We can ride it. Eventually.” Bdubs finally looked away from the llama and to Ren. “Thanks, Ren. Your gift is highly appreciated.”

“You’re very welcome,” Ren said. Proud of his gift. Almost bordering on arrogance – such a smile couldn’t be just pride. Scar shook his head and balled his fists.

He had to do something. He didn’t know what, but he needed to wipe that arrogant smile off of Ren’s face. But he should be smart about it – an impulsive action could lead to him going behind bars, and he wanted to be free and laugh at Ren from a distance while shame and embarrassment set in.

The ceremony had formally ended. Bdubs and Cleo were now partners, and the peasant packed together and walked out of the room, as servants rearranged the benches and carried in tables, to turn the wedding venue into a dining hall, where the best cooks from the Riverlands would serve food to the happy couple.

Outside, on the courtyard and even outside the Crastle walls, some stalls had popped up, where you could buy some food and drinks. Most of these stalls presented many popular games of the time. Musicians had come and played music. The wedding had turned into a festival for the people to enjoy and to take a break from the daily chores.

And despite the presence of so many lords and ladies, there were few guards outside. Why would there be more than necessary? Their countries and duchies were at peace, and nobody expected a backstab or an unpleasant surprise from the lords they ate with.

They hadn’t counted on Scar being present.

He marched towards the stables with the confidence of someone who should know where they were going. With this confident air, he walked toward the stables and the two guards standing at the entrance. The crowd around him didn’t pay much attention to him, and he didn’t pay much attention to them either. But the guards did keep an eye on him, especially as he approached the stables.

With a big smile on his face, Scar stopped before the guards.

“Hi fellows.”

“What are you doing here?” the first guard asked.

“I’ve been sent by Lord Bdubs,” Scar said, without missing a beat. “He wanted to know if his new llama could do well in crowds. And what better way to test this than In this beautifully packed courtyard.” He paused to spread his arms and look around the courtyard. There were so many people. “So if you’d let me in—”

He took one step closer; the guards moved closer towards one another and blocked Scar’s entry. He looked at the men indignantly and shook his head.

“Excuse me,” Scar said. “You are now going against Lord Bdubs’ wishes. Either I get the llama and walk him around, or I return to him and tell him you’re the reason I’m standing before him, without a llama.”

He shot them his greatest glare, and the men glanced at each other with uncertainty. Without discussion, they returned to their original position.

“You can go,” the second guard said. Whether he wanted to avoid a confrontation or something else played a role, it didn’t matter. Scar had access.

Scar grinned and nodded at the guards. “Thank you.”

He walked into the stables and quickly spotted the llama. He hadn’t seen it before, but it was indeed a beauty. It had rough white wool, and its small eyes could stare directly into his soul. Scar carefully approached the animal and found it was still on a lead. That made his job easier.

The llama also didn’t spit on him. That was a good sign.

“Oh, hello there,” Scar said when he’d come close enough. He took the lead in one hand and opened the gate. He carefully tugged the lead, to make the llama move. Luckily, it wanted to work with him and didn’t fight back against the tugging.

The guards gave him suspicious glances as he passed.

“Thanks again, gentlemen,” Scar said and he walked into the crowd.

Everyone was doing something else; everyone minded their own business and barely paid attention to what was going on around them. So when Scar passed by with the llama in tow, some stopped to watch for just a second, but then continued what they were doing. Every so often, a child would stop him and ask to pet the llama; Scar would let them and spread the lie that this was his llama and definitely not the llama that was just gifted as a wedding gift. 

Still, in a crowd of thousands, it was surprising how few paid attention to Scar and the llama on his lead.

But there was one person out there; one person who watched Scar as much as Scar had watched Ren during the ceremony. He could feel those eyes on him. It was hard to find the person who was staring until they locked eyes.

The man was dressed in black – an outfit that hid many weapons, most of which Scar was unfamiliar with. People stayed away from him, giving him some space. This man was Etho – a top-notch mercenary. If Scar had known Etho was here and if he had some diamonds to spare, he might have paid Etho to steal the llama for him.

Their interaction was limited to respectful nods. Etho paid attention to something else; he allowed Scar to walk away with the llama. He had to know it was the llama but said nothing. Truly, A man to Scar’s heart.

Another obstacle was the guards at the gatehouse. They had seen the llama come in, and they may not be inclined to let the llama be taken. As soon as they spotted Scar walking over with the llama, they clutched their swords a little tighter and watched him like hawks. Even at this distance, Scar decided to smile and seem jovial.

“Hello,” Scar greeted them.

“Where are you going with the llama?” the guard on Scar’s left asked.

“Outside,” he replied.

“Outside?”

“Yeah, outside. On the grass, in a meadow,” Scar said, and he confidently straightened his back. “It’s what Lord Bdubs asked me to do.”

The guard on Scar’s right folded his arms. “Did he now?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Maybe we should ask him,” the left guard said.

Scar nodded, his mind racing and heart racing.

“You’re right,” he said. “Maybe we should go all the way to the big hall, llama and all, and ruin his delicious banquet with friends to announce that you doubted his commands. Maybe the guests would be amused with your foolishness.”

The two guards shared a look while Scar grinned at them. Were they confused? Scar hoped they were, or at least that they were second-guessing themselves.

“I’m not going to be away too long,” Scar added. “Before the festivities here reach an all-time high, you will see me return with the llama.”

The right guard shifted on his feet. “I’m not sure…”

“Let him pass,” His colleague said. “I don’t want trouble today.”

It took a while before both guards agreed to let Scar pass. He had patiently waited for their answer. The gate was open – it was going to stay open, at least until the festivities had died down and the people had to leave. He already imagined how he mounted the llama and rode, evading the guards and riding off into the forest, away from the Crastle, elusive as ever.

But that wasn’t reality.

“And you’ll be back?” one of the guards asked him.

“Definitely,” Scar answered, adding a little bow. “Thanks, guys.”

He tugged the lead and, along with the llama, left the Crastle domain. Agonizingly slowly, he walked away from the village surrounding the Crastle, towards the place where he’d left his horse.

Scar couldn’t stop smiling. He’d done it. He’d actually done it.

The way home was slow, but at least Scar did not have to walk all the way. He was riding his horse, holding the llama’s lead firmly in his hand. So far, the llama had voluntarily followed Scar away from the Crastle – so much so that Scar started to doubt the rumors about llama’s being difficult to work with, with stubborn characters and a will of their own. Either way, the llama followed, and Scar could focus on finding a good place to spend the night.

Because the night was setting, and Scar still found himself inside the forest. At night, the forest was one of the scariest places; during the night, the monsters come out. Overgrown spiders, zombies, and skeletons made these woods dangerous to traverse at night, and Scar was wary of the occasional Creeper that saw its chance to blow up in his face again.

But most of all, he was concerned for the llama’s wellbeing. He had stolen the llama and he would be glad to deliver the llama to its new home.

Scar found the perfect place to hunker down for the night. By the campfire, in a small cave. This cave could be easily lit and slept in if he blocked off the entrance and properly lit up the back area. The danger would only come from the outside, and he could control where these monsters were coming from.

Scar was about to block off the entrance when he heard a sound he could not associate with any of the mobs in these parts. It took him a while to realize that sound was human; that someone was out at this unholy hour, running for their lives.

Scar peeked outside. In the distance, between the trees, ran a boy in a red shirt. He had quite a youthful face; either he was a boy or was one of those people who had very young faces that made it hard to estimate their age. At least three skeletons chased him, and more mobs were swarming around the young man. He would barely make it out.

Scar took a breath. He wanted to stay in the cave, but he also really needed bonemeal, as his food situation wasn’t the best. He took a couple of seconds to think about the situation and to make a decision. Eventually, he picked up his iron sword and shield, and he ventured away from the safety of his cave.

Coming from behind, the skeletons only engaged in a fight with him when he had struck them. The others were still focused on the boy, who ran for his life. In the end, Scar had seven more bones, a handful of arrows, and a golden chest plate, which he tossed to the boy. He’d stopped to catch his breath, surprised with this turn of events.

Scar looked at his weapon. A crude wooden axe, on the brink of falling apart. No wonder he was in such trouble.

“Oh, you saved me,” the boy panted. “You saved me.”

Scar blinked a couple of times. “I did. I did save you.”

It may not have been his primary goal, but at least he now got some bones as well as the gratitude of this kid.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” Scar responded as he put his sword away. He grabbed the bones and arrows, too, and started to walk back to his little cave camp. He hadn’t counted on the boy following him.

“Wait, wait!” he said. “Let me come with you.”

Scar turned around and frowned at the boy. “What?”

“Let me come with you. I’m… I’ve got nowhere else to go and…” The young man took a deep breath. “You saved my life, so I’m now in your debt. Please don’t leave me.”

There was a desperation in his voice, a look in his eyes – elements that reminded Scar of his miserable youth. He didn’t know what happened, but this young man in his red shirt was all alone. He only had a crude axe and, surprisingly, still all of his lives. And somehow, all these elements made Scar feel pity for the kid who has nothing left.

“You’re alright,” he said, already starting to walk back to his cave, just a little further up the hill. “You can stay. We can block off the entrance for the night and sleep in shifts.”

The boy sighed in relief.

“Thank you!” he said as he stepped into the cozy cave. “Where are we going tomorrow?”

“To the Sandlands,” Scar responded. There was some business he needed to take care of over there. “I’m Scar, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Grian.”

Chapter Text

The banquet had come to an end and even if no more food was served, drinks still flowed freely and were a big reason the mood was still so great and maybe getting a little weird. Most of the guests were too preoccupied to see one of Ren’s soldiers walk into the great hall of the Crastle.

Ren noticed – so did Bdubs and Martyn. The princes shared a glance; what news did one of their own bring?

The princes leaned back in their chair once the soldier had come close enough, so he could discretely communicate the message, in case its contents were sensitive and not meant for other ears. It was a short message; barely three or four sentences. Ren nodded once and thanked the soldier for the update. He sent the soldier away with the command to get their escort ready for departure.

The soldier left the great hall, attracting more stares than before. Skizz shot a confused glance at the soldier while Jimmy looked at Ren, waiting for a dramatic announcement. Bdubs wondered what the soldier had told Ren – whatever it was, it had wiped the joy from his face.

 Ren stood up and drew the attention of the other lords and knights. His solemn stance silenced the room as all eyes turned to him. When he had a satisfactory amount of attention from this group, he turned his gaze to the couple.

“I have some terrible news,” Ren said with a heavy heart and a serious tone. “It appears the llama has been taken.”

For a second, the room was silent. Confused conversations started among neighbors. Nobody knew what to make of it. The llama had been taken – surely that was a mistake. It was hard to miss such an exotic animal, and even harder as it belonged to the Crastle. But Ren did not lie about something like this. Someone had taken the llama and somehow, they had gotten away with it.

“The llama?” Bdubs asked. Ren nodded once.

“The llama,” Ren confirmed. “It seems someone came and stole it from beneath our noses.”

After showing the llama to the couple, it had been lead to the stables. Bdubs’ soldiers had guarded that stable, and at least six more were present at the gatehouse. The Crastle was filled with soldiers walking around, keeping the peace during the festivities. Thousands of people were at the Crastle – the crowd must have seen it – and not one of Bdubs’ trained professionals had noticed something. Either that or they did not dare confess. Only when one of Ren’s soldiers checked on the llama out of curiosity did they figure out the llama was even gone.

Jimmy immediately jumped up, knocking back his back and almost knocking it over. A fierce look lay in his eyes – fury raged within.

“We should get it back, then,” Jimmy said. Before he could say anything else, his trusted companion sighed and shook his head.

“Really?” Scott said in disbelief – not at the theft, but the enthusiasm with which Jimmy had decided he was going to deal with this problem – after they discussed what they were doing next. Jimmy turned to Scott.

“They stole the llama!” Jimmy said. “A wedding gift. We can’t let it go unpunished.”

“Yeah, but we don’t know where they are,” Scott reasoned. “What are you gonna do, ride around in circles until you stumble upon a llama?”

Jimmy opened his mouth for a retort but soon closed it again. If you put it that way, Scott was right. Even if they knew who did it, they had no idea where the thief had gone to, or even how far they had already gone.

“Precisely, Scott,” Ren said. “If we go after them, we may not catch up. But we will find out who did it and in due time, we will bring them to justice.”

“You don’t have to go through all that trouble,” Cleo said. “It’s just a llama.”

She was not as emotionally attached to the llama as Bdubs, Ren, and Jimmy were. Besides, there were bigger and more important matters in the world. It wasn’t going to end because she and Bdubs never got to enjoy their wedding gift.

“It’s not about the llama,” Martyn said. “It’s about the principle. This thief came in and stole to humiliate Dogwarts and the Crastle. We need to teach him he should not cross us.”

Well said, Martyn,” Ren said, glancing over to his brother before looking at Bdubs and Cleo again. “Can I offer you something else in the meantime?”

“We’re good, thanks,” Cleo said before Bdubs could eagerly demand another outlandish gift. They did not need more of those and she did not want Ren to run around looking for another wedding gift when his focus could be put to better use elsewhere.

“Then we bid you farewell for now,” Ren said as he respectfully bowed his head for Bdubs and Cleo. At the same time, Martyn grabbed his coat and stood up from his chair. As the brothers prepared to leave, Bdubs stood up and looked at his esteemed guest.

“You’re not staying?”

Ren shook his head. “I’m afraid I cannot stay while that thief roams around.” He extended his hand to Bdubs, who grabbed it. They shook on it – a respectful goodbye. “Thank you for the hospitality. You and Cleo will always be welcome at Dogwarts.”

They said their farewells and soon, the princes of Dogwarts left the Crastle hall along with their entourage. Their departure brought relative silence to the hall. If only for a brief moment, everyone in there thought about the stolen llama, the thief, and Ren’s reaction to this news.

Still, not much later, people started to talk again, about other topics. The mood lightened up. It never did reach the height of happiness and joy as from before Ren left, but it was good enough to forget about this petty problem and enjoy the evening even further.

The sun had already set when many of the guests decided to retreat to their respective guest rooms. The crowds outside were long escorted off of Crastle property – they continued their party outside of the castle walls. The joyful ambient noise from the crowds that had constantly leaked into the hall during the day had faded. It created a quieter, more serene atmosphere where few laughs echoed and some still drank.

Impulse spent his evening talking to his closest friend, Skizz. Even after all these years, despite their different life choices and opinions, they were still the best of friends. Though Skizz wasn’t the only one Impulse talked to during the wedding. He’d spoken with just about everyone and now the festivities came to an end, Skizz found Impulse speaking with a servant.

The young man had served them beef during the main course. He’d almost dropped the plate, but Impulse caught it before it hit the ground. The servant joked about the would-be incident, Impulse laughed, and that’s how the two had started to talk.

This servant was Tango, and both he and Impulse were surprised at each other’s ability to carry and sustain a nice, friendly, respectful conversation. Tango’s intelligence sparked Impulse’s interest; never had a lord paid such attention to Tango in a positive way. Even when Skizz spoke with Jimmy and Scott, he could hear Impulse and Tango chatting about all sorts of topics, some of which Skizz never could talk about for too long – the nature of the three lives, the role of the bed as the anchor, potions and beacons and redstone.

But the evening came to an end, even for a servant man.

“I’ve gotta go now,” Tango told Impulse. “There’s still some work to do.”

“Wait, then,” Impulse said. He reached into the bag at his feet. “Before you go, I’ve got a little something for you. Take this.”

Impulse pulled a small bundle from his bag. He put it on the table, in front of Tango. Hesitantly, the servant took the bundle. It wasn’t on the heavy side, but it wasn’t light either. He opened the bundle and glanced inside. His eyes widened and he was rendered speechless, for a couple of moments, while Impulse smiled.

“That’s a lot of diamonds,” Tango said almost breathlessly. The offer flustered him.

“You need them more than I do,” Impulse said. “I’ll also talk to Cleo. She’s been looking for advisors for the Crastle and I think you’d be a great fit.”

“Thank you so much.” Tango was still flustered – it maybe was too much to receive such gifts at the end of an already wonderful day. “I-I can’t give back—”

“You don’t have to,” Impulse interrupted him. “I don’t need anything in return. You’ll be fine.”

Tango nodded again, muttering another thank you, and hurried away. He clutched the bundle in his hand, jingling as he left the table to continue his work.

Impulse turned to Skizz – he had been watching all of this play out. Impulse had felt his friend’s eyes in his back for a while now. He hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it before he made sure Tango received his gift.

“What?”

So you’re just giving out diamonds now?” Skizz chuckled, in a non-judgmental tone. “I thought you said you were struggling.”

“I’m struggling to find work,” Impulse clarified. “I still have more than enough diamonds. It’ll last me until I find that job. Hopefully.”

Skizz shrugged. “Should’ve become a knight, dude.”

“You know that’s not really my thing,” Impulse responded, shaking his head once. “Besides, he really does need it more than I do. I’m pretty sure his shirt was about to fall apart.”

Impulse didn’t want to be rude about it, and therefore never mentioned it while he spoke to Tango. In hindsight, maybe he should’ve asked what the deal was with that shirt.

“If you say so,” Skizz said. He took a deep breath and took a moment to enjoy his buddy’s company. Yet his gaze was pulled to his other friends, fellow knights Scott and Jimmy. They had already gotten up and were ready to leave the hall, get some rest. That wasn’t a bad idea – maybe Skizz should do the same.

“Well, I’ll be off then,” Skizz said as he stood up. He placed a hand on Impulse’s shoulder. “Take care while I’m gone, buddy.”

Impulse frowned. Had he missed some announcement?

“I’ll still be seeing you tomorrow morning, right?”

“No, we decided to leave as soon as possible,” Skizz told him. “I’ve heard Jimmy suggest getting up before sunrise so we could leave at first light. He’s taking this very seriously.”

“Almost more seriously than you,” Impulse commented. Skizz was a devoted knight, traveling around seeking adventure and helping out those who needed him, even without the sponsorship of a lord. Unlike Jimmy, he never considered getting up before sunrise to make the most of their day. Leaving that early still meant they could encounter zombies and skeletons in forested areas.

“I know, right?” Skizz shook his head as if he almost couldn’t believe it himself.

“Say, where were you going again?” Impulse wondered. “I don’t think you’ve told me yet.”

“That’s because I don’t know,” Skizz said. “We’ll be just about wherever we’re needed. And of course wherever Ren’s sending us, as he’s sponsoring us. I think we’re going to the Forest Kingdom first, and we’ll see from there where we’re going. General questing and stuff. Maybe we’ll even visit Scott’s family there. Maybe we’ll visit yours.”

Impulse nodded. While he was happy Skizz followed his heart, he did not like Skizz going off on his own adventure, far from him. It could be dangerous. He was still on his green life and therefore safer, but it still didn’t sit right with Impulse. At least Scott and Jimmy accompanied him. At least Scott could try to keep Skizz from making rash decisions he might regret later.

“So long as you have fun and don’t die,” Impulse eventually said. “And tell my family hi, if you do pass by.”

“Noted,” Skizz said, the biggest grin plastered on his face. He took one long good look at his friend, knowing the upcoming period would be the longest time they had been apart in all their life. Neither of them dared to admit how hard it could be.

“I’ll see you next time, buddy.”

Impulse responded with an equally fond smile. “See you then.”

Chapter Text

Grian never thought the Sandlands would become his home. He’d been heading towards the Forest Kingdom, for there was too much tragedy and heartbreak in Dogwarts to stay around. Compared to either Dogwarts or the Forest Kingdom, the Sandlands were only dunes and sand, scattered poor villages, a raider outpost, and a castle atop a mountain where the lord of the Sandlands resided, near an oasis. There were few jobs and even fewer job opportunities, its people seemed miserable. In all, Grian never thought to come here out of free will.

Yet he was intrigued by the sights while Scar dragged him across this vast desert, him on a horse, Grian on the llama. The towns may be scattered, but they flourished. The heat was much more bearable under their awnings and deliberately created small pockets of shadows. In the first town, it was market day; traders shouted out their goods and their best prices as they tried to be the loudest on the streets. Villagers came out with emeralds to buy fresh produce, livestock, or materials, while their children played in the shade. From every stall, they were bombarded by the colors, smells, sights. Briefly, Grian forgot they traveled through the desert.

At the corner of the main street stood two guards. They wore similar light-colored clothes as the villagers, but the green accents had been replaced with red. This was an easy identifier for those who hadn’t noticed the iron swords at their hips.

They easily spotted Scar, Grian, and the llama – they were strangers in a strange land. Grian was a little anxious but as they passed, the guards nodded at Scar, and Scar nodded back. Grian’s mouth almost fell open.

“Do you know them?”

“I know a lot of people around here,” Scar said. “They’re very friendly. You’re gonna love this place. It’s a little hot at times, but still very much manageable."

They followed a specific road through the desert, passing multiple smaller villages to escape from the sun, if only for a minute or five. They powered through dunes along a well-traveled road that barely left a mark due to the ever-shifting nature of said desert. In the distance, the mountain grew and grew as they came closer. It was a sole mountain; a large dune had formed around it. From this distance, it seemed the castle was built on a mountain of sand. Grian later learned the sand hid a foundation of rock and stone; a sturdy foundation for a small, tall castle named Sand Mountain.

At the foot of this mountain/dune was a small outpost – a guardhouse next to the main road up the mountain. The guards sat outside, under their awning, playing some card game. One of them noticed the travelers and rose from his seat. Again, Scar needed to only smile and nod. The guards just let them through!

Grian was glad he found Scar – influential enough to have an audience with the Lord of the Sandlands. With every new interaction, Scar became more and more interesting. How far was this going to take them?

The road up the mountain was more defined and all the more spectacular. But the views were the best when they arrived at the top of the mountain.

A small oasis lay on top of the plateau, with a couple of trees providing little shades. Around this oasis was dirt; small fields of herbs and vegetables. Wooden planks surrounding the dirt patches kept the dirt in one place, almost like planters had been dug into the sand to create some greenery on the ground.

But when he looked further than the plateau, the view was even more stunning. He could see far; he spotted some of the villages dotted around small oases or at important intersections; he saw rolling dunes, colored golden in the evening sun, where mobs roamed at night; in the far-off distance, he even thought he saw a patch of green, where the Sandlands ended and Dogwarts began.

Dogwarts… home until recently. Now, just a far destination he needn’t worry about.

“Quite the view, isn’t it?” Scar said, taking him out of his thoughts.

 Grian nodded. “It’s great.”

“Wait ‘till you see it from the highest window of this castle,” Scar commented with the greatest grin. “The view from up there is just amazing.”

They got off the horse and llama and gave them to the stable hands. They addressed Scar with his first name and seemed to be on friendly terms with the young man. Scar winked at Grian before they left the stable area; almost as if he knew that these interactions only made Grian more interested in him as a person. Scar was enjoying that attention, and Grian was willing to provide.

It did not end when they walked into the narrow castle. Every servant they came across knew, or at the very least recognized Scar. They greeted him, with a smile or a simple ‘hi’. While Scar didn’t stop for conversation, he did great them, too, with the most charismatic smile. How did he know all those people? What had he done to come into good graces with the Lord of the Sandlands, to be able to walk into his home presumably unannounced and walk around like he owned the place?

Scar said little; he guided Grian through this maze of a castle, climbing stairs. Grian’s gaze lingered on many wondrous things. The castle was cool inside, a sharp contrast with the heat of the beating sun. Its halls were decorated with paintings from all over the world and beautiful colorful carpets covered the floors. They climbed higher and higher and Grian wondered where that window was from where he could see that great view.

But stairs only go on for so long. It ended in a small hallway, sober compared to the rest of the castle. One potted plant stood at the side, casting a shadow on the ground. A sole lantern provided just enough light to see where you were going, even though there were more torch holders on the walls – unused. It gave an eerie feel to this section of the castle.

Two doors linked to this hallway, on opposite sides. Scar went to the right, halting before the door. He took a breath and knocked thrice on the door before he slowly and carefully pushed it open.

Grian watched with wonder, awe, confusion. He stepped into a world he was unfamiliar with. Every breath could break the fragile atmosphere. Plants of varying sizes and kinds lined up this spacious room, nearly blocking some dimly lit lanterns. Books on the shelves collected dust and the curtains had been pulled close, leaving only a couple of inches for light to come into the room.

Grian turned to Scar. He had a melancholy smile and barely looked at Grian. Scar walked to the bed, that held someone. Grian hadn’t noticed her before; she was quiet, but not asleep. A pillow was propped up behind her so she wasn’t lying completely flat. Even from this distance, he saw her shiver.

He shook his head. What happened to her?

Scar sat on his knees beside her bed and quietly, carefully took her hand, whispering a soft ‘hey’. He stroked her hand with his thumb. She smiled; it was a small smile that hid pain.

“Scar?” Her voice was fragile, hoarse, broken. Somehow hopeful.

“Told you I’d come back,” he said, adding a small chuckle. He glanced at Grian briefly. “This is Grian, my right-hand man.”

Grian waved from where he stood – he intended to keep a respectable distance, not wanting to interrupt their moment with his presence.

“Hello.”

“Hi,” she greeted him. She slowly turned her head to Scar again – agonizingly slow. Every movement hurt; every little thing she did. Even speaking so softly took a lot of effort. Still, she smiled and spoke.

“I didn’t think you’d be back.”

“I always keep my word,” he said. “How are you doing?”

“It’s getting worse.”

Grian’s heart broke for the young lady. She seemed nice, but pain weighed on her. Such a pain that it made her bedridden. She may never be able to go outside again. And the light… she wanted to have some light in her room, but she may be sensitive to that light.

This was no life. Locked away, stuck in bed. He couldn’t even tell what life she was on from his position and he didn’t want to ask. He couldn’t bear to ask. How much longer was she going to endure her pain? And the question was pushed to the front of his mind again.

“What happened?” He looked at her. “C-Can I ask that?”

The lady nodded once at Scar – permission to tell the story if she couldn’t. she turned her head, to look at him, and Grian almost told her to let her head rest. But he said nothing.

“The bed broke,” she said.

Grian frowned. The bed broke?

“There was a stupid accident,” Scar said. “Earlier that morning – it was an old bed, it broke. It wasn’t a big deal, they’d fix it later. Then that stupid accident happened and it… it killed her.” He paused. “As happens with everyone when they die, she woke up in her bed. Her broken bed. The results are horrible.”

Grian looked from Scar to the lady in the bed.

“Wait, so the bed…”

“When the breaks and someone dies… there’s nowhere safe to end back up in,” Scar said. “She unfortunately had to learn the hard way. Since then…”

Since then she’s been suffering from the inside. She shivered, sweated, felt indescribable pain, sensitive to light. If there was anything that alleviated the pain, it hadn’t helped. There was no escape – just a downward spiral she could never escape from.

“I’m so sorry,” Grian said solemnly. She shot him a compassionate smile. He never realized how dangerous a broken bed was. It was your safe space and he could not imagine ending up in a destroyed, broken, damaged bed, or how grave the consequences were.

“Have you thought about my proposal?” Scar asked her; it took her a while to turn her head again. Scar waited patiently.

“You’re sweet, but I don’t want to hold you down…”

“You won’t. in fact, you’ll only lift me up.” He held her hand now with both his hands. If possible, he scooted a little closer to the bedframe, his gaze firmly on her. “I’ll be there. No matter how much time passes, I’ll be there. I even got you a llama.”

She laughed. It was brief but beautiful.

“A llama?”

Scar nodded enthusiastically. “You said you wanted a llama, right?”

“When I was five,” she responded. Scar shrugged.

“Better late than never.”

So the llama was a gift. Grian had wondered why Scar brought a llama into the heart of the desert if he wasn’t going to use it to carry at least a little of the load he carried with him.

“You’ve been good to me,” she said. “But I don’t think father would approve.”

The Lord of the Sandlands only had his daughter; a daughter he wished every happiness, but whom he could not find a perfect suitor for. Who wanted to marry a suffering lady, who was dying each day? Even then, what suitor was perfect for his girl?

“Then we do it now,” Scar suggested. This surprised Grian and the lady.

“Now?” she wondered. Scar nodded.

“Yeah, now. Without his approval, but at least we’ll happy. He can’t deny you any happiness. If anything, he might be glad it was me.”

The lady beamed – through the pain, her joy was a beacon in the dark.

“Let’s do it!”

Scar abruptly turned his head to Grian. “Grian, find a pastor.”

His tone was strangely casual yet enthusiastic. He was taken aback by the change but didn’t question it. The lady was going to be happy, so he hurried out of the room to find the pastor. Only after he started running down the stairs did he realize he was going to get lost trying to find this man, whom he didn’t even know how to find.

He was lucky – he came upon a cleric who was more than happy to give the lady her happy marriage. The man led him back to the room, where Scar and the lady were happily chatting away. Up high in that room, with Grian as their witness, Scar was married into the Sand family and formally became the next in line for the title of Lord of the Sandlands. A proud grin was permanently plastered on his face.

Grian watched it happen with a satisfied smile. He was glad he bumped into this great man.

Chapter Text

One of the many villages of the Riverlands was aptly named Riverbed, as it was located next to a river. It consisted of a handful of houses, a cartographer, a couple of farmers, a fletcher, a lone church in need of repair, and of course the Jumping Cod, the local bar. Villagers frequented this bar when they weren’t at work, as it was the perfect place to unwind after a long day of work.

Which is why Impulse was there, too.

Only four years ago, Impulse announced to his family he wanted to make his own fortune. His family – noblemen through and through – didn’t understand why he wanted to work. Three years ago, Impulse finally moved out of their castle in the Forest Kingdom to move to the Riverlands. He settled near Riverbed, a little away from the village. He wanted some privacy and didn’t want to attract thieves and scoundrels to Riverbed with the business he had in mind.

Being a weapons dealer/blacksmith attracted unwanted attention, because of the fine weaponry and best gear. Still, only three incidents had occurred in as many years, so Impulse felt quite safe. And business was booming. He employed about fifteen Riverbed villagers, all of whom worked from his workshop in the woods, including storage space. The second floor of the workshop was where Impulse had made his home, ready to jump into work whenever he was needed.

At the end of the workday, he and his employees returned to Riverbed and they drank something in the Jumping Cod. Sometimes, it still felt weird to be surrounded by villagers – sometimes, a voice in his head resembling his father’s scolded him for having a drink with these ‘filthy people’. He shook it off. It’s been three years, and Impulse was glad to be surrounded by these people.

The villagers did not seem to mind his presence. As far as they were concerned, Impulse was a good man who paid more than fair wages. They drank with him as if he were one of their own. Their friendliness countered any discomfort that arose from that nagging voice in his mind. he raised his glass with them and drank.

Impulse barely noticed a newcomer coming upon him.

“What’s up, buddy?”

Impulse nearly jumped from his chair. He turned his head and looked at a familiar, bearded face with a huge grin.

“Skizz!” Impulse exclaimed. He stood up and pulled his best friend in an embrace. “It’s so good to see you again!”

“It’s good to see you, too,” Skizz said. The friends pulled away from each other, both unable to stop grinning. Their days had just become ten times better. Impulse turned to the bartender, Bob, who already had the drink ready. He winked at Impulse, pushing the glass towards him. On the house, for his good friend.

“Here you go,” Impulse said, handing the glass to Skizz, who stared at it in disbelief.

“That was quick,” Skizz remarked. He took the glass in his hand and raised it. “To being back.”

“To being back,” Impulse repeated and they simultaneously drank.

Impulse looked at his best friend. It’s been three long years since they had last seen each other in person. Somehow he hadn’t changed a bit, while everything else had. The beard already signified that change had come. But there was something about Skizz – something that had remained the same despite years of dangers.

“Still green, I see,” Impulse commented. Skizz nodded proudly, sitting down with Impulse at the table.

“I know,” he said incredulously. “To be fair, I was close to becoming yellow a couple of times.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“I can’t count the times I almost died on both my hands. I’d need more hands.”

Impulse nodded. Skizz had always been the one to jump headfirst into danger, without thinking things through. His impulsivity could have been the death of him many, many times. It might not have helped that Jimmy would probably follow him into rash decisions, leaving Scott to run after them to try and keep them somewhat safe on their way to the next adventure.

“Say, where are Scott and Jimmy?” Impulse asked as he glanced at the door. He hadn’t seen Skizz’s two companions enter yet.

“Oh, I traveled this last part alone,” Skizz clarified. “They’re lovely guys, but we’re going to different places. I’m just going straight home. I can’t wait to be home.” He took a satisfied breath. “They’re both yellow, by the way. I think they’re gonna retire soon.”

Impulse raised an eyebrow. “On yellow?”

If that was true, he just lost a bet with Tango. Impulse had thought that if any of the three knights would lose their green life first, it would be Skizz. Tango disagreed – he believed it might be Jimmy. Since Skizz was still green, Impulse lost the bet. Unless Scott was the first to lose his green life, anyway.

“Better yellow than red,” Skizz said, nodding once. “It scared them both times. They just wanna settle down somewhere, you know. Someplace calm, like Dogwarts’ flower valley. So, yeah, if that’s their plan, they’re gonna quit being knights.”

Impulse nodded – the prospect of death had stopped many would-be adventurers, knights, and the like, who saw the fragility of life only after they went yellow, or even red. These are the kinds of adventurers and knights who are little more than a footnote in history, because they lived and settled down somewhere. Those who don’t stop, are those who are remembered as legends, sometimes because of how they died.

“What about you, then?” Impulse wondered.

“I’m not quitting. Not while there’s so much to do,” Skizz responded, taking another sip from his drink. He leaned closer to his best friend with mischievous eyes. “But enough about me. What have you been up to?”

Impulse took a deep breath. Somehow, it was still hard to talk about himself, especially when he wanted to hear more from Skizz.

“Well I’ve been working,” he said. “Did you come from Gruth? If so, you must have seen my workshop on your way here.”

“Oh, is that yours?” Skizz asked. Impulse nodded.

“Yeah, that’s mine. Business is going great. Take a look at this.”

Impulse had forgotten to leave it at home, in his vault – but now, it was an easy way of showing Skizz his valuables. He passed his bundle to his best friend. Skizz opened it and looked inside. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped to the floor.

“Dude!” he exclaimed. “That’s a lot of diamonds, you’re rich!”

Impulse nodded proudly as Skizz handed the bundle with diamonds and emeralds back to its owner.

“Yeah, turns out a lot of people want to protect themselves. And for the best and finest weapons for the best prices, enchanted or not, they come to me.”

“So you did become a weapon’s dealer,” Skizz said.

If that was true, Skizz just won a bet with Jimmy, who was convinced Impulse was going to be a miner or something. That was three more diamonds for Skizz the next time they met.

Impulse nodded, taking a sip from his drink.

“It’s better than being a miner,” he said and sighed. “I guess I have Scar to thank for the customers.”

Skizz frowned. He remembered the name – Ren’s annoying half-brother, now somehow Lord of the Sandlands. He could not have gotten that land legitimately. It worried Skizz that Scar might be a customer of Impulse’s.

“Has he been stocking up on weapons?” Skizz wondered.

“No,” Impulse said. “No, Scar isn’t buying anything from me. But his raiders are enough to worry people and they all want something to defend themselves with.” Which resulted in a surge in sales and the relative wealth that Impulse had accumulated. “Have you been keeping in touch with the news?”

A serious glare came on Skizz’s face. It was hard to avoid the topic when Scar meddled with everyone’s businesses.

“Yeah, Scar’s growing in power,” he said and he shook his head. “Who could have imagined the boy who died to a Creeper was going to be a lord equally in size as Bdubs?”

Skizz was convinced Scar had cheated someone else out of being Lord of the Sandlands; they say that he married the daughter of the previous lord, but Skizz could not believe this. Scar had built a bad reputation and could never have had such free access to the mountain castle. Never!

“Not me,” Impulse said. “It doesn’t seem to have changed his bandit ways, with all the raiders that have been popping up all over Dogwarts and recently the Riverlands.”

Raiders never came to these parts. They stayed in the Sandlands to wreak havoc, sometimes crossing borders to Dogwarts. That they have been spotted more and more in the Riverlands worried Impulse and everyone else in the bar. Nobody can definitely say these raiders were sent by Scar, but all evidence pointed towards him.

Skizz slammed a fist on the table.

“Someone needs to put a stop to this,” he said, frustrated with the lack of safety. Bdubs was doing his best to keep his lands safe, but with more and more raiders terrorizing the place, he should send more men. And if he couldn’t, it was time someone else took matters into their own hands.

“You’re free to try,” Impulse commented. “But you’re not gonna be able to do it on your own.”

“I can try, indeed,” Skizz commented. Plans were already brewing in his mind, behind his dissatisfied brow. It was already too late to try and change his mind, so Impulse could only hope his plans would at least involve the help of someone else – someone who could hold him back when necessary, or unleash him at the right times.

“Hi, Impulse!”

Another familiar person had walked into the Jumping Cod. Mr. Tango Tek, Tango for the friends, had arrived. Tango looked at Skizz and Impulse with a modest grin, and Skizz looked at Tango with a curious frown, now that he’s been taken out of his thoughts.

“Oh, hi!” Impulse said. He put his hand on the empty seat next to him. “Take a seat.”

Tango politely shook his head. “Nah, I’m here on official business.” Even if you weren’t looking, you could hear the smile in his voice. “Maybe next time.”

Tango went directly to bartender Bob, to discuss something.

Impulse turned to Skizz again, who still had his eyes on Tango.

“Who is that guy?” he wondered out loud, now with an almost frustrated frown.

“That’s Tango,” Impulse clarified, “from the Crastle.”

Skizz’s eyes widened in realization. “Oh, that servant guy!” Now he remembered – Tango and Impulse had been talking at the wedding. Was that already three years ago.

“Yeah, though not a servant guy anymore,” Impulse said, a proud grin on his face. “He’s now an advisor to Bdubs and Cleo.”

“No way,” Skizz said. “Good for him.”

Impulse hoped that Skizz would like Tango. He’d been feeling lonely, and Tango was a good guy and an even better friend. It would be dreadful if Skizz and Tango couldn’t get along – he didn’t want to have to choose, because he knew who he would pick.

“Yeah,” Impulse nodded. “He’s a good guy.”

After the wedding at the Crastle, Impulse put in a good word for Tango with Bdubs and Cleo. They had called Tango into the room and implored him to speak as freely with them as he had with Impulse. During this conversation, Tango convinced them of his intelligence and diplomatic insights, and he left that room as an advisor to the Crastle with the recognition he deserved.

Skizz nodded. “Nice.”

He quickly drank whatever was left in his glass and put it on the table. Then he stood up and looked at his friend. “Well, it’s been fun, but I gotta go now.”

Impulse frowned. “Already?”

“Yeah!” Skizz said. “I mean, you know where I live, we can catch up at Skizzle Point at any time, so you can listen to my heroic deeds. For now… I just want to sleep in my own bed, man.”

It has been three years since Skizz had been home. After a while, you start to miss all the little things, including your own bed. No doubt there were plenty of beds to sleep in so he would not end up back home in case of death, but there was no bed like your own.

“Understandable,” Impulse said, a little disappointed he couldn’t stay a little longer. “See you next time.”

“See ya, buddy!” Skizz said. He paid the bartender for the drink and then disappeared from the bar.

Impulse smiled to himself. Skizz was back in town. Finally back. It was good to see his face, hear his voice again. The letters they exchanged had been enough to keep in touch, but it wasn’t enough. More than once, Impulse had wanted to buy a horse and go after him, just to see him again. He’d missed his best friend more than he thought he would.

But he’s back. Skizz was back. Possibly at the best time to be back, with all the turmoil and Scar stirring a pot he shouldn’t be stirring in.

Then it hit him.

Like a wave, it gradually washed over him. Such dread that made your stomach drop; that demanded your full attention. It rendered you breathless for just a moment, dragged down the mood to its lowest point. Even the most joyful person might shed a tear. That near-existential dread was always paired with a deep sense of grief you can’t ignore; a deep sense of loss, even if you may not know why. This lasted only a few seconds, but the aftershocks made this phenomenon so hard to deal with. Mere seconds can become misery for hours, at worst.

Someone had died.

Impulse put down the glass and locked eyes with Tango. Did he feel it, too? Maybe not. To feel someone die like this, to feel the death wave, you need a meaningful connection first. Whether that be an amicable handshake or a recent enough fight, you’ll never feel a stranger die. But when you have strong feelings towards someone, be they negative or positive, you will feel it.

Tango’s smile faded – he may not feel it, but Impulse’s pale face said it all.

Impulse stood up and walked out of the bar. He had a bad feeling about this and had to see it for himself.

There. On the ground. Impulse barely caught the last of Skizz fade away as he was transported back to the last bed he’d slept in. All his belongings had fallen on the ground, spread across the area. A little further away, an Enderman teleported away from the location, carrying a heap of dirt in its hands.

Impulse sighed, staring at the empty spot on the ground. He could almost hear Skizz say it. Stupid Enderman.

He grabbed Skizz’s stuff and returned to the Jumping Cod. He asked Bob if he could keep Skizz’s stuff safe in a chest until he came to retrieve it. Bob trusted Impulse and agreed to it. Impulse handed over Skizz’s stuff, paid for his drink – adding a little more for holding on to Skizz’s stuff – and then left.

Impulse went straight to bed. He was going to feel miserable for the rest of the day, for Skizz was now on his yellow life.

Chapter Text

The raiders had not escaped the notice of the Lord and Lady of the Crastle. They terrorized the peaceful small village of Gruth, near the Riverlands-Dogwarts border. The reports coming from the area were depressing at best.

Cleo wanted to see it for herself, and Bdubs accompanied her. She had to see the chaos the raiders had left behind. It was a while away from the Crastle, and they only brought the necessary guards to protect them. soon, they arrived at the village.

Gruth’s only survivor was a battered iron golem. One more hit, one more touch, and it could fall apart. It wandered aimlessly, looking for the villagers he was supposed to protect. He wasn’t going to find any in this destroyed village.

Cleo got off her horse and walked through the village. Half of the homes were burned down – some still smoked. Other homes were nothing more than highly unstable roofs held up by semi-destroyed walls. Only the stone church had survived, but its walls were cracked. A big circle of impact signified where the ravager had bumped into it.

It was quiet – too quiet for a town this size. No laughter or grunting, nobody shuffling around. Only the ruins showed that people used to live here.

Ren’s men had arrived faster than Bdubs’. They stopped the raid, killed the ravager, and took some of the raiders captive. Once they were secured, these fine soldiers moved the corpses to the nearby birch forest, ready for burial. Once a happy place where children used to play – now a mass gravesite.

Cleo had to take several deep breaths to calm down. This village was peaceful; few red lives, mostly yellow and green. Little crime, not much going on. most of them must’ve died again and again and again. Their beds stood in their burning homes, with no escape from the flames. If they did find a way out, the raiders immediately spotted them and loaded their crossbows.

The village was wiped off the map in just one afternoon.

Fury rose within Cleo. While these events saddened her, the anger was more prominent. She was infuriated, and when she looked at Bdubs, she knew he was feeling the same.

They thanked the captain of Ren’s patrols that stepped in and the couple returned home, their prisoner trailing behind them, under the watchful eye of the guards. On their way, Cleo caught some glimpses of Bdubs. Sweet Bdubs, fierce Bdubs, her very best friend in the whole world. Even if he never had been her first, second, third, or hundredth choice as a husband, they made it work perfectly. It was just weird being married to your best friend when you had no romantic feelings towards them. Now, three years later, nobody else could have been a more perfect match than Bdubs, ever the optimist.

Today was no such day. He fumed, was angrier than Cleo had thought possible with him. He barely spoke a word on the way back, a storm permanently behind his eyes; even during the meal, he stabbed the meat harder than usual, as if to take out his anger on the piece of meat he was going to consume.

They made it to his office. It was a small room in the northern tower, on the third floor. It held a desk, a couple of bookcases with different kinds of books. A rug covered almost the entire wooden floor and a window looked out over the calm courtyard. Not even a serene environment like the office calmed Bdubs down.

She figured he believed it was his fault. Gruth was wiped off the map by a raid party, in an area of the country with an extensive border to Dogwarts – a very unexpected place to find a raid. Not many soldiers were stationed here, leaving the area vulnerable to these raiders.

Cleo sat in one of the chairs, her eye on the nearest bookcase, while Bdubs paced up and down the room, unable to sit or even stand still.

“These raids…” he said as he shook his head. “Can’t he just stop it? can’t he just leave them in Dogwarts?”

“I don’t think Scar’s going to stop,” Cleo said. If these raiders made it this deep into Dogwarts and Riverlands territory, more raids might come in the future. They’d grow bolder and apply more and more pressure, and Cleo wasn’t sure how long they could hold on before they could no longer stop the raids.

Bdubs took a deep breath. “The pure audacity, calling himself a lord! He’s nothing but a bully and a warmonger at this point. There isn’t even that much for him to be a lord of.”

“He is officially the Lord of the Sandlands.” A vast desert with scattered villagers, a weak economy and the home of crime – but still a legitimate county with a lord living in a castle.

“Not through legitimate means,” Bdubs said.

They say Scar married the daughter of the previous lord. Soon after, his father-in-law died under mysterious circumstances. It was his last death, and Scar inherited the title through his wife. She, too, passed away – her death had been expected, though not any less saddening. When only Scar was left in the castle, the raids started. These raiders did not cross the borders to Dogwarts or the Riverlands, but they did tempt the patrols. They were once considered coincidences, but when they followed each other too quickly they lost that status.

Cleo sighed. “Whatever title he holds, whatever land he owns, calling him names isn’t going to fix our raid problem.” She turned her head to him. “Have you written to Ren yet?”

“I have,” Bdubs said. After seeing the carnage, it was one of the first things he did. “His response was short. He’s also having to deal with these raids – they still focus on Dogwarts most. He can only spare a few men, which should be on their way now and should join our forces shortly. They’re staying here until the raids are a problem of the past.”

Cleo nodded once. It seemed reasonable; Ren had been dealing with these raids for over two years, while they’ve only been a problem in the Riverlands for the past months, with incidents that were few and far between. Cleo was inclined to believe Ren’s word.

“Thank him.”

“Already did.”

He locked eyes with her. His trademark smile had disappeared, as he took the Gruth tragedy seriously. He wasn’t going to listen, no matter how much she told him it wasn’t his fault. They never could have predicted raiders were willing to venture this deep into enemy territory, and the few men they could have spared to guard the area would not have stood a chance against the larger raid parties.”

Bdubs shook his head again and his nostrils flared. “I wish I could just…”

He slid his thumb across his throat with the greatest frustration. He couldn’t even articulate with words what he wanted to say.

“Me too,” Cleo said. “It’s no good to march over there and get ourselves in trouble. We need to stay here. Stay out of it. Wait it out.”

“Wait it out?” he raised his voice. “He’s not going to stop it. He’s just going to ramp it up when he realizes we’re not doing anything.”

The door slowly swung open, drawing the attention of the lord and lady of the Crastle. Tango walked in – he was one of the few people who was allowed to enter the room without knocking. Though he did seem to regret it after seeing that near-murderous expression on Bdubs’ face.

“Hey Tango,” he said. “Please tell Cleo we can’t just wait it out.”

Cleo turned her head to Tango. He froze – he had not expected to be put on the spot as soon as he had entered.

“Waiting is a decision that indeed should not be taken lightly,” Tango said, still trying to recover from being put on the spot. “But as always, context matters. You’re still green and while Cleo is yellow, she’s still dangerous as well. Scar has nothing but his yellow life and his intimidation tactics. Eventually, he will realize these raids might risk him his position and possibly, his yellow life. He’ll back off.”

“I like how you think some people are smarter than they actually are,” Bdubs said with a sarcastic tone and matching fake smile. He dropped the act. “This man loves attention. He’s forcing us to deal with the raids and he’s loving it. This is nothing short of a provocation. I can’t stand for that. I won’t stand for it! I swear, if his raiders kill one more person on my lands, I’m going to meet with Ren and we are going to work together to snuff those last two lives out of him.”

Cleo and Tango exchanged glances. Bdubs was a little emotional and it clouded his judgment. A good decision had never been made when someone was in such an emotional state.

“We can even use that raider to prove it’s him,” Bdubs continued. “He can’t deny that.”

It must be news to Tango that they had captured a raider.

“He could deny it,” Tango said. “Ren’s had the same problem. The raiders travel bannerless and are compensated well enough not to speak. Yes, their outpost lies in the desert, but Scar still has plausible deniability so long as they don’t speak. If you want to extract a confession, we’ll need extensive interrogation strategies.”

Bdubs sighed heavily. He hated that Tango had a point.

“Fine! I’ll give you whatever you need to make them talk.”

That took Tango off guard. He was the man that made plans, not usually the one that executed them. The confused look on Tango’s face almost made Cleo crack a smile.

“M-me?” he said, pointing at himself.

“It’s your idea,” Bdubs told him. “You can help our engineers. Implement those extensive interrogation tactics. One of ‘em is going to talk, I bet.”

“Of course,” Tango said – he did not want to argue with Bdubs, though he didn’t seem too happy. “Yeah, sure. I’ll do it.”

“Great,” Bdubs said, and he let out a breath. He paced to the door. “I need some fresh air.”

Cleo and Tango watched Bdubs open the door and closing it behind him. Murder was on his mind – if he ran into Scar, Bdubs would gladly take his yellow life. Cleo would do the same, but at least she’d wait for a little while and gauge the situation instead of charging mindlessly at him, as she imagined he’d do. This little war was going to be the death of him.

Tango turned to Cleo as soon as the door fell into the lock.

“I don’t want to torture people,” Tango said in a hushed voice, so Bdubs didn’t hear him on the other side of the door. “Yeah, I can help engineers create torture devices, but I don’t think I’ll be able to push the button.”

Cleo nodded once. “Point me to the button when it’s done. I’ll press it.”

Tango smiled briefly in relief. “Thank you.”

Cleo politely smiled back at him. When he was finished, she’d be there in the dungeon with Tango by her side. She’d take matters into her own hands and pull that confession from the raiders, who would hopefully be terrified for their lives. If not of the torture devices, then at least terrified of her.

They won’t know what hit them.

Chapter Text

The raids didn’t end. In fact, they had only gotten worse. Everyone wondered where these raiders came from, how so many attacked at once, even after measures taken by the Crastle and Dogwarts.

Enough was enough. This was starting to get ridiculous – Scar obviously sent them over to wreak havoc, and Ren has had enough of it. He rode to Bdubs and together, they composed a strongly-worded letter that still sounded semi-polite. They demanded to meet him at the horribly named Meeting Point (Ren should see to officially changing the name soon), on neutral ground, to discuss the recent events and to hopefully come to a truce.

Scar agreed to the terms.

Three weeks later, the representatives of Dogwarts and the Crastle arrived at the neutral grounds. As the conversation could last anywhere from seconds (in the worst case) to hours (in the best case), they opted to stay on their horses, outside, in the early summer sun. Everyone hoped for a positive conversation.

Ren hoped Scar could remain civil.

Ren glanced to his brother next to him – Martyn held a tight grip on the reins and his focus was on the tree line from where Scar was expected to appear. He had been helping out patrols, on the front line against the raiders for months. He was out for blood, ready to fight the man who sent the raids if he so much as looked at him the wrong way.

Hopefully, they could work something out. Their ill father could not take much more stress, and if they resolved the problem, it would be one thing less for him to worry about.

The Crastle was represented by the lord and lady themselves, Bdubs and Cleo. She sat relaxed on her horse, while Bdubs seemed to be even tenser than Martyn, his gaze darting over the tree line. Behind them stood a dapper young man named Tango, their most trusted advisor. He wasn’t expected to take the lead and say too much, but he did come along to offer his advice – a second or third opinion, should Bdubs or Ren need it.

“Where is he?” Martyn asked, shifting in his seat again.

“He’s late,” Ren said, venom in his voice, “as always.”

“The coward can’t even show his face,” Bdubs grumbled under his breath, grabbing the reins a little tighter.

“What did we talk about?” Cleo said, shooting a glance at her husband. “Calm down, Bdubs.”

He shook his head, continued to grumble. He shared his annoyance for Scar with the others – for the man who made their lives unnecessarily more stressful.

Next to him, Ren rolled his eyes. Scar was intentionally late, to draw the attention towards himself. He’d take every opportunity to get some attention, and today was no different.

“There!” Martyn said, his eyes on the trees. “He’s there.”

All eyes turned to the tree line. Scar rode between the trees on his brown steed, a young man by his side – almost a kid. They were alone; no guards, escorts, advisors; just him and the young man in his red shirt.

Scar came to a halt at a respectable distance – close enough they were able to talk, but far enough they weren’t able to strike him with a sword. Scar and his lackey did not dismount their horses, either, following the Crastle and Dogwarts’ example.

This distance was small enough to see that sickening arrogant grin on his face.

“Hi, guys!” Scar greeted them in an eerily joyous tone. “It’s a pleasure to formally meet you all, now we’re finally on equal footing. It’s so good to see my fellow lords.”  He bowed his head at Cleo. “And milady, of course.”

Martyn’s hand moved to the hilt of his sword. Ren shook his head once, putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder. He tried not to look away from Scar and what had to be his second in command.

“Don’t.”

Martyn relaxed his shoulders, but he was still a little tense. He glared at Scar, who seemed to be impressed.

“Quick to draw your sword, I see,” Scar said. He turned his gaze to Ren. “You might want to keep him in check, Ren. We wouldn’t want him to start something he won’t be able to finish.”

“Let’s get to business,” Bdubs quickly said. He’d balled his fist and tried to hide how much he trembled. He did not need to hear these taunts come from his disgusting mouth.

Scar nodded. “Of course. Honestly, I was surprised when the letter arrived on my desk, considering everything that has been going on.”

“With your people terrorizing our lands?” Cleo suggested.

“No, not at all! I’m talking about your bannermen –” Scar glanced directly at Ren, “– traversing the Sandlands with their weapons drawn. They scare the townsfolk. If I didn’t know any better, I might think you’re trying to intimidate me.”

Ren was shocked. What a way to spin the narrative. Scar’s raiders crossed the border, and Ren’s soldiers only chased them away, back into the desert. His men would never terrorize the poor people of the Sandlands, who already did not have much going for them.

“I will not be intimidated,” Scar continued, the grin on his face ever fading away. “But I am feeling generous today. I propose a deal. Your men retreat from the Sandlands, and we will not retaliate.”

“The men you’re talking about patrol my borders,” Ren said as calmly as he could. “Their only crime is protecting their country from your raiders.”

“Those fine men have come into my lands and have wreaked havoc before,” Scar said, barely shaking his head. “And however much you’d want it to be true, I do not have any control over the raiders. You do not see how many terrorize my villages, how many I stop from traversing the desert and getting to your borders. You don’t even get half of what we have to endure and still they find more recruits. I don’t know where they keep coming from, but they’re hard to get rid of, let alone control.”

Did Scar believe what he was saying? Did his young companion?

“Now you’re just lying through your teeth,” Bdubs said. A raid captain was in his dungeon, Ren had learned, but they hadn’t confessed yet. Still, they could accurately assume Scar made a deal with the raiders – you wouldn’t believe that story – if he didn’t just directly pay them to cross the border.

Scar’s mouth widened and he gasped in feigned shock.

“Excuse me, Bdubs, but I am an honest man,” he said casually. “Why would I lie about something that drains my forces of all their energy? My people’s lives are at stake, day after day. I will not watch them be killed by illagers.”

“Says the guy who was blown up by a Creeper,” Tango said. When Ren and everyone else looked at Tango, he put his hand before his mouth and was a little distraught. He hadn’t thought anyone could have heard him. The smile vanished from Scar’s face, leaving only a straight, thin line and a harsh gaze.

“I didn’t come here to argue with you,” Scar said, his voice oozing annoyance. “I came here to come up with a solution for all our problems. But now, you’ve hurt my feelings. I don’t feel so generous anymore. But—” he raised one finger in the air, “but you might still fix some of the broken pieces. If you apologize to me.”

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Tango said, bowing his head slightly. “I shouldn’t have mentioned your first death.”

“No,” Ren then said. This wasn’t right. It would only give Scar what he wanted most – attention. “Tango should not be made to apologize for bringing up an event from your childhood. It is not his fault that you haven’t moved on yet.”

Scar’s shoulders tensed up as he straightened his back; his lips, still a thin line, were accompanied by a frown. They hid a mind that raced, tried to find a witty comeback. Then again, Ren didn’t think Scar was in a witty mood right now.”

Ren glanced at the young man with the red shirt. He seemed uncertain, often glancing over at Scar as he spoke, barely speaking. He just witnessed the events in awe and a little frightened. Yet, he had built up the courage to say something – he spoke so softly, Ren and the others were barely able to hear him, unlike Tango’s attempt to say something under his breath.

“I don’t think we’re getting anywhere,” he said. Even his voice sounded young. How old could he be?

“Who’s the boy?” Ren asked.

“This is my right-hand man, Grian,” Scar said. He didn’t look at Grian, who wanted to vanish into the background. “And he’s so much better than Martyn ever will be. In fact, he’s a better man than any of you will ever be.”

Nobody responded. Ren looked at Scar – you could not reason with this man. Bdubs also had enough of the conversation. He could only guess Martyn, Cleo, and Tango felt the same way.

“So be it, then,” Scar said. “We will part ways without having resolved anything. I commend your ability to tolerate me for even five minutes. In the future, you’ll wish you were able to tolerate me for longer.”

The Lord of the Sandlands turned his horse around and rode away, Grian in tow, and a sense of tranquility returned to the Meeting Point.

How did this conversation go south so quickly?

What was going to happen next?

Ren and Martyn decided to go home immediately – to inform their father their plans had worked. Regardless of the outcome, the king was going to hear the issue had been resolved and he’d have one less thing to worry about. None of the guards were to speak about the raids in his presence. He might still have some peace.

The princes of Dogwarts bid farewell to Bdubs, Cleo, and Tango with the promise to meet soon, and rode away with their guards. They spent the first half of their journey in silence, but Martyn could not remain silent.

“What a scoundrel,” Martyn said. “Trying to tell us what to do while he instigates. If he didn’t have that fancy title, I would’ve gone for him.”

Ren didn’t doubt that. Fortunately for Scar, his title protected him from outright attacks. Just one touch in bad faith was enough to declare war. Though the Sandlands didn’t have the greatest military, Scar could always call upon the raiders to reinforce him. He could already have been training new soldiers for three years.

“We do need to be careful, brother,” Ren said. “I want to punch him in the face just as much as you do, but we cannot afford to do something like that up front.”

Martyn frowned, a curious and mischievous glint in his eyes. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t like the way he looked at us today.” Since they first met, Ren had only gotten bad vibes from Scar. As if he had a secret hidden up his sleeve; as if he held something back. “He is preparing something. He didn’t just come out here to taunt us if he didn’t know he could soon have something that we don’t. Whatever it is, it’s putting us in a precarious situation where we can’t retaliate for the raids without provoking something bigger.” Ren paused. “Someone should teach that man a lesson.”

“I wholeheartedly agree,” Martyn said, his gaze firmly on Ren.

Ren looked over at his little brother. Always right by his side, where he’s supposed to be. Always affirming his ideas when they’re right, but justly criticizing them when they are wrong. Ren smiled fondly.

“Thank you, Martyn,” he said. “I can always count on you.”

The princes returned home, at the castle. Martyn excused himself, allowing Ren to go to their father and tell them what he needed to hear. After the explanation, the king replied with a satisfied smile and he played a round of chess with his oldest son. Today was a good day.

By the time the night fell, Ren learned that Martyn had left the castle while Ren talked to the king.

He was worried. He trusted Martyn. While he didn’t need to know where Martyn was all the time, it was odd that Martyn hadn’t said anything. Ren hoped to see his brother in the morning, but when he got up and walked to the bedroom next to his, Martyn’s bed was unslept in. His gear was gone and his horse still missing from the stable.

It was the silence that bothered Ren most. There wasn’t even a note – nothing that pointed to Martyn’s plans. He usually shared his plans with Ren. Even worries about Scar took a backseat while Ren’s mind was occupied with the possible whereabouts of his younger brother.

A day after Martyn had left, long after the sun had set, an uneasy feeling washed over him. The death wave always came unexpected, at the worst times. Someone had died.

Martyn had died.

Who else could it have been? Everyone in the castle was alright. Then again, none of the people he talked to reported being affected by this particular death wave. Ren supposed he felt strongly enough about Scar to feel his demise, but his mind was emotionally locked on the person he cared most about in this world.

If he had died, Martyn would’ve ended up in his bed at home. He should have been home.

Unless he’d slept in another bed.

Martyn, where are you?

The next day, Ren was too distracted to rule the nation. He left the work to his advisors, wandered around, trying to get rid of that itch in his heart. Not knowing was a living hell; he’d rather have the corpse at his feet than whatever this feeling was. It didn’t help that time ticked by ever so slowly as he waited for a sign of life.

Phantoms came in the night; they sensed the sleeplessness of the acting lord of Dogwarts. They circled the castle like vultures, waited for their victim to exit the safety of the castle. The guards took care of the threat. Frustrated, Ren got up from his bed and sat down on Martyn’s.

Torches lit up the room that hadn’t been lived in for four nights; the windows looked out over the steep rocky terrain the castle had been built on. Ren tried not to think of anything. This couldn’t continue – he needed to sleep. He needed Martyn by his side, alive and well.

The door swung open. Ren looked up.

Martyn, with green eyes, watched him. He hadn’t died.

Ren relaxed for the first time in three days. He jumped up and approached his brother, but stopped before he could pull him into his arms. Martyn held the diamond sword loosely in his hand – it normally wouldn’t stop Ren from embracing his brother, but the stained blood on the blue blade was new.

Ren looked at the sword; it had been clean when they left the Meeting Point. His mind raced; brought him back to the conversation they had after leaving the neutral grounds. In his sleep-deprived state, Ren came to a terrifying yet plausible conclusion.

“Martyn, what have you done?”

Martyn glanced from the sword to his brother.

“Nothing.”

Chapter Text

Grian awoke with a jolt. He could no longer sleep – he knew a death wave when it hit him. Someone close to him had died. He didn’t really have anyone he hated or liked – except for one person.

He jumped out of bed and raced up the stairs. It was a long climb from the ground floor to the very top of the castle, but Grian didn’t care. He needed to go up there. He had to see it with his own eyes.

Hopefully, Grian just woke up Scar.

“Scar!” He threw the door open. “Scar!”

The Lord of the Sandlands put on some spare clothes, his back to Grian. A couple of torches on the wall illuminated his side, casting a shadow on the other side.

“I’m here,” Scar said in a lower voice than usual. The air in the room was tense; he hadn’t just gotten up.

“What happened?” Grian asked.

Scar turned around and looked at Grian. The way the light fell on his face made Scar look frightening. Grian took a step backward, his eyes on Scar’s menacing red glare.

“Y-You’re—” He couldn’t finish. You’re red. His late mother’s voice rang through his mind: be wary of the red eyes. They go insane eventually.

“I know,” Scar answered. His voice returned to normal. “Can you believe it? I was out there, inspecting our walls, and then Martyn from Dogwarts comes up behind me and pushes me off!”

Grian’s mouth fell open. “What!?”

He still reeled from the death wave; this piece of information made it worse. The second prince of Dogwarts, personally responsible for the second death of Scar. The audacity.

“Yeah, that little bastard pushed me over the edge. I fell.” He sighed dramatically. “I thought it was safe up there, there weren’t any guards. But apparently, I can’t even be safe on my own walls!”

The walls were a passion project; they weren’t that big or finished yet, but they planned to create a giant circle and build a capital city within these walls, that connected to the sand mountain the castle stood on. A new capital for the Sandlands, to attract workers and prosperity. The walls also served as another layer of protection – you never knew what Dogwarts was up to.

“You can’t let that slide,” Grian said. A son of Dogwarts laid a hand on the Lord of the Sandlands – the implications alone were terrible.

“I wasn’t going to,” Scar reassured his right-hand man, and he shook his head. “What he’s done is nothing short of an act of war. I tried to avoid an all-out war, to keep us safe, but they gave us no choice. We must fight back against them now, or we will drown.”

Grian wholeheartedly agreed. They had to show the Sandlands were not to be messed with. A plan popped up in his head – just an idea for now, unsure if it would work, but a plan nonetheless. A plan that could damage Dogwarts.

“I think I might have an idea,” Grian said. Outrageous, excessive, but Dogwarts started it. They deserved whatever came their way.

“Oh, tell me,” Scar said enthusiastically. “Please tell me it’s a good plan.”

Grian explained his idea, and Scar agreed the plan was amazing.

Two weeks were spent on preparations. Gunpowder reserves from all over the Sandlands were called upon to share what they could spare – or at least half of their current stock. His people slaved away to use the gunpowder and turn it into explosives. In the end, they had enough for the plan Grian had thought up. Scar thanked his people for their diligence.

Scar had decided they had to be the ones to enact the plan. He wanted to be there, to show Dogwarts two could play that game. Grian came along to do what they have been preparing for.

The Lord and his right-hand man left at dawn; a silent ride. The extra weight considerably slowed down the horses, which seemed to put Scar on edge. If he could, he would fly to Dogwarts in an instant. But they traveled slow, and Scar had nothing to say. Grian tried to keep a conversation, but Scar barely responded. He stopped trying.

Two weeks had passed since he came up with the plan. His mind ran over the justification again. Martyn acted first; he killed Scar. The Sandlands had to retaliate. The plan was manic, could cause a lot of death and certainly a lot of destruction. A simple push did not compare – but the message would come across. Do not mess with the Sandlands.

Then what? When the dust settled, how would Dogwarts respond?

Those were worries for later. For now, Grian focused on what he needed to do.

Scar and Grian took no risks traveling through Dogwarts territory. Without an escort, they were less likely to be recognized. Whenever they passed a patrol, they greeted the men, and the men greeted them. They were never stopped, though one soldier did frown at the bulging sacks the horses carried along with their rider.

“They’re so unprepared,” Scar laughed. “If only they knew…”

But a red life and a green life traveling together was no concern for the patrols, who were mainly tasked with stopping raids; not to stop the Lord of the Sandlands.

They crossed the flower valley on their second night. Scar insisted to make up for lost time and travel at night, but the meadows were soon crawling with all kinds of mobs. A quaint little house in the distance guided them towards it, killing those mobs that came after them. One arrow pierced through Scar’s shoulder, but he barely paid attention to them.

The men who lived in the house came to their aid. The horses were brought to a stable, and they invited Grian and Scar in to stay the night.

Grian learned their names: Jimmy and Scott. They were two of the knights Grian had heard so many stories about lately. Knights, who until recently had been adventuring under the banner of the Lord of Dogwarts.

Still, after learning Scar and his right-hand man were in their home, they did not make a big deal out of it. They offered food, a place to sleep, and some company. Jimmy and Scar got to talking while Scott prepared something in the kitchen. Jimmy seemed like a nice person, and he came from the same area Grian was from. If their lives hadn’t been too different, maybe Grian and Jimmy would have been friends.

Scott came back, gave the travelers some soup, and sat down next to Grian. He watched how Grian ate in almost one sitting.

“You’re so helpful,” Grian said. He didn’t think Scar and Jimmy heard it, caught up in a conversation of their own. “I thought you would kick us out.”

“You’re travelers,” Scott said. “And we don’t serve Dogwarts. We don’t mind your presence here.”

“So you’re not alerting Ren?” Grian had to be sure.

“As I said, we don’t serve Dogwarts. We live here, but we’re not on anyone’s payroll.” Scott glanced at where Jimmy and Scar exchanged stories. “When your lord goes insane, don’t let him forget we helped him tonight.”

A chill ran down Grian’s spine.

“I’ll remind him.”

Grian slept on the floor. If something were to go wrong, he would safely end up in the Sandlands, in his bed. Scar had taken the offer to sleep in one of the spare beds; he did not have to worry about where he would wake up upon death anymore.

Their night was short, and the sun rose over the flower valley, basking it in light and showing off its many colors. Scott saw them out – Jimmy already left, was away on ‘official business’. Scott did not elaborate, and Grian didn’t want to pry. Scar thanked Scott for the hospitality and they went on their way again.

A couple of hours later, their target came into view. Dogwarts castle, atop a hill; an imposing building, an architectural masterpiece. But like every castle, this one also had its weaknesses. Weaknesses they could exploit.

“You’ll find a weak spot,” Scar told him as the castle came closer and closer. “I’m going to the front. It should draw a lot of attention. You should be able to set up those explosives without being seen.”

“That’s a lot of ‘shoulds’,” Grian noted.

“Of course it’ll only work if my distraction is good enough. And it will be.” Scar turned his head to Grian. “Will you take care of it?”

Grian nodded. “I will.”

“Great.”

Grian took the bags from the horses; from this point forward, he was going to walk the way up, leaving his own horse safely here. Scar wished him luck one last time before he rode ahead, up the barren hill, to confront Dogwarts and draw attention.

The bags were heavy, but Grian pushed through. If he made haste now, they wouldn’t notice him. Not that they would recognize him from the walls, anyway. Only a few guards were patrolling atop these walls; either Dogwarts did not expect retaliation, or Scar had already drawn them to him.

For a brief moment, Grian imagined an archer on those walls. An arrow pointed at Scar. That was all it would take. He shook his head – he couldn’t think about such things now.

Today was a windless day; voices, if loud enough, carried far. As Grian neared the walls, he heard fragments of the conversation.

“What are you doing at my castle?” Ren shouted. Martyn probably stood next to him, the bastard.

“What, can’t I just admire your walls?” Scar responded. “Not as high as mine, which might be safer. You won’t die from a fall from here. Brilliant play, Martyn, you’ve got what you wanted.”

“I did not push you off,” Martyn defended himself. “You fell on your own. I watched it and laughed, but I never laid a hand on you.”

Maybe there were others on the wall; maybe they glared down on Scar and his confident grin. Maybe, but Grian didn’t see, and it didn’t help to speculate. He still had to do his job.

He snuck against the wall, following it to where the hill sloped down. The castle’s foundations rested on the side of the hill, as opposed to on top of it – the lowest point of a castle too big to fit on a hilltop. These walls were exposed, facing into Dogwarts territory. Why would Ren expect an attack from this side? Joel lived in that direction somewhere, and Ren had nothing to fear from Joel.

Grian put down the bags and got to work, carefully placing each item against the wall. If all went according to plan, they would go off and take out a large portion of the supporting wall. When that wall was gone, hopefully one of the towers supported by this wall, preferably both, would crumble as well. It would cost a fortune to repair, and it created a weakness in Ren’s defenses. Maybe it would even result in some casualties.

The tricky part was to spread out the explosives along the wall as far as he could. Even then, he wanted to be very careful, so one didn’t accidentally blow up in his face – to avoid detection and death. Slowly but surely, he placed these explosives against the outer wall, taking as much care in the beginning as in the end. After what felt like hours, the trap was finished – the explosives strung against the wall, complete with a mechanism that allowed for a timed detonation. So long as Grian and Scar were long gone when this bomb went off.

Grian turned on the timer and crept back the way he came from, his back against the wall so as not to be detected by possible guards on the walls. At one point, before Scar came into sight – he was still rambling and holding the attention of those on the wall – he stopped. He took a deep breath and ran to the closest trees, to take shelter and hope he wasn’t spotted.

No shouting came from the walls – at least, not more than those who were speaking with Scar. Nobody had seen him run. At least nobody who would.

“I just wanted to let you know the offer has been retracted,” Scar yelled at the people on the wall. “Prepare for battle. Have a good day!”

Grian returned to where he’d left his horse, and found that Scar had arrived quicker than he had. He was waiting, reins in hand, not saying a word. He handed the reins to Grian as he approached and got onto his horse.

“It’s all set up?” Scar asked.

Grian nodded. “It’s going to explode within this and an hour.”

“Then we’d better be off.”

They rode away from the castle, as fast as they could. The more distance they put between themselves and the castle, the harder it would be for Dogwarts to find them and retaliate immediately. But as the distance grew, they returned to a calmer pace. Scar talked on and on, but Grian wasn’t listening. He let Scar ramble – he barely noticed that Grian wasn’t paying attention, and letting him vent from time to time could be a good thing.

They exited the forest. Grian and Scar turned their heads. Just above the treetops, the tips of the towers of Dogwarts rise; barely the size of berries. Smoke rose from closely beside one of the towers. Alongside the smoke, a dust cloud grew as one of the towers sank beneath the treetops. They had gone far enough that they had not heard the explosion.

Scar pumped his fist in the air. “Oh, yeah! That’s what I like to see!”

For a moment, Grian beamed – his plan had worked. Then the death wave caught up to him and brought down his euphoric mood. He clutched the reins of his horse and shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position. The world around him spun and he closed his eyes, trying to breathe calmly in and out. This hit differently.

This death wave was more intense than Scar’s, two weeks ago. A little more intense. More than one person Grian had made a meaningful connection with had died. But how many? Probably Ren and Martyn, as they barely leave each other’s side. Maybe someone else, too. There had to be more casualties than two, though – innocents Grian had never met, whose lives were taken away, whose death waves he would not feel due to a lack of a personal connection.

How many people lost a life? How many died for good?

The questions alone made his stomach churn.

“You okay?” Scar asked. His voice was close; he had led his horse close to Grian’s. Grian nodded slowly once and opened his eyes. He was right beside him.

“That’s—” Grian said. “That’s quite the wave.”

Scar gave him a sympathetic glance. He placed a comforting hand on Grian’s back as he tried to recover.

“I know. It’s a lot.” He glanced in the direction of the castle. “I hope you never get used to it, like I did.”

Grian stared at his Lord. That was unexpected.

“So… you don’t feel a thing?”

“I do feel it,” Scar said as he lightly shook his head. “I just wish it wasn’t so underwhelming.”

Grian never pried – he knew Scar had been living a completely different life before he picked up Grian and promptly married his way to being Lord of the Sandlands. The life before the desert never mattered, and Scar barely spoke about it. Still, what he said raised a question Grian couldn’t bear to voice.

“Can you travel?” Scar asked. “We do need to keep moving.”

Grian nodded, gritting his teeth. “I’m good.” He wasn’t completely back to normal yet, but he didn’t expect himself to bounce back so easily after this trap. He was as good as he could be and thought himself capable of continuing the journey.

“Let’s go home, then.”

Chapter Text

Last week might have been Impulse’s most productive and lucrative week yet, producing more diamond or iron weapons and armor than he could count, enchanted to the customer’s wishes. His employees have worked harder than ever to keep up with the increasing demand and Impulse compensated them accordingly, with an extra day off and a couple more emeralds. It had gotten to the point where Impulse considered hiring more employees in the future. At the end of the day, everyone went to the Jumping Cod, as per habit, but Impulse stayed behind. The workshop needed cleaning and Impulse gladly took the job. Besides, two orders were still laying around, and Impulse wanted to be around to hand them over. He could always go to the local pub another time.

Armed with the mop and a bucket of water and soap, he walked through the workshop. His workshop, with fourteen separate workstations on the first floor. They were as clean as the villagers working at them left them. A large double door in the back led to the main ore storage room, with more materials to create weapons and armor with.

In the back, near the double door, a small staircase climbed to the top floor – Impulse’s humble abode. A large open empty space. The working kitchen was the first thing you saw upon entering, more than enough cabinet space, a table with four chairs on top of an ornate rug. His bed was pushed against the wall in the back. A whole enchanting set-up could still fit, but Impulse wasn’t excessive – he could always use the one down in the workshop. His home.

His property. Not through legacy, given to him at a certain age – made with his own fortune. From his own labor, with his own hands. He stopped for a moment, looked at the empty workshop, and smiled proudly. He’d done well. This was good.

The bell rang as the front door opened. Skizz let the door fall into the lock a little too loudly. The positives vibes Impulse had felt were driven away by his best friend’s frustration.

“Hi, Skizz,” Impulse said, putting the mop aside.

“Hi, buddy.” He tried to sound cheerful but failed. It might have fooled someone else. Impulse heard the slight quiver in his voice, saw the way his mouth curled, how his fists were clenched.

Rumors buzzed around in Riverbed. Impulse didn’t know whether to believe them or not. But Skizz’s order – an enchanted set of diamond armor – was enough to let Impulse know it had been bad.

Skizz’s red gaze landed on Impulse and confirmed how bad it was.

“What happened out there?” Impulse wondered. It felt wrong to ask his friend how he was when his eyes had changed color since they last saw each other; fear creeping upon him. It would never not feel weird when a red was around, and it was even more uncomfortable now Skizz was one of them.

“I didn’t think I’d be losing my two first lives in such a short time,” Skizz complained. He sighed in an exaggerated way, leaning against a workstation. “The first, that was a stupid Enderman and I don’t wanna talk about that. That was dumb. But that second time… Dude, Scar came over and placed some explosives at Dogwarts castle and it exploded.”

What?

“Like a bomb?” Impulse asked, struck with shock. The rumors were true– an explosion at Dogwarts. How was that even possible? How was this allowed to happen? What other rumors were true?

“Yeah!” Skizz nodded wildly; he tapped his fingers on the workstation. “Dude, we could feel the explosion. We were all inside when it happened and we thought a hole was blown into a nearby wall or something. Then we heard the creaking and we didn’t know where it came from. Before we know it, the floor just falls apart beneath our feet! I was in there, Jimmy, Ren… I died quickly and ended up in Skizzle Point, so I can’t say who else was caught up in that mess, but the whole tower was coming down. Lots of people lost a lot of lives that day. I heard the king was somewhere in there, too, but nobody wants to confirm.”

Impulse listened wordlessly at Skizz’s story. The rumors were as bad as the villagers made them out to be. Free falling to your death, possibly crushed between layers of debris. You’d be lucky to have a quick death. Impulse worried most about the old king, on his red life. If he was in that tower, Ren might soon ascend the throne of Dogwarts.

While Impulse said nothing, tried to process what his best friend had just told him, Skizz let out an exasperated sigh.

“It was Scar,” he said. “He was right there moments before it happened. He came all the way from the Sandlands to taunt us. It can’t have been anyone else, he’s the only one who hates Ren that much. This was a provocation, an act of war! He’s a madman.”

“I’m sure Ren will take care of it,” Impulse said, hearing the unspoken implication in his friend’s words. Ren already taxed the exports of the Sandlands more harshly than those of the Riverlands, because of the raids, but those hadn’t stopped Scar. Now blood had been spilled, Ren might want to retaliate with a similar plan, or at least with the intent to spill blood himself.

“He’s gonna do something, alright,” Skizz answered. “Hey, just expect a large order to come in soon. I’ve heard him talk about wanting to upgrade some of his weaponry.” He paused. “ Where’d you put my new armor?”

“Over there. On the armor stand,” Impulse said, pointing out the armor stand in the back. Skizz turned his head and laid eyes on the polished enchanted diamond armor set. Almost immediately, the mood seemed to shift a little.

“That’s awesome,” he said, approaching the set. He looked at Impulse. “How much do I owe you?”

Impulse waved that away. “This one’s on the house. The next one won’t be, though.”

“I’ll remember that,” Skizz said, and he put on the armor.

Impulse watched him put it on. Something about the sight of his friend putting on armor didn’t sit right. Something about the serious look on his face and the way he ranted about Scar. The future didn’t look too bright now the Sandlands made their first move, and Skizz had been caught in the crossfire.

“Skizz…” Impulse said hesitantly. “If… If Ren asked you to go to war with him, would you?”

“Hell yeah!” Skizz responded as he finished putting on the pants. “Scar’s a scoundrel! He needs to be taught a lesson he won’t easily forget. Ren’s not going to serve justice on his own.”

“Ren does have a whole army backing him up,” Impulse reminded him. Dogwarts had no shortage of soldiers and knights. Skizz was no longer on Ren’s payroll; a free soul, living semi-peacefully at Skizzle Point. Free to do whatever. And yet, Skizz gravitated towards Ren.

“I know,” Skizz said, fiddling with the straps of the chest plate. “But with me and Etho by his side, he does have some name recognition and intimidation points.” He strapped in the chest plate and lifted his head to look at his friend. He frowned. “You okay, buddy? You’re a little pale.”

This was the first time Impulse learned that Etho was in contact with Ren; that Etho apparently agreed to work with Ren. Such a free spirit, with ties to no one; a paid mercenary who usually traveled around, now working with Ren. It set dangerous precedent. Dangerous for the Sandlands, as Etho came up with the most effective plans. Dangerous for everyone else – if Ren managed to get Etho, of all people, to join one side of the conflict, who else would he ensnare?

It worried Impulse – to the point of his face draining of color, apparently. It worried him that war would break out, that Etho was going to be involved, and especially that Skizz was going to want to be involved as well.

Was his red life going to his head already? That red gaze did look colder, less friendly.

“No, I’m fine,” Impulse said, clearing his throat. “I’m just—they say reds go insane. You’ve heard it, too. I… I guess I’m worried about you.”

Skizz walked up to his friend, fully geared up, a reassuring smile spreading across his face. He threw an arm around Impulse’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, buddy. I’m still the same old Skizz. Besides, I’ve only been red for, what, a couple of days? I’m sure if that myth is true, it doesn’t work that quickly.”

Impulse tried to find comfort in his words, in his eyes. It was a hard task.

“I guess you’re right,” he mumbled, so Skizz wouldn’t continue to bang on about it.

“Of course I am. Anyway, thank you for the armor!” Skizz said, letting go of his friend. “You’ll be coming over to Skizzle Point next week?”

Impulse nodded. A change of scenery, if only for some days, might do wonders. A couple of days with just him and his best friends would be great.

“Sure,” Impulse said. “Have a safe journey.”

“Thanks, I will,” Skizz said. “I’ll see ya next week.”

“Bye.”

Skizz left the workshop in his shining new armor and Impulse was left alone.

He grabbed the mop and continued to clean the floor, to move his thoughts. He wasn’t just worried – he feared. He feared that Skizz made the wrong decisions, feared he wouldn’t be able to convince his friend to keep his distance from Ren with war on the horizon. He dreaded Ren might lead Skizz to his final death.

They’d been happy with their circumstances before Skizz left – was it naïve to wish to go back in time? To simpler times, when war happened far from home, a silly game children play. To times where they were inseparable and needed only one glance to communicate.

 When he finished the job, the sun had started to set and the second customer came in through the front door.

“Hi, Tango,” Impulse greeted his friend, putting away the bucket and mop. He tried to sound more cheerful than he felt. “How are you?”

“I’m good, I’m good,” Tango said. He didn’t sound too convincing. “Do you have the sword ready?”

“It’s right over there,” Impulse said, pointing to the back of his workshop. “Can’t miss it.”

On a pedestal sat the sword that Bdubs had ordered – a polished power V, fire aspect, mending sword. Even in the semi-dark, its enchantments shone purple. If it wasn’t such a special sword, maybe one of the servants would’ve picked it up. Instead, Impulse got to have a little chat with his friend again.

It’s been a while since Impulse had visited Bdubs and Cleo. Maybe he should try to clear his schedule and make some times – if Ren’s future order wasn’t too big, at least.

“Right,” Tango said. “I can see it.” He handed the payment over to Impulse, who checked its contents as Tango retrieved the sword. Bdubs always paid correctly, but Impulse couldn’t break the force of habit.

When Impulse looked up again, Tango had wordlessly come back, sheathing the sword. Even covered up, you could still see the enchantments glisten. His eyes darted from the sword to Tango, who wasn’t smiling. Something unpleasant was on his mind, had worn him down, made him tired. Something that might have to do with the raid captain stuck in the Crastle’s dungeon.

“Are you okay?” Impulse asked. “I can get you something to drink, if you’d like—”

“It’s fine,” Tango said. He sighed heavily. “I just tortured some information out of a raid captain. The usual.”

Impulse nodded compassionately. That must not have been an easy job. Bdubs must not have been in the best mood, either, if he asked Tango to do the job one of his soldiers should have been doing. But you can’t argue against the word of the Crastle Lord, so Tango had spent countless nights in a dark dungeon to make someone talk who’d rather swallow their tongue.

“What did he say?”

“He said what we wanted to hear,” Tango said. “Scar paid him to terrorize Dogwarts and the Riverlands. Even threw in a conspiracy plot against Bdubs.” He shook his head. “It’s a confession under duress. They might’ve been saying stuff to get out. But proof is proof. There’s the thing we’ve all been waiting for.”

He slouched a little under the weight of the confession. If Bdubs learned of this confession, he would not hesitate to use it, even if the captain said something incorrect to get out of a painful situation.

“Does Bdubs know yet?”

“I haven’t told him yet,” Tango said. “But Cleo was with me when it happened. I didn’t tell him today, but he surely asked her for an update.” He shook his head, a defeated look in his eyes. “We’re going to war.”

“War…” The word tasted sour. Impulse folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “Looks like everyone’s going to war these days. What has the world come to?”

For a few moments, silence hung between the men.

“Is it me, or does it sound like you don’t like it?” Tango wondered. “You’re one of the most successful weapons dealers in the area. You have to be making more diamonds than ever.”

Business was indeed booming. Impulse liked the positive progression – he just didn’t like the progression of the international conflicts. War was coming to the Sandlands, to Dogwarts, the Riverlands… Impulse had hoped to spend his lifetime not knowing war, like his father before him, but the universe had decided otherwise.

Why did he happen to have a talent for creating items that caused pain and destruction?

“I supply the weapons,” Impulse said. “I don’t have to like what they’re doing with it.”

Tango and Impulse locked eyes for a moment. Two men, on separate ends of the conflict; knee-deep in it by proxy, an outsider view with no allegiance. Both unwilling to participate in an inevitable conflict; both wishing things hadn’t escalated so quickly. Both wishing to return to peaceful times.

“What will we do?” Tango wondered out loud, clutching the sheath.

Impulse nodded to himself; good question. What will they do?

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m going to try and stay neutral.” If everyone was on his good side, he did not have to fear retaliation. In case the Crastle and Dogwarts ever decided to fight each other, Impulse would rather stay by the sideline and watch his weapons be used to kill than be tied to one or the other and paint a target on his back.

Tango nodded approvingly.

“That sounds like a solid plan. Neutrality.” Het let the word roll off his tongue. “At least you have that option.”

“What, as if you don’t have options.” Impulse said. Tango took a moment to think, averting his gaze for a second. He then shook his head.

“I have ideas. Bad ideas.” He huffed. “One particularly bad idea.”

Impulse shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt to tell me.”

“Being a spy,” Tango said. Impulse’s eyes widened and his mind blanked. Tango, a spy? For who? To what extent? More questions came to mind, but he blanked on them as Tango saw his face. “I know, it’s stupid. It’s a stupid idea.”

“I don’t think it’s stupid,” Impulse quickly said.

Tango raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yeah!” He smiled at his friend. “You’re good at what you do; I trust you’d be a good spy, too.”

It was hard to tell what was going on inside Tango’s head; hard to tell whether he thought Impulse was saying it to be nice or whether he was being honest. Either way, Impulse did not doubt that Tango would do a great job. His ingenuity and quick thinking would help him out in any situation, no matter where he went.

“I’ll think about it,” Tango said. “Maybe I won’t do it at all. We’ll see.”

Something in his voice suggested he already made up his mind. Impulse didn’t pry.

“You’ll let me know when you made your decision, right?”

“Of course.” Tango glanced out of the window; the sky colored orange already in the evening. “It’s getting late, I gotta go. Thanks for the sword.”

“Anytime,” Impulse nodded as Tango moved to the front door. “Be careful out there. Tell Bdubs and Cleo hi for me.”

“Will do,” the advisor responded. He half-waved at his friend as he closed the door behind him. Impulse was alone again, in a slightly better mood than before. Just slightly. But then his mind brought up Skizz again and that better mood disappeared.

Impulse shouldn’t worry. They had many options. They had many places to go, many choices to make, in these turbulent times. They had options.

He just wished Skizz wasn’t so stuck on the one option, the one choice.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t that Cleo didn’t care that people died. It was always a sad occasion, and it was sure to drag down the mood instantly. It’s just that this death wave came at quite an inopportune moment, as it always did, and Cleo sighed. Couldn’t someone she knew have died after she took stock of the supplies in the Crastle?

She had been on her way to the storage rooms. Yet, when that wave washed over her, she changed her course. Rationally, nothing in those death waves pointed towards specific people. Anyone she cared about could have died. Yet, her mind wandered to her husband the moment it hit, and the thought hadn’t left her mind since.

The storage room wasn’t too far away. She could pass by the bedroom first, to check if Bdubs was there or not. He was set to return tomorrow, after he met with Ren. The case of the raid captain only made their side stronger and made Bdubs even more determined to take down Scar. Cleo couldn’t be sure what exactly they discussed, but she was certain the number of soldiers the Riverlands could spare were brought up.

She climbed the stairs; someone already made a lot of noise upstairs. She sighed. Please don’t let me be right. She’d rather see a servant cleaning the room than her husband with yellow eyes.

“Bdubs?” The door creaked open as she pushed and she looked at him. Bdubs wasn’t fully dressed yet, wearing only his tunic and underpants. He rummaged through the chest rather violently. A sharp item slammed against the side of the chest, angrily pushed aside in favor of something else – his backup gear.

“Hi!” he snapped when she said nothing. “Yes, I know, I’m yellow now!”

Cleo did not bat an eye – his fury wasn’t aimed at her, but at the world. She didn’t like to be on the receiving end of his frustration, but she kept her cool nonetheless.

“What happened?” she asked as if his tone wasn’t so aggressive. It didn’t stop being aggressive.

“Scar happened!” Bdubs yelled. “Some of those raiders snuck up on me while I was riding home. Killed me and my escort, too. I’m sure they’re taking all our stuff right now.”

He pulled an iron sword, as well as iron pants and a chest plate from the chest.

“This is not the time to retaliate,” Cleo told him – she knew where this was going.

“It’s never the right time,” he retorted and tried to put on his armor as quickly as he could. He forgot he should probably get fully dressed before he tried to wear his armor.

Cleo shook his head at him.  “I’d love to let you leave. In fact, I’d love to accompany you to the Sandlands and put an arrow between Scar’s eyes, but we need to be smart about this.” Scar was supposed to be the impulsive one, but Bdubs seemed to take that spot. “You have war on your mind.”

“Well, we are at war,” the lord of the Crastle said plainly. He finally realized what he tried to do was ridiculous. He put down the armor and walked to the wardrobe. “Shouldn’t I think about it while it’s happening right now?”

“But it’s not our war,” Cleo insisted. Sometimes, she wanted to whack him on the head. “Ren can handle this on his own. He can have some of our men, yes, but we don’t need to get involved any more than we already are. He’s got Etho; he does not need you there as an advisor.”

Scar was focused on Ren; a sibling rivalry that escalated into war. His mind may not be with the Crastle at all. Cleo knew Scar had targeted them with these raids because they were allied with Dogwarts, and the violence may escalate if they actively participated in this war. And if they wanted the Riverlands to come out of this conflict unscathed, it was in their best interest to remain as neutral as they could.

“So, what do we do?” Bdubs wondered out loud, buttoning up his shirt, eyes on his wife and the buttons. “You still wanna wait this out? We’ll be wasting time. What will be different if we don’t get involved?”

“Not much,” said a voice from behind Cleo. Bdubs almost jumped up; he had not expected their advisor to sneak up on them. Cleo had heard Tango’s echoing footsteps from the moment he entered the tower and wasn’t as surprised.

“Tango!” Bdubs exclaimed, suddenly happy he just finished getting dressed. “Can’t you knock?”

“The door was blocked,” Tango said, glancing at Cleo, who still stood in the doorway. She stepped aside, allowing Tango access to the bedroom. His face was one of worry; he probably came over as soon as the death wave hit him.

“Cleo is right,” Tango said calmly, trying not to wind up Bdubs any more than he already was. “This war isn’t ours to fight. The Crastle lies in a secure position in relation to the Sandlands. Dogwarts is located between us and Scar; if he wants to come for us, he’ll need to cross Dogwarts, and Ren will not let him. Ren is a powerful man and, despite revitalization efforts, the Sandlands are still poorer and not as well-equipped.” He paused for a moment, possibly to check whether Bdubs was going to raise his voice again. “If we get involved, we will incur his wrath. If we stay out of it, we might still be on his good side in the unlikely scenario that he wins this war.”

“Ren will fight,” Cleo continued. “We provide extra troops, but he can handle it. We don’t want to be in such a vulnerable position that Scar could run us over at any time.”

Bdubs didn’t answer immediately. He glanced from Cleo to Tango and back to his wife. He shook his head and groaned.

“I hate that you’re right.” He placed the iron sword on top of the chest, not breaking eye contact with Cleo. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Take a walk?” Tango suggested. “You’re a little grumpy right now. It might cloud your judgment.”

Bdubs opened his mouth to protest but closed it again. He sighed deeply and he walked to the door. Tango and Cleo moved out of the way as he passed them. The loud footsteps echoed through the hall, and Cleo closed the door behind her. Now it was just her and Tango.

“I didn’t think he’d do it,” Tango said, glancing at the door. “I half-expected him to lash out at me.”

“He needs that walk.” Cleo looked at her advisor. “He died today. He needs to blow off some steam.”

Tango nodded, his gaze uncomfortable, his arms folded. He experienced the same thing as Cleo. The conversation with Bdubs had distracted her for a while, but it returned now. The death wave, that made you miserable for at least an hour. It was very unpleasant – so far, Cleo had been lucky not to know too many people who died or passed away altogether. If Ren was going to war, and Bdubs followed him, she might have to get used to this unpleasantness.

“I have… a crazy idea,” Tango then said. His gaze was expectantly on Cleo, who had no idea what he was talking about.

“Really?” she said. “What’s it about?”

“It’s about… I want to do a little more.”

Cleo raised an eyebrow and Tango quickly devolved into rambly defense mode. “I love my job. I do, really, I love it. It’s awesome, wouldn’t change it. I just… thought I’d do something extra.”

“Extra.”

“Yeah. Extra,” Tango chuckled nervously. Why did he have so much trouble asking for something? Just spit it out. Tango cleared his throat and took a deep breath.

“With your permission, I’d like to work for the Crastle outside of the Riverlands for a while.”

He’d clasped his hands behind his back and slipped into his ‘royal advisor’ voice for this request; as if that could make Cleo forget how nervous he previously sounded. Cleo shook her head at him in exasperation.

“Are you gonna keep skirting around the topic or are you actually going to say what’s on your mind?”

Tango nodded once. Then twice.

“I want to spy for you,” he blurted out.

Cleo’s eyes widened. “You want to spy?”

This came out of nowhere. Until now, Tango had seemed happy with his role as an advisor within the Crastle walls, and official representative of the Lord and Lady of the Crastle outside of its walls. Never had Cleo gotten the impression that Tango wanted more than what he already had. Then again, it was Tango, so maybe she shouldn’t be surprised with an out-of-the-box self-proclaimed ‘crazy’ idea.

“Yeah,” Tango said. “I mean, swords can kill and arrows can maim us, but knowledge can turn the tide in a battle. You can swing a sword and shoot arrows, but you can’t succeed if you don’t know where the enemy is, how many there are, or even if there are any weaknesses to exploit.” As he spoke, he grew more excited, the nerves melting away as the main announcement had passed. “With the current climate, I’d love to know where it’s all going. I want to be armed with knowledge, from both sides, to better understand what is going on. Of course I’ll share everything I learn with you and Bdubs, so we can prepare in case the attention turns to us.”

There was the Tango they knew; always three steps ahead of everyone else. Now Cleo saw how it all fit together; his intel, gathered on both sides of the conflict, possibly helpful in their defense. Even now, she feared the Riverlands would fall during this conflict, and if they had something that could prepare them, she would take it.

It wasn’t such a crazy idea after all.

“I don’t trust Scar,” Tango concluded. “I don’t fully trust Ren, either. But I do have quite a trustworthy face, if I do say so myself.”

The silence was a pleasant one; Cleo stared at her advisor, almost dumbfounded, while he patiently awaited her response.

“How are you still here?” she wondered. “You don’t need my permission, but yes. Go ahead and gain their trust.”

A relieved smile broke on Tango’s face. He bowed his head for her, overjoyed. He really did not need her permission, but if that is what he wanted, she gladly provided. And his enthusiasm did put a smile to her face, as well.

“Thank you,” he said. “I will meet with you with updates whenever I am able.”

His hand rested on the doorknob as he pulled at the heavy door.

“Don’t let Scar kill you,” Cleo said – half-joking, half-serious. Don’t slip up. She didn’t want to know what that madman would do if he found out what Tango was doing.

Tango turned his head to the Lady of the Crastle.

“I’m not afraid of Scar; he’s predictable,” he said. “It’s Ren I worry about.”

Chapter Text

Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

Ren stared out of his bedroom window. It was still strange to call it his bedroom; he and Martyn had moved to more secure rooms, far away from walls or towers that could easily be taken down by large explosions.

The foundations were blown away at the lowest point of the castle. The nearest tower toppled and left nothing but debris and ruin. Ren had been there – Martyn had not, thank goodness. He wanted to grab something from his room, and he hadn’t been alone. Skizz and Jimmy accompanied him when the explosion rocked the castle. The ground beneath their feet fell away. After a short drop and a sharp pain in his side, he ended up in his bed.

He did not worry about Skizz and Jimmy – they were returned to their own beds, on their red lives – but about his father. Ren only managed to get out of bed when the death waves hit him. For Skizz, Jimmy, any servants who were inside, his father. Ren joined Martyn and the guards in the rubble and searched. After an hour, Ren caught a glimpse of his father’s motionless hand.

Now he stood at the window, his reflection in the glass panes revealing the yellow eyes and the crown on the window sill. Soon, that crown would be placed upon his head and he would take the title of King of Dogwarts. For now, it taunted him; it laughed and brought up memories of his late father, a great person and even greater king. How could Ren live up to his legacy?

He didn’t know where the uncertainty came from. He had plenty of experience. The guards and his forces trusted his judgment on a personal and military level – he dealt with Scar’s raiders and led his troops. He was a proficient fighter and, if he believed those around him, he did have all the qualities that made a great leader. He was going to be an amazing leader.

Then why did he feel so unprepared?

A soft knock on the door brought him out of his thoughts; a familiar knock. Ren turned his head; he knew well who pushed open the door and entered.

“You wanted to see me,” Martyn said, his back straightened, a curious look in his eyes. Martyn, his brother – soon, the Crown Prince of Dogwarts. The most important person in Dogwarts Castle, even more important than Ren saw himself.

“The letters have been sent,” Ren said. “Our bannermen will join us soon.”

Martyn nodded once, a smile on his lips. “That’s good to hear.”

These letters contained invitations to the coronation, for the bannermen of Dogwarts – lords and knights alike. After the ceremony, they would pledge their loyalty to the new king, as tradition prescribed. This would not be an ordinary coronation, though.

“We are being tested, Martyn,” Ren said, his gaze firmly on his brother. “The universe looks upon us and throws us into impossible circumstances, watching how we overcome its obstacles with grace or fail.”

Martyn frowned, but Ren continued. “Scar is too unhinged for this world, but blood and status have kept him safe. He is our test. What they say has been proven true – the red go insane, and Scar is a prime example.”

“Ren?” Martyn asked. “What are you saying?”

Ren danced around the topic; couldn’t say it outright. He knew what needed to be done – messed up in every way. Their test was upon them, and it would only make their bond stronger, hopefully severing whatever connection to Scar they had left. Before they faced the universe’s test, however, their own loyalty must be unwavering.

“My bannermen will come to pledge their loyalty. In the future, I will need to trust them with my life. Not a day will pass that I will not doubt their loyalty. But you…” He put his hand on Martyn’s shoulder. “I can never doubt you.”

Martyn did not break eye contact with Ren, placing his hand on Ren’s. “If you die, I die with you.”

Their eyes locked. For a moment, it seemed they were one soul in two bodies, and nothing could break them apart, not even Death itself.

“Not this time,” Ren shook his head once. “Follow me.”

Ren and Martyn left the room. Martyn did not question it; he trusted Ren, and in his company, what was there to dread? They left the tower, the safety of the castle and its walls. Two brothers, alone, to the nearby forest. A small dirt path led them to a clearing, in front of an old and wise pine tree, weathered and strong. Stone and cobble peeked out from under the dirt, hinting at the altar that used to be here. It had come to disuse, but Ren chose this old altar as the location of their test of trust. This was the only viable location; sacred to his family and the old gods the people often whispered about.

Ren placed his hand solemnly on the pine’s trunk, took a deep breath, and looked up. Never-ending, ever climbing to the light, never ceasing. Ever watching. It had seen the sacrifices from kings of old and delivered them to the gods. Today, it was given a different purpose.

“Why have we come here?” Martyn wondered.

Ren turned to his brother; Martyn watched the tree from where the path spilled over into the clearing. His eyes glanced to Ren, waiting for the explanation that would inevitably follow. He was familiar with the location and could feel the gravity of the situation. Something important was to happen, else Ren would not have brought him here.

“This tree is our family’s witness,” Ren spoke. “It has seen boys grow into men, princes into kings. It has seen the sacrifices, the laughter and tears; it has seen everything our ancestors have done before it.” Ren’s eyes were drawn to the old stone from the altar, most of it hidden to the eye. “Times may change and traditions can be left behind, but we can still find our strength in our ancestry. In our comradery and loyalty for one another, in this sacred space.”

Martyn shifted where he stood. He did not dare show his confusion, but Ren could feel his worry. Somehow, knowing what was coming had calmed him, even if it would have been regarded as the highest crime in old times.

Ren carried a small sheath on him, hidden from everyone. Martyn knew of its existence. His eyes widened as Ren pulled the dagger from its sheath and briefly held it to the light of the setting sun.

He grabbed its blade and offered the dagger to Martyn.

“Take this dagger, brother,” Ren said solemnly. Martyn obeyed, holding it with unease. “Now, hold it tightly. Do not drop it. I will sit on my knees and on my command, you will slice my throat.”

Panic flashed across Martyn’s face, for just a second. He recovered, but the anxiety remained and he shook his head.

“I can’t,” he said. “What you ask is impossible.”

“It is not,” Ren said, coming closer to Martyn. He spoke with his most soothing, comforting tone. “This is our test, to one another. You will cut my throat and I will not defend myself.” He cupped Martyn’s distressed face. “I love you. I trust you. I’d rather you do it than anyone else.”

“B-But you’ll go red,” Martyn stammered. “You can’t—”

“Precisely.”

He let go of his brother and stepped backward. There, in the center of what was once the altar, with his back to the pine tree, Ren sat on his knees. He was ready to lose his second life. He was ready to confirm his loyalty. He was ready to rise as a new person, with Martyn by his side. The staff inside the castle had been warned of this test so that when the inevitable death wave came, they knew what was happening. They would not be taken by surprise.

“Scar loathes us. This is more than enough for a meaningful connection. He will feel this and it will shake him to his core. It is a much more powerful message than any words can ever convey.” For the bannermen, too. At the coronation, Ren would be able to see who has grown wary and who wouldn’t flinch at his red eyes. He’d be able to weed out the rotten apples from his army.

Martyn shook his head, still in shock. If he thought of this as murder, he ought to consider it a rebirth instead.

“I can’t do this.”

“I trust you, brother. I believe in you. Take your time if you must. Find me in my room when you are done. Don’t dare wake up in yours.” Ren smiled at Martyn. “I believe in you.”

And Ren closed his eyes, tilted his head to the sky, exposing his neck to the dagger. He waited patiently, his hands on his back, defenseless against the blade. He did not have any doubts – Martyn was going to do it. His loyalty to Ren will be proven. The message will be sent.

The cold blade cut deep into his neck. Instant pain, instant damage, instant deprivation of air. Ren could not suppress the very human feeling of not wanting to die and reached for his neck, clutching the wound as he gasped for air. He’d opened his eyes but didn’t register anything beyond the exploding pain in his neck. He did hear Martyn crying out his name. He fell to his side, his energy quickly draining. The pain numbed slowly, and he easily slipped into unconsciousness.

Ren regained his breath, panting for air as he shot up. He was no longer on the forest floor, the altar, but in his bed, under the sheets. It took him a good second to reorientate himself.

Ren sat in his bedroom; the crown on the window sill no longer taunted him. Ren put on the clothes he’d readied for the occasion and walked to the mirror. His eyes were no longer an unsure yellow, but a fierce deep red. On his neck, a small thin line, almost a scar, a testament to the message he had sent into the world.

Martyn had done a great job.

Ren’s smile faltered.

“Martyn.”

He ran out of his room, to Martyn’s room. It was next to his own, which saved him a lot of time. He threw the door open and looked into an empty room. But Ren stared at the bed, waiting for Martyn to appear, ready to chastise him if he did. But time passed slowly and the longer he stared, the more he became convinced that Martyn had heeded his words.

“Ren!” A faint shout came from the hallway. Ren stepped into the corridor and turned his head. Martyn ran but came to a halt when Ren came into view. He dropped the bloodied dagger; it clanged as it hit the ground. Ren approached his brother.

“Ren.” His voice was shaky, his eyes puffy and red with tears, bloodstains on his hands. “Don’t ever ask me to do that again.”

Ren pulled his brother into a loving hug. Martyn clung to him for what felt like an eternity, sobbing in his shoulder, but Ren didn’t mind. He’d rather hold Martyn in his arms, in comfort, than watch him from afar, in danger and distress.

“It’s alright,” Ren said. “You’ve done wonderfully.”

The coronation ceremony was sober. For the sake of security, peasants were not allowed inside the castle walls. It did not stop them from throwing a celebration outside and Ren paid for their amusement on this merry day. Only those who could show invites were allowed access to castle grounds and anyone who came in was searched thoroughly for weapons.

Ren was crowned in front of the castle staff and his most loyal bannermen. His gaze went through the room, resting on each of his bannermen as they politely applauded when the crown was placed on Ren’s head, and as they knelt before him.

Skizz was the fiercest of his knights – unbridled rage resided in that man; rage directed toward Scar, one that would not go away unless Scar had breathed his final breath. A true warrior who would never back down from a fight, no matter how dangerous. His loyalty toward his king almost rivaled the loyalty the brothers felt for each other.

Shy, withdrawn Joel had grown into a powerful, menacing lord. Even now, one of his wolves sat beside him, ready to jump at any threat. Joel’s army of wolves was the only reason the raiders had not dared to enter his duchy; decimated by the feral beasts, loyal only to Joel. They say he used magic to tame them and bind them to him, sacrificing his first life to achieve his goal, but nobody can confirm this. Ren would not have wanted him on the enemy’s side.

As feral as Skizz and Joel may be, Bigb was the complete opposite. Calm and collected, a Lord with style and grace. He ruled a smaller county, but his soldiers were quick and strong and truly a force to be reckoned with. His friendly smile hid no secrets from his King and his advice was invaluable.

Etho was the biggest mystery that Ren cracked. The paid yellow-eyed mercenary, who went where the winds and diamonds took him. No job was too hard for him; he had proven himself useful to the court. And when the promotion came – when Ren suggested Etho be permanently on Dogwarts’ payroll – he could not refuse. Now he was tied to Ren, unable and unwilling to offer his services to Dogwarts enemies. Just as Ren liked it.

And there, on the front row seat, sat Martyn.

Jimmy and Scott hadn’t come. They were too busy. A weak excuse. They probably felt uneasy with Ren being red. That was understandable. They would come around and join him – and if they didn’t, he’d make them.

Ren rose from his throne, his regal robes rippling as he moved. The staff was commanded to leave the room, leaving only Ren, Martyn, and his bannermen, who lifted their heads and stood up to listen to their king’s words.

“Gentlemen,” Ren said. “I’ve already thanked you for your presence today. Now, we must discuss other matters. You all felt the shockwave. I have died a second time. Despite this detail, you have shown your loyalty by showing up today. You pledge your loyalty to a red king without a second thought. And I value your loyalty.”

He glanced at his brother. “Martyn?”

The prince nodded once and hurried out of the great hall, through a backdoor.

“Your loyalty will be rewarded,” Ren continued, as he waited for Martyn to return. “We must show a united front. We are not just men of Dogwarts; we are the red army.”

Martyn entered the hall again, a pile of red-colored cloth in his hands. He placed them on one of the seats.

“You will receive two banners. One you will attach to your shield and display proudly wherever you travel. The second you will fly at home; raise that banner high and show your support. When Scar trespasses again, he will know we are united against him. He will come to fear the red banner.”

“Great idea, my king,” Skizz responded enthusiastically. He almost was going to kneel before his king again. Ren looked at the knight before him.

“Skizz, are you still in contact with Impulse?”

“I spoke with him just last week,” Skizz answered. “He’s a good friend.”

“Is he loyal still?”

Skizz nodded. “One of the most loyal people I’ve ever met.”

That was all Ren needed to hear. He trusted Skizz’s judgment and had prepared for the occasion. From his pocket, he pulled out a folded letter and offered it to his loyal knight.

“Go to your friend. Deliver this letter to him and ask him if he wants to be our official weaponsmith. We will need his extraordinary weapons to protect our lands.”

Skizz approached the king and took the letter from his hands. He bowed his head as he returned to his place. “Yes, my king.”

Ren turned his head to the mercenary in this room.

“Etho, can I count on you?”

“If I just wanted diamonds, I wouldn’t have accepted your offer,” Etho calmly said. “I will fight for you.”

Ren glanced at the two lords. He did not single them out specifically. Ren trusted them for now. He had known these men, Joel and Bigb, for a very long time. Their presence here was all he needed to know about them. A smile came to his lips.

Though this wasn’t how he imagined his coronation, it was how he wanted it to be. Scar had forced his hand, had received the message. You do not mess with Dogwarts. These men answered the call, and he could see Scar’s face pale at the sheer loyalty these men showcased – not through fear, but respect. An unstoppable team.

“Gentlemen,” Ren said, pride in his voice. “The Red King rises before you. But he is nothing without you, his trusted bannermen, the commanders and generals of his red army. Scar will not know what hit him.” He drew the ceremonial sword and thrust it into the air. “For Dogwarts!”

“For Dogwarts!” the others shouted, and Ren grinned.

Watch your back, Scar.

Chapter Text

Grian knew who died in the Dogwarts explosion. Ren, the king, one of the knights, a couple of servants. Jimmy was caught in the crossfire as well – why was he even there if he and Scott no longer worked for Dogwarts?

Ren’s first act as king was to have his brother kill him so he could be red, like Scar. This still baffled Grian. A man willing to force a loved one’s hand like that wasn’t fit to rule.

They say the red go insane. Grian knew it couldn’t be inherently true. Scar had been on his red life for a while now, and he hadn’t changed at all. He was still himself, whereas Ren didn’t need to go red to show how insane he was, how far he was willing to go to prove a point, traumatizing his brother in the process.

Since then, red banners have started to pop up everywhere. Grian even noticed some hanging from the homes in the nearby village. These banners were swiftly taken down and their owners questioned, specifically about taking bribes or being threatened.

For who would ever want to support such a madman willingly?

Now, Grian sat in a nook inside the castle. He tinkered with some iron, redstone dust, and gunpowder. Not enough to blow him up, but enough to see if it could work. The small contraption was slightly bigger than the palm of his hand. The delicate work required his attention at all times, but it was a small price to pay. A bomb, the size of a large fist, with the impact of a box of TNT. But the design needed to be right. He’d already finished one prototype, and now he worked on another while he waited for the meeting to end.

Today, the Sandlands hosted a delegation from the Forest Kingdom. It was introduced as a quick visit – no sleeping quarters needed to be prepared – to discuss trade and a possible alliance between the Forest Kingdom and the Sandlands. They had arrived early in the morning, and Scar had offered them breakfast before the negotiations started.

Scar had intended for Grian to be present. Unfortunately, the Forest Kingdom would not believe Grian was an advisor – they deemed him too young –, and in an effort to appease the delegation, Scar had told Grian to wait outside.

So he did. He waited, tinkering away, hoping to present Scar with something a little more compact and harder to spot on the battlefield. The sun climbed in the sky and already descended when the large doors opened. The Forest Kingdom delegation exited the meeting room. Grian pocketed his projects and watched from the shadows, curious at the outcome. He couldn’t read anything from their stoic faces, though, and watched them leave.

Once they were out of sight, Grian climbed out of the nook and walked to the opened door. When he peeked inside, Scar was pacing up and down at the head of the table, shaking his head to himself. The negotiations may not have gone well.

“Scar?” he asked in a cautious voice. “How did it go?”

“Just great.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice, as well as a hint of anger. “You know what? We don’t need the Forest Kingdom. We don’t need anyone! We can do this on our own.”

“But I thought you said that—”

“I know what I said.” Scar raised his voice. He took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and continued in a calmer tone. “I know. I wished I could have made it work. They’re just so overbearing. They demand ridiculous things from me for basically nothing in return.” He shook his head again. “I will not let the Forest Kingdom exploit my poor, hard-working citizens. Even if it means we still don’t have a trade agreement.”

It weighed on Scar. After three years, Grian could recognize when his friend was disappointed, even if he tried to hide it. The trade agreement would have helped their economy, which wasn’t that great to begin with. It might have even been the start of a formal alliance. With such ridiculous demands, Scar had made the right call of not accepting their deal, however much it pained him.

A guard knocked on the door. Grian and Scar turned their heads to the man.

“A diplomat is here to see you,” he announced. Scar grabbed the back of one of the chairs and dug his nails into the woods, his lips a thin line. Grian shook his head. The audacity of the Forest Kingdom, to send a diplomat in right after the negotiations failed.

The man walked in, and Grian noted how he didn’t look like any person of the Forest Kingdom delegation. He wasn’t even dressed in the traditional green Forest outfits, choosing instead to wear light clothing appropriate for the Sandlands. He looked oddly out of place, wearing these clothes as an outsider. Grian raised an eyebrow – what was this man, this diplomat, trying to achieve here?

“It’s such an honor to be able to talk to the Lord of the Sand,” the man said in a grandiose manner, bowing theatrically as the guard pulled the door close behind him.

Grian did not like this man.

“My name is Tango,” the diplomat continued, “I have traveled a long way to come here. It’s an honor to meet you, and it would be an even bigger honor if you are willing to give me a chance. I’ve long considered the idea but never acted upon my wishes – until now. I would love to join your court if you will have me. Why, the splendor of the Sand People are known far and wide, and that wall is majestic indeed.”

Grian snorted. The wall was barely finished; it still needed a gate to keep enemies out. And the Sandlands, while a beautiful country, wasn’t really known for its splendor. Lately, more for the raiders that originated from the desert.

Still, this man was dangerous. He ticked all the right boxes to get Scar on his side. Scar even nodded at the things Tango declared.

“Thank you,” Scar said, flattered by the compliments. His tense posture had softened already, relaxed by Tango’s sweet words. Too sweet for Grian’s taste.

 And as Grian stared at the man, the more he felt like he was experiencing a déjà vu.

“You look familiar,” Grian said.

Tango turned his head to Grian. He took a moment to himself and then nodded in Grian’s direction. An acknowledgment, before facing Scar again.

“I suppose I do,” Tango said as he sighed, feigning a heavy heart. “Regretfully, I have worked for the Crastle. I was their advisor, but something didn’t feel right; something intangible, inexplicable. Something that makes me uncomfortable and makes me want to leave it behind.”

How dramatic.

“What services will you provide?” Scar asked.

Grian almost glared at Scar. Why entertain the thought of Tango working for the Sandlands when he clearly was overdramatic about the whole thing?

“I have a way with people,” Tango continued. “I was an advisor, which means I have access to a lot of top-secret information. Knowledge about anything and everything.” He paused, a smile coming to his face. “If you’ll have me, I can be your spy, my lord. The Crastle trusts me still, and because of this relation, I can work my way into Dogwarts as well, unsuspected. I can provide valuable information on the Crastle, and over time, on Dogwarts – such knowledge that you can crush them in battle.”

Scar placed a hand on his chin. Grian glanced from the lord to Tango. He was serious about this. This was clearly a trap. This was too good to be true.

“I don’t trust him.”

“C’mon Grian,” Scar said. “He comes bearing gifts.”

“Not yet gathered information isn’t a gift.” He glared at Tango. “A promise isn’t a gift. What information can you provide us with now?”

Tango looked at Grian, and his gaze shifted to Scar, possibly wondering how he could talk his way out of this situation.

“Yes, Tango,” Scar said. “Tell me something. Anything.”

Tango spoke without missing a beat.

“There is a tunnel underneath the Crastle," he blurted out. "It’s a secret entrance, from way back when. It leads from the forest directly into the Crastle, at an inconspicuous location.”

Now that was interesting. A secret; a valuable piece of information they could use against the Crastle in the future if need be. So far, Scar had refused to include the Crastle in his conflict with Dogwarts, unless they directly provoke him. Grian thought that was stupid because they supported Dogwarts, but Scar must have his reasons.

“I like that idea,” Scar said, leaning a little closer. “Why don’t you show Grian where it is, huh?”

“What!?” Grian shouted. He did not want to travel with an advisor of the Crastle. Tango, on the other hand, loved it.

“That’s a great idea,” he said. “Will you come along as well?”

 A dangerous question. Scar took a breath and dropped the grin from his face. His gaze, unblinking, was on Tango, and his voice was serious.

“I would love to,” Scar responded. “But there’s something you should know about me. I trust Grian and I value his input. He doesn’t trust you. So, if you can successfully show him the entrance of that secret tunnel without putting him in a secret death trap, and if Grian is willing to vouch for you afterward, I’ll let you join my court.” The grin returned to his face. “But Grian needs to trust you. That is a hard requisite. And I will remain here, waiting for him. If he has nothing nice to say...” He shrugged. "I don't like people who hurt my people."

Tango gulped and glanced in Grian’s direction. The boy was glad it made Tango anxious.

“Of course, my lord,” Tango said. “Thank you for your consideration.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Scar said in a vaguely threatening tone. If Tango was afraid, he hid it well.

Scar watched the duo leave. Neither Grian nor Tango was particularly happy with this arrangement, but if this was how Tango would prove himself – if this was the way Grian could verify Tango was legitimate – they were going to have to do this. They had to share some supplies, some water, and food, but Grian snuck in his projects. He wanted to have them on hand in case of an emergency.

At least one of them would be happy to leave the Sandlands.

It was such a weird feeling. Three years ago, when Grian first set foot in the desert, he never thought he’d call it home. He couldn’t imagine settling down in such a dead place. Now it was weird leaving the desert behind; the trees almost seemed threatening, loomed over him, their leaves barring his view of the open sky. He didn’t mind traveling through the forest or leaving the Sandlands; he just didn’t like it when Tango was riding in front of him. 

Tango was not to be trusted. Not yet. He spoke smoothly, easily – almost as easily as Scar. Though his gut screamed at him never to trust the man, Grian would have to see if Tango deserved his trust. He needed to denounce the Crastle, and maybe Grian would give him a chance. Until that happened, Grian considered the man a dangerous foe who could strike at any moment.

Tango did not strike. He did try to strike up a conversation, but Grian endured in silence. He did not allow Tango to talk him into something he needed a clear head for. Their conversations were limited to only the bare essentials to complete this journey – now doubly as long because Grian insisted they avoid Dogwarts territory altogether.

But soon the day came that they were going to arrive at the Crastle. This journey had only been part one; later, Tango would need to prove himself, and Grian needed to decide whether to trust him or not. It was going to be a tough decision.

The two arrived at a crossroads and they stopped there, to take a quick break. Grian stretched his back and looked around, his eye falling on two travelers coming from the left. He frowned – were they pulling a cow with them? And was that cow carrying stuff?

Tango noticed Grian stared in one direction and followed his gaze.

“Are they really dragging a cow—” he paused and then laughed. “Of course they are. It’s Scott and Jimmy.”

Grian looked at the two travelers on their left; they indeed looked like Jimmy and Scott, their features becoming more apparent the closer they came. And now, Tango and Grian were also recognized by these knights on horseback.

“Oh, hey, it’s Tango!” Jimmy said. “From the Crastle.”

He didn’t specifically shout out Grian. He didn’t mind; Jimmy may not fully recognize him – he’d been too busy talking to Scar the last time they met anyway – but Scott did recognize Scar’s right-hand man.

“That’s a lot of stuff,” Grian said. He looked at the cow; she was carrying large bags. How heavy were they? She seemed to carry them without any difficulty. Even the horses carried a little of the load, but not as much, as they also were ridden by their owners. To Grian, it seemed Scott and Jimmy had packed up half the stuff they owned.

Scott nodded and Jimmy glanced back at the pile.

“Yeah,” Scott said. “We are moving.”

“Moving?” Tango frowned. “But you just—”

“We know, we just got here,” Jimmy said in a dejected tone. He wasn’t too happy with the move. “Ren has become a little too pushy for our taste.”

Grian nodded; Ren’s true colors started to show; he tried to solidify his already solid position with powerful allies, such as the knights he sponsored for three years. Luckily, they still had some common sense to reject what Ren tried to push on them. They were not going to be used for propaganda or disposed of when Ren didn’t need them anymore.

“Either we fly his banner or we face the consequences,” Scott said. “Ren's words.”

“So we chose to run instead,” Jimmy added.

“We’re not running,” Scott corrected him. “This is a tactical retreat.”

“Oh, right, tactical retreat.”

This wasn’t right. They should have been able to live their lives the way they want to, without interference or pressure from Ren, or anyone else for that matter. Grian glanced at Tango and realized that, for the first time, they might be thinking the same thing.

“Well,” Tango said. “Good luck, you two.”

“Thanks,” Scott replied.

“You could help us out if you want.”

“Jimmy!”

Grian chuckled at this exchange.

“We’re kinda busy ourselves,” he said. “Good luck with the move. And Jimmy… I’m sorry about your last life.”

This entire time, Jimmy’s red gaze seemed to drag Grian down whenever it landed on him. From this close, his eyes were weary yet kind. This was the first kind pair of red eyes Grian had ever seen; Jimmy hadn’t deserved to lose his second life in Dogwarts castle, and though Grian couldn’t have foreseen he’d be there, he still felt guilty. The worst part was that Jimmy just shrugged.

“Don’t be,” he said. “You weren’t the jerk who blew up Dogwarts castle.”

Grian couldn’t tell whether Jimmy honestly didn’t know he was there, or if Jimmy didn’t want to believe Grian was capable of something like this. Would he forgive Grian? Would that change anything? Would it even matter?

“We need to keep moving,” Scott said. “Goodbye and good luck with whatever you’re doing.”

Tango and Grian said their goodbyes to the knights, on their way to their new life away from Dogwarts – just Scott and Jimmy and their cow, which Jimmy lovingly encouraged to keep on walking.

By the time the knights walked out of view, Tango and Grian’s break had come to an end and they climbed back on their horses. They still needed to ride a while if they wanted to reach the Crastle before nightfall.

At long last, the Crastle came into view in the low afternoon sun; its tower provided a nice background, almost a skyline above the trees of the forest ahead, growing the closer Grian and Tango came. Soon, their view was obscured by the branches and leaves and continued in a straight line, up a slight incline in a part of the woods that wasn’t well-traveled.

When they came to the foot of a small hill, Tango pulled on the horse’s reins and stopped.

“Are we here?” Grian asked.

“It’s a little up ahead,” Tango said. He nodded at the small hill while he dismounted his horse. “It’s quite well-hidden. Not many people come here.”

Grian got off the horse and tied him to the same tree as Tango had tied his horse. The two walked onto the hill. Tango bent through his knees and pulled a convincing grass-looking rug from the side of the hill. It revealed a small hole; barely big enough for anyone to crawl through.

“And this leads straight into the Crastle?” For all he knew, the hole could lead to nowhere, or it was trapped.

Don’t be ridiculous. When would he have had time to trap this tunnel?

“It does,” Tango said. “It’ll lead you to one of the storage rooms in the basement. You should be fine, just don’t draw too much attention to yourself.”

Grian glanced at the man. He considered it a good sign that Tango encouraged him to go into the secret tunnel, but something still felt off.

“Aren’t you coming along?”

“Oh, no,” Tango shook his head. “I wish, but the Crastle still trusts me. For safety’s sake, so they don’t suspect anything, we can’t be seen together. Besides, it's not like you're gonna get lost, it's just one way. No intersections. Good luck.”

That bastard.

Grian stood up and walked to the horse. He could easily untie him and ride back home. But the road was long and the tunnel was real, so he might as well check it out. It could be a bad idea anyway, but he could not in good conscious return and say Tango lied when he didn’t even inspect if his words were true.

He grabbed his little project; the mini bombs. He might be able to do something with those if the tunnel did lead into the Crastle and he ran into enemies. If not… when he died he was going to end up in the Sandlands anyway. It was an easy albeit painful way to return home.

Tango had waited at the hole. He uttered another ‘good luck’ as Grian sat on his knees and crawled into the tunnel. His back almost hit the ceiling in the pitch dark. He scraped his hands against the dirt and stones and hoped the whole journey wouldn’t be like this.

The tunnel widened and grew larger. Eventually, Grian could stand up and continue the journey on foot. Without a light source, he pressed his hand against the wall and followed it. The sides were made up of the same hardened dirt, with some larger stones hidden in its walls. His eyes eventually adjusted to the darkness and he could see a little ahead, his fingers still touching the wall as he continued.

The tunnel sloped downward and after a while, the walls were moist. He had to be walking under the Crastle’s moat. It wouldn’t be long before he found an exit. If there was an exit.

At the end stood a solid wall of polished wood. He placed a hand on the planks and gave them a little push. Nothing seemed to happen on the other side, but at least he heard nothing topple or rattle on the other side. He deemed it safe enough to push further.

Light streamed into the tunnel and Grian squinted his eyes. He could sneak through the hole he’d created. He indeed ended up in a storage room with barrels upon barrels of food. The panel he’d pushed was one of many, placed against the wall for a reason beyond his understanding, and a trapdoor in the floor.

He barely believed it. He was in. He was in! 

Maybe he could trust Tango after all.

Grian walked up the circular stairs, trying to memorize his route as he traversed the Crastle. He found a door and entered a long hallway that looked out over the courtyard.

He’d never been in the Crastle before. It was a nice castle with a large courtyard, enclosed by thick walls that housed all sorts of commodities, from the stables to the servant quarters. He also saw barely any guards. There were enough at the gatehouse, but those guys slacked off. They expected nothing; they had no idea Grian had snuck past them.

Grian targeted the nearest tower and entered it. The stairs were narrow but stable enough, and he passed door after door on his left as he climbed.

Someone came down. Footsteps from above, coming closer and closer. He pulled at the door, hoping nobody was in the room, and he ran in.

He was lucky. It seemed to be some sort of office space, or what had to pass for one. The room was empty, and Grian closed the door, hoping nobody needed to be in this room within the next few minutes, or he was screwed. Still, he stayed close to the door, listening carefully.

He heard them talk through the door. The lord and lady of the Crastle, coming down from their room. He couldn’t quite hear what they were saying, but it had something to do with someone named Joel. They were gone before Grian could hear more of the conversation. He waited another minute before he left the office and continued his climb, now a target in mind.

Their bedroom was more functional than pretty. A round rug spread across the center of the room; their bed pushed with its head against the wall; a window looked out over the wall and the southern region of their kingdom; torches lit up the room, a desk to the side with possibly important documents.

As Grian looked around, the gears in his mind turned. Why not here?

He took out the one bomb that he’d finished and attached it to the bottom of the bed and turned on the device.

This was the bed where the lord and lady would end up upon death. What if they die, and then immediately die again? They were both on their yellow lives; if something happened to them and they appeared in their bed, the weight would be enough to set off the bomb and kill them again - even a little pressure would do the trick. He had a second bomb; it wasn’t finished, but he was sure he’d find someplace where it could do a lot of damage.

Sometimes, he wondered where these ideas came from.

The first step was done – the bomb was attached to the bed. Now for the second part: where to put the second bomb after it was finished?

Grian left the bedroom; he had nothing else to do there. He descended the stairs again, tinkering away in the light of the torches. What would be a place where a lot of people passed? Where the lord and lady would often come? Similarly, a place where only the lord and lady came would do great. The staircase wouldn’t do, since anyone could get caught up in this.

It would have been helpful to have Tango by his side now. His desire to keep a clean reputation with the Crastle was, in hindsight, ridiculous. If he wanted to leave, Tango had plenty of opportunities. He should not have stayed if it didn’t make him happy.

Either way, he found a target. The courtyard, an entrance to the tower. For a lack of a better spot to put it. Grian stopped walking as he came to the most complicated part of the creation process. If he didn’t do it right, he might screw up the bomb altogether and that was the last thing he wanted.

“Hey, you! What are you doing?”

Grian looked up. The Crastle did have guards, and one has finally spotted him. He probably should not have stopped in the courtyard, near the doorway – if he’d continued walking, he might have drawn less attention to himself.

Still, a voice shouted at him that Tango had come all the way to the Crastle and informed them an intruder had found their way inside. Though Grian had no proof, his mind ran with it. He knew Tango couldn’t be trusted!

In his panic, Grian ran.

“Stop!” The guard shouted, and the alarm was raised.

Grian ran as quickly as he could. Where had he come from again? How the hell did he go there from this position? These guards had the home-field advantage. Grian had no idea where he was running to, but he had to go out of there. He had to.

He was nimble enough to avoid the guards. Some drew their swords and tried to hit him. He could feel the blades barely graze him, miss him, but Grian ran. He had to keep going.

He almost ran past the familiar door. He slipped, ran back the feet or two, and almost jumped down the stairs three steps at a time; everything to stay ahead of the guards who followed him down the storage room.

Inside, Grian’s eye fell on the trapdoor. He pulled at the heavy wood and let it fall open with a thud. He sprinted to the panel that obscured the secret tunnel. He pulled at it when he was in the tunnel, until only an inch was left and the guards entered the room.

Grian remained quiet, did not move. He covered his mouth with his hand stayed out of the little light that fell through the crack. He listened; the guards look around, walking. One of them shouts something about the trapdoor. One went in, and the others followed.

Grian backed away from the secret entrance; slowly, carefully, while his heart beat in his throat. He wasn’t letting them get close to him in case they found the panel. After what felt like forever, Grian turned and ran through the dark tunnel.

It was hard to keep running at the same speed. His left side hurt; he wasn’t used to running that much, that intensely. He pushed through the pain. Soon, he’d be back on his horse. Back to the Sandlands. To tell Scar to never trust Tango and to kill him on sight for this nasty trap that Grian almost had walked in. Just a little further; just a little higher; just a little faster. You can rest on the horse.

The tunnel narrowed. Grian had to crawl again. His side started to hurt even more. He sweated like crazy, too, but something wet and warm spread in the area where it hurt.

He climbed out of the hole. The guards weren’t here; they must still be looking around their Crastle. Surprise, Tango was gone too, but he’d left his horse. Strange – why run when you can ride your horse? – but he had no energy to think about it. His side took up all the attention.

Grian placed his hand there, on his shirt; it was wet, warm, but not like a sweaty patch was. That part of his shirt was drenched, had colored darker. He pulled his shirt up, carefully, and saw the wound and the blood.

He’d been hit. The adrenaline was wearing off, the wound throbbed, cut in his very core. This wasn’t surface level – it hurt too much to be surface level.

How had he missed this?

He could deal with that later; he needed to get away from the Crastle.

With great effort, Grian climbed on his horse and rode away. He barely steered the horse in the right direction; he let the horse gallop in the general direction of the Sandlands. He held on to the reins with one hand, the other pressing on the wound to stop the bleeding. The situation was precarious, but he had to press on. He had to get out of the forest. Preferably to a village.

Why hadn’t he packed healing potions? Even basic medical supplies and painkillers could have helped him. Why hadn’t he prepared for this eventuality?

The wound had stopped throbbing while the night fell. It went numb, but so did the rest of his body. It siphoned all of his energy; it clouded his mind and almost blurred his vision at times. He barely had time. He had to get out of there.

He had to.

He stopped paying attention. His focus was on staying awake long enough to find signs of life. Not necessarily someone to save him, but someone to be there when it happened. Someone to look at him, lie to his face that it was going to be okay, that it was just like falling asleep because that's what it felt like. Someone to take his mind off of the pain, off of the forest that scared him more every passing second and the dangerous mobs that hunted him.

Someone. That’s all. Just someone. Anyone.

The horse reared and neighed. Grian fell off, unable to hold on. It was a miracle the horse didn’t trample him. Something had scared it and it ran away, leaving Grian on the ground. His eyes were on the sky. It was no longer pink and red and orange; it was a dark blue that only grew darker. The mobs would come out soon. They'd consume him soon.

One star was visible in the sky. One star he kept his eyes on. Something nice to focus on as he tried to hold on. As his mind drifted.

He needed someone.

What would Scar do if he realized what happened?

Tango better not show his face in the Sandlands again.

Neither should Jimmy and Scott. They’re good. Too good.

What if the lord or lady goes to bed?

It snapped him back to reality. Dread set in. What if the lord or lady goes to bed?

He’d be a monster. He’d be the most terrible person walking around in this world. He wouldn’t deserve the green life he was on, nor the yellow life he’d be on soon. He didn’t deserve the company of anyone but the zombies who’d emerge from the shadows and tried to rip the flesh from his body.

His eyes fluttered, his vision blurred; he barely noticed the glow of a torch or lantern to his side. He didn’t have the energy to think about it, either, as he sank away into unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

The notion of war scared people. It led them to desperate situations – or drove them to Impulse’s workshop, begging for something. Impulse provided them with whatever they could afford, often at a discount, so he could at least provide them with a decent enough dagger. Everyone should have the means to defend themselves, even if nothing but raids would ever make their way to these parts of the Riverlands.

Impulse’s mind wandered to his latest conversation with Tango and the topic that came up. Neutrality. Not taking any side. It was easy enough so long as he accepted all customers; not that it would be an issue. He was located in the Riverlands, near Dogwarts. He wasn’t going to have many, if any, Sandlands customers. It’s easy to see why someone would think he’d picked a side when all he did was pick a nice spot to settle in years ago.

He hadn’t had to make a hard call yet; the Crastle and Dogwarts were good allies. If something happened to that alliance… Impulse wouldn’t know where to go. Who to turn to.

Maybe there was one person he could go to. But even that meant he’d have to pick a side, since Skizz is loyal to Dogwarts and Impulse wasn’t ready to turn his back on the Crastle on a whim.

After opening hours, the bell rang as the door swung open. Skizz walked into the workshop, proud of something, carrying a shield. Impulse didn’t mind, but he thought it was a weird choice.

“What’s up, homey buddy,” Skizz greeted his best friend. A sense of safety came over him when he heard his best friend’s voice, a smile appearing on his face.

“Hi, Skizz,” he said. “I’m sorry, this place is a mess. I wasn’t expecting visitors and—”

Impulse’s eyes fell on the shield; it normally was just blank, without any decoration. Today, a banner had been attached to it. A blood-red banner, with a small white patch left at the bottom. Ren’s banner – Impulse had seen these in Riverbed, too, displayed by those who hoped to get Dogwarts’ protection in the long run. He hadn’t expected to see one on his friend’s shield.

Maybe he should have.

“Is that Ren’s banner on your shield?” he knew the answer but asked nonetheless.

“It is!” Skizz exclaimed, nodding enthusiastically. He proudly held his shield, almost shoving it in Impulse’s face so he can see its splendor. “Looks cool, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, it does,” Impulse said nervously. It did look cool, but the implications of the image were less than ideal. “So it’s true what they’re saying, huh?”

Skizz lowered the shield. He finally took it off, letting it lean against the wall while Impulse spoke.

“Yep. He’s risen as the Red King and he’s got a plan to deal with Scar, and that’s awesome. But we’re gonna need a lot more powerful weapons.”

 Impulse nodded. He tried to ignore it, but couldn’t – the ‘we’ when he referred to Ren. This wasn’t only a visit from his best friend; business was attached to it. How could Impulse refuse a request when it came from Skizz’s hands? How could he refuse a request from the Red King himself?

“And I’m gonna have to deliver, haven’t I?” Impulse guessed.

Skizz nodded. “Yeah, but I’ve got something for you here…” He patted his pockets until he found what he was looking for. He pulled a neatly folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it over to his friend. “A letter from the Red King himself.”

“Thanks,” Impulse said nervously as he took the letter. It was short and simple and it clearly communicated what Ren expected from Impulse without the usual dramatic flair. Impulse read it once, twice, and nodded pensively.

It was a formal request, barely half a page long. Ren politely asked if Impulse wanted to be Dogwarts’ weaponsmith and provide them with the tools they will need to defeat Scar. Of course he would be compensated accordingly. He signed it as the Red King.

Skizz waited in anticipation. “So, what do you think?”

“Official Dogwarts weaponsmith,” Impulse read out loud. He took a deep breath. ”That is a good title.”

But what responsibilities would be tied to said title? What expectations came with this title that were left unmentioned?

“I know. What isn’t there to like?” Skizz said, almost bouncing with excitement. “You get an awesome red banner like this one for your shield and an extra one to hang outside, to show your allegiance. You’ll have the protection of the Red Army, which is amazing, by the way, we’re a loyal bunch. And of course, we get to see each other a lot more again. we can hang out more! Just like old times. And together, we’ll crush Scar! What do you think?”

Impulse stared at the letter. The rumors had reached him; Ren had Martyn take his second life. Ren had wanted to die again to send Scar a message.

But rumors could only be rumors. Impulse had known Ren since they were kids; while he always had been a little dramatic, he never once came up with such a horrible idea.

Then again, he’d also seen the hatred in Ren’s eyes when Scar was mentioned. He knew how heated Ren could get at even the implication of his half-brother and he’d mutter choice words under his breath. Scar was on his mind more than Impulse could imagine, and he loathed his half-brother’s behavior enough to want him dead.

Impulse knew the outcome when Skizz handed him the letter. He thought about the villagers in Riverbed and their whispers about Ren, afraid that he would be able to magically hear what they had to say. When villagers were scared, Impulse knew to be wary.

It made Skizz’s enthusiasm a little worse.

“I’ll be there,” Impulse said. Skizz pumped a fist in the air, celebrating this small victory. “Let me gather some prototypes.”

If he was going to Ren, he might as well start to get on his good side early with some commissioned weapons that lay around. They were never picked up, never paid for, never delivered because the person who ordered them passed away for good. A few excellent weapons were in the storage and with some polishing, these weapons were fit for a king. Fit for a good first impression.

“Great!” Skizz said, glancing outside. “It's getting dark, though. Do you mind if I spend the night here?”

“No, not at all!” Impulse shook his head. it would allow him to spend more than an hour or three with his friend. It would almost be like old times, when they stayed over at each other’s castles for weeks on end.

Those times had gone and their priorities had shifted. Where were the times going to take them next?

Impulse stumbled when dread, grief, sorrow washed over him. He held on to the nearest table for a few seconds, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths. These death waves always came at the most inopportune times; he couldn’t even be mad about it, for it signified such an important thing in life.

Behind him, he heard Skizz’s armor clang against a table, too. Impulse turned his head, Skizz leaned against a table, his gaze on the floor, taking similar deep breaths. His usually cheery demeanor had made way for a serious one.

Their eyes met.

“You okay, Skizz?”

“No.” He sighed. “You?”

“I could be better.”

“Who just died?”

Impulse shook his head. “I don’t know.”

It could be anyone. But the pool of people was narrowed down significantly since both Impulse and Skizz had felt the death wave. It had to have been a mutual friend or enemy. Because Impulse didn’t really have enemies, it could only have been a friend.

But which one?

“Well, I’m glad it’s not one of us,” Skizz said. Impulse nodded, and his grateful and sorrowful gaze met Skizz’s similar gaze.

Skizz took a couple of deep breaths and cleared his throat. He insisted they go upstairs to rest a little; after this death wave, neither really wanted to do anything. Still, Skizz insisted on making some dinner, even if he wasn’t the best cook. Impulse wanted to get some words in, too – to help Skizzout in the kitchen – but his best friend wouldn’t budge. The meal wasn’t great, but it tasted all the better knowing Skizz poured his heart and soul into it.

And they talked, about anything and everything. Impulse complained about work while Skizz recounted his heroic adventures with Jimmy and Scott, taking turns while the moon rose over the Riverlands.

This was one of the best nights in recent history, even if the lingering aftereffects of the death wave tried to bring the mood down.

The next morning, Impulse and Skizz left for Dogwarts Castle, so Impulse could be initiated into the Red Army and he could present his gifts, the prototypes, to Ren.

The Red King. Not Ren. It was gonna take a while to get that right.

It was only a short journey – or maybe it only seemed that way because Skizz entertained him with more stories. In any case, Dogwarts castle came into view in all its glory.

Impulse was never not impressed by the structure. Its walls were majestic, its towers reaching to the sky. From this side, they could not see the damage the Sandlands have done. Still, this action affected Dogwarts. Impulse noticed double the amount of guards at the gatehouse, and everyone seemed to be in a higher state of alert. The friendly faces that once nodded at him in passing now glanced suspiciously until their gaze fell on Skizz’s red banner, which let them know these visitors could be trusted.

That red banner was also what gave Skizz free access to the castle. Maybe it wouldn’t be bad to have one of those displayed at his house.

One of the servants came and welcomed them to Dogwarts castle. The guests dismounted their horses, who were brought under the good care of the stable boy. Impulse held on to his prototypes, wrapped in a blanket. He wanted to use something fancier to transport them, but in his hurry, he found no other solution.

A servant girl led them from the courtyard into the castle, to the Red King’s great hall.

Impulse’s step faltered a little when he entered. The atmosphere changed; something about this did not feel right. Skizz did not notice and walked into the room and Impulse quickly followed.

The great hall was a prime example of Dogwarts’ simple but powerful style. There were not many ornaments, but what little decoration there was, was effective. The pillars supporting the roof were sleek and the sunlight coming through the large circular window cast large shadows on the ground. It could house hundreds of men, but only five were present.

Ren sat on his throne, located on a stone platform only slightly higher than the floor, his back straightened and his proud gaze on his guests. A beautiful new crown rested upon his head, its red and gold glistening in the sun. On his right, next to him on the platform, stood Martyn. He looked more reserved, his hands clasped behind his back. The three bannermen stood on Ren’s left, but not on the platform. Joel, Bigb, Etho.

Impulse glanced at the bannermen. He wasn’t surprised to see Joel and Bigb here, but Etho was a surprise. A well-known mercenary, purposely chaotic, unpredictable. Impulse had seen Etho walk around Riverbed a couple of times in the past. When his eyes landed on the mercenary, he couldn’t tell if Etho recognized him or not. He wasn’t sure what would be better.

How did Ren convince Etho to join the Red Army?

Why were they here? As far as Impulse was concerned, the three bannermen weren’t required to be here. Only Ren had the authority to make Impulse a member of the army; it was expected that Martyn would be there, but now there were more witnesses.

The coronation happened three weeks ago. Had the lords gone home since then? Had Etho left the walls of Dogwarts castle since then? Impulse didn’t want to believe they had only been called back here to see Impulse become a member of the Red Army. Ren couldn’t have known Impulse was going to agree.

He could have assumed.

Had Ren called them together on an assumption?

“Here he is, my King,” Skizz said with a deep bow. Impulse mirrored Skizz, but he bowed less smoothly, still carrying the weapons in his arms.

Ren rose from his seat. It seemed he threw his full length into this one action, and his gaze was firmly on Impulse.

“Welcome, Impulse,” Ren said, his voice echoing against the walls. “What have you brought us today?”

Impulse took some deep breaths as he placed the blanket on the ground, opening the little package he’d made. He looked up at Ren.

“I present to you, the best weapons diamonds can buy.”

Impulse let them stare for a while; enchanted netherite battle axes and swords, infinity bows, in all shapes and sizes. Impulse picked up one of the best netherite swords and offered it to Ren.

The Red King took the sword in his hand and inspected the blade curiously, not leaving a single inch uninspected. In the silence, Impulse wondered how many people could hear his heart beat out of his chest.

“This is some fine weaponry,” Ren said. He looked at Impulse with a borderline arrogant smile on his face. “Thank you for your gift, Impulse. Welcome to the Red Army.”

The others applauded politely; Skizz celebrated a little more excitedly, almost pushing his friend to the ground as he attempted an enthusiastic side-hug.

“Yeah!” he exclaimed, a wide grin on his face. “That is amazing!”

Impulse nodded, breathless. This had gone better than expected. And quicker, too – he thought he'd have to sit through a whole ceremony. Maybe it was better this way; Impulse didn’t want to know how he would have handled a dramatic ceremony.

Ren turned to his brother. “Martyn, bring him the banners for his home and shield.”

“Yes, my king,” Martyn said and he disappeared behind the scenes. He’d be back soon. for now, Ren turned his intense gaze back to the newest member of the Red Army. Impulse looked at that face and could no longer justify calling him ‘Ren’.

“Soon we will have the necessary resources to rid this world of Scar once and for all,” the Red King said. “Impulse, are you capable of mass-production?”

It took a few seconds before Impulse processed the words and he quickly nodded.

“I have sixteen employees. If all current orders are finished, we can focus fully on yours.” It would be tough, but depending on how big the order was and what they exactly had to make, it might be manageable. “My team can work quickly.”

The Red King grinned.

“That’s what I like to hear! Scar will not know what hits him.”

Martyn returned with the banners for Impulse; now he knew the Red King was convinced Impulse would not decline the offer. He thanked Martyn for the banners and gave him the blanket with the remaining weapons, so he could store them properly.

The tension lifted; the special occasion turned into a nice conversation between friends. That’s what Skizz would make it out to be; Impulse was painfully aware of the Red King sitting on his throne while he made conversation, and though he could never catch it, he was certain Etho was looking at him the entire time.

While it was a nice conversation between friends, Impulse couldn’t help but feel out of place. The weight of the banners seemed to increase, weighing him down.

So much for neutrality.

Chapter Text

The intruder was gone.

When they first spotted the young man, he ran away. Someone thought they saw him run down some stairs, into a dead-end storage room. But the intruder was nowhere to be found, and the guards spread out across the castle.

Tango had returned in a hurry. Cleo could hear him speak with the guards; about how he should have taken his horse, but he was too nervous; about the tunnel he’d shown the intruder. He tried to convince the guards of his innocence, that he had to gain Scar’s trust for a mission for the Crastle. They were inclined to believe him when Cleo said that was indeed his mission.

The intruder was gone and he left a little present behind.

Cleo’s attention was not with Tango, a few yards away from her, but on what the intruder had dropped when he first ran. She and her head guard approached the small object together. From the corner of her eye, she watched Bdubs enter the tower that housed their bedroom and offices with some of the guards, to inspect the premises.

Cleo sat on her knees and looked closely at the object, which she did not want to touch. It was easy to see the redstone dust shine in the torchlight, that reflected on the smooth iron hull. The third component of this would-be device interested her more: the dull grey of gunpowder, scattered across and beyond the hull.

“That’s a lot of gunpowder,” she said.

“That’s enough to kill someone,” the head guard said. “I don’t know what it was supposed to be, but it could have easily killed multiple people if the intruder had finished it.”

The redstone lay so close to the gunpowder – it was a miracle it hadn’t ignited when it hit the ground. How can such a small device house so much gunpowder? This was a dangerous thing, and she was glad the intruder had dropped it.

“Get rid of it,” Cleo told him. “And keep your eyes out for more of these. We can’t—”

An explosion rocked the Crastle. Cleo and the head guard turned their heads to the noise. It came from one of the towers; a wall crumbled, but it didn’t come down. Dread, sorrow, disbelief clawed at her from the inside as the death wave crashed into her and everyone else in the Crastle.

“Bdubs.”

She ran. The head guard shouted something, but she didn’t listen. Confused employees ran away, out of and away from the tower. Cleo passed them. She barely stopped to think; her love for this man was stronger than her sense of self-preservation. She had no idea what she’d run into, but Bdubs was there. Their bed was there. She had to see it.

The door of the bedroom stood ajar, only hanging onto the wall with one hinge. Cleo pushed it aside and entered their bedroom.

It was a mess. Grit rained from the roof that didn’t look stable anymore. A couple of stones had fallen to the floor, through the floor, a small hole leading to the office below. The walls may be unstable, too, but they were the safest option of traversing the room at this point. The window was gone, with only a few shards remaining in the frame. And there, against the wall, the bed was obliterated, a mass of wood and torn blankets and feathers. A groan came from this mass.

“Bdubs?”

“Cleo…” his voice was weak, frail, quiet. Cleo’s heart skipped a beat. “Cleo…”

She carefully walked into the room, near the walls, and crawled on the ruins of the bed. Something creaked; she slowed down but never stopped.

There he was, hidden under torn blankets on his side of the bed. A feather had landed on his forehead, and the pieces of blankets covered his stomach, left leg, right foot. He trembled, his eyes were closed, his chest rapidly rising and falling. His shivering hand reached for the direction he heard her voice come from.

“I’m here,” Cleo said, fighting back the tears. She took his hand. “Bdubs, I’m here.”

He squeezed her hand. It wasn’t a soft squeeze to signal that everything was going to be okay. He squeezed hard enough to break something.

Cleo shook her head. This was all kinds of wrong. Deeply wrong and unjust. What kind of monster would go for the bed?

Someone else ran up the stairs, hasty footsteps coming closer. Cleo turned her head.

Tango didn’t even enter the room. He just stood in the doorway, horrified, one hand over his mouth, stumbled backward until he found support in the wall behind him, choking on tears.

“Get help,” she said. Tango nodded once and ran out of sight. He was just as shocked as she was, maybe a little more. Cleo didn't have time to think about it; Bdubs pulled her right back with him in the moment.

“It hurts…” Bdubs moaned in between rapid breaths. “Everything hurts…”

“I know,” she said. “We’re gonna get you out of here.”

He wasn't really listening. He could only focus on the immense pain, the indescribable pain Cleo wished she could take away from him and pass it on to the bastard that did this to him.

“I sat down,” he said. “I sat down. There was an explosion. The blast…”

“Shut up,” Cleo told him. “Just shut up. You can tell me later, when you’re feeling better.” Not now. Not when every syllable that escaped his lips hurt him even more than the one that came before. Not while his face was stuck in a permanent grimace of pain.

Help better arrive soon.

“Threw me on the bed,” he stubbornly persisted. “At least it didn’t kill me.”

Bdubs opened his red eyes and looked at Cleo. She looked past the color and only saw the confusion, the pain, the fear. She didn’t have the heart to tell him, so she said nothing. She took the feather from his face and stroked his hair. She stayed there, letting him crush her hand, didn’t even think of getting herself to safety. Not while Bdubs was still here, in danger.

He glanced away from her face to the hand he held. He loosened his grip; just barely.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Cleo pressed her hand against hers, almost forcing him to retake that deadlock. “Squeeze harder if you must.”

He didn’t squeeze harder. He did look at her face, her determination, her unmoving loyalty, and he didn’t squeeze as hard as before. His breathing slowed a little, too. Calmer.

She wished she could take his place.

At long last, Tango arrived with the medics. Cleo moved out of the way, to allow them to come closer to Bdubs. Tango, she noticed, did not enter the room, shamefully looking the other way. From a relatively safe distance, she watched how the medics tried to move him. Bdubs gasped, yelled briefly, hissed in pain. He still tried to stay strong for everyone in this room and beyond.

The medics had moved him onto a stretcher. They picked it up, carrying him from the broken bed and through the open door, past Cleo and Tango. Cleo followed them to a spare room in another wing of the castle. The bed wasn’t as big there, but it would have to do.

After the short, quiet walk, the medics placed the stretcher on the bed and then moved Bdubs in it. He barely dared to whimper as they placed the blankets on him. One of the medics gave him a potion of healing. He almost choked on it and it sent him into a coughing fit, but he drank most of it. This reaction made the medics wary of giving him another.

They left potions of healing and regeneration on a vanity, nodded politely at Cleo in sympathy, and left. There was not much else they could do – you can’t really do much when someone awakes in a broken bed. Cleo wished they could have done more; she wished some potion existed that took all the pain away. But she knew how bad it was, as did the medics. They knew how little they could actually do.

It angered her. But that anger was quickly overridden with worry for her best friend on the bed.

She sat down next to him. His hand found hers again; they were sweaty now.

“Are you feeling… better?” as if better was even the right word in this context.

“The potion didn’t do anything,” he whispered.

“Not yet,” Cleo said. “Give it some time to work.”

“Time…” he scoffed.

A potion of healing should work instantly. Bdubs may be in extreme pain, but he fully realized which potion he attempted to drink and he knew it should have at least made him feel slightly better. But it hadn’t. His situation hadn’t changed; still trembling, still rapid breath. His gaze softened a little, staring at Cleo with fear unlike what she had ever seen in his eyes.

She stood up. He squeezed her hand harder.

“Stay,” he said. “Please.”

Her hand slipped out of his.

“What makes you think I’m going anywhere?” Cleo said as she walked around the bed. With her clothes still on, she stepped in the bed and pulled the blankets over her, readjusting them where Bdubs lay. She did not take her eyes off of him; her dedication, friendship, loyalty might make whatever he was going through a little more bearable. “I’m not leaving my best friend to suffer alone.”

And he stared with those big eyes. He was afraid, in pain, on the verge of tears. Even after all these years, he didn’t want to cry in front of her.

“Will you try to sleep?” she then asked. “I’ll do the same.”

The sun had set in the meantime, the moon lighting up the castle. They couldn’t really see it from their position, but she was there, in the sky.

“I’ll try,” he said, nodding once.

“Good.” She didn’t wish him a good night; in what universe would this be a good night?

She closed her eyes, but couldn’t fall asleep. The images of the last hour or so replayed in her mind. These would show up in her nightmares when she regained the ability to sleep. What happened tonight wasn’t just something you could sleep off.

Bdubs sniffled and sobbed quietly, so he wouldn’t wake her up. Cleo placed a hand on his shoulder and slowly rubbed it. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

He placed a hand on hers and cried.

They fell asleep in this position.

Three weeks had passed and the situation hadn’t improved.

The first day had shown how much he suffered. It seemed the light made it worse. Bdubs was in too much pain to move too much. As the days slowly crawled by, if he was feeling fine, he could sit up in the bed and do some work from there. Walking was not an option; every attempt, his legs trembled and he was hit with vertigo and a nasty headache that wouldn’t go away for hours. Even the short walk to the desk was too much.

So he worked from bed whenever he could. This wasn’t the best option, either. Sitting upright drained him and too sudden arm movements sent jolts of pain through his arms. Still, he persisted, wanted to be of some use still. Cleo often found he dozed off as he tried to write a letter or report. While a potion of regeneration gave him enough energy to finish his tasks, it did not prevent him from slipping back to sleep when it wore off.

At least he slept. At least he could regain some of that energy.

Ren and Martyn visited on the second day, when Bdubs could barely move without a whimper or a hiss. Ren promised medicine and potions to alleviate his pain, putting his best medics and healers to the task. The first shipment hadn’t come through yet, but Cleo expected them any day now.

Cleo hated leaving him alone. She wanted to be there for him, but she too was busy. She needed to run the Crastle when he couldn’t, which unfortunately meant leaving his side.

When she roamed through the Crastle, she’d have these fits of rage towards the intruder that placed the trap. He was from the Sandlands, Tango said. If he’d known what would happen, he would never have brought the intruder here, Tango said. Cleo forgave Tango – he could never have known, was backed into a corner – and instead directed that rage to the Sandlands and that unknown face that had condemned Bdubs to the worst life possible. If they ever crossed paths, she’d gladly slaughter him three times over in the most gruesome ways. Anything to rival the suffering her best friend was going through and still tried to hide from everyone.

One of her duties as Lady of the Crastle was seeing guests; today was no exception. She greeted this guest with her diamond sword in her sheath on her hip and her loaded enchanted crossbow in her hands.

Lord Scar of the Sandlands walked into the Crastle hall, toward Cleo. She seriously debated how big the consequences would be if she shot him; for now, etiquette and status protected him again. He stopped at a respectable distance and bowed politely in front of her.

“A very good afternoon to you, milady.” He lifted his head again. “You don’t need to point the crossbow at me.”

She held it loosely in her hand, her eyes on Scar. If he so much as made the wrong move…

She commended herself for her restraint.

“What are you doing here?”

She could take a guess. At least he decided that arrogant grin was not the way to go; a sober and polite smile instead graced his face, his gaze not as intense as she remembered it.

“I’ve come before you,” he began, “with no armor or weapons, to put my last life in your hands as I’ve come to bring my condolences.” The smile disappeared, leaving only sorrow. He lowered his voice. “I heard about the accident. How is he doing?”

“He’s suffering.” Cleo took aim again. “Exactly as you’d like it.”

“What? No!” Scar exclaimed. “No, I never wanted this. My fight is with my stupid half-brother in Dogwarts, I have no qualms with the Crastle. And the bed…” He shook his head. “It’s never okay to go for the bed. Ever. I hope whoever did that will suffer for their crimes.”

Cleo did not know what to think. the intruder came from the castle; Scar had asked his underling to go with Tango. Still, this sounded authentic. Cleo reminded herself of his late wife, who died and returned to a broken bed. He had first-hand experience with seeing a loved one suffer and not being able to do anything about it, however much you wanted to.

She was inclined to believe him. Cautiously. The intruder could have acted on their own accord or because Scar told him to.

Scar scraped his throat. “I have also come to offer my support and resources. Whatever you need to keep your husband in as little pain as possible, so he may one day regain his strength. Or as much strength as he can regain.”

“What’s in it for you?” The offer was nice, but this was still Scar. Predictably unpredictable. A loose cannon. These deals could easily involve Crastle services in exchange for the promised services and goods. As soon as she’d finished speak, Scar shook his head again.

“Nothing. There are no benefits from me. I will give from the goodness of my heart and ask for nothing in return.” He paused. “Unless, of course, you’d want some company.”

“Company?” she wondered out loud and checked the crossbow. Still good. Her glare landed on Scar again. “Don’t you have someone to confide in at home?”

Scar glanced away from her while he answered. To look sad.

“I lost him. I don’t know what happened to him, but I… if he’s dead, he should’ve woken up in his bed, but he hasn’t. I wish I knew what happened to him, to know he’s safe, if…” He sighed and turned his gaze to Cleo again. “Apologies, milady. You probably don’t want to hear me ramble about Grian.”

“You’re right,” Cleo said curtly. “I don’t.”

“Besides support,” Scar continued, “I would also like to offer you protection and I want to caution you against Ren.”

Cleo let out a laugh – the first in weeks. “Against Ren?”

“Yes,” Scar nodded. “It may sound like I’m trying to convince you of his evil because I know he’s evil, but it’s not my goal today to convince you of anything. As I said, I merely want to caution you.”

“Ren is a friend.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Scar said. “And I won’t judge you, but he’s changing. He’s going insane – and it’s not just the regular red life insanity everybody’s always talking about, I mean wild insanity. He killed himself to send a message, what kind of maniac would do that?” He shook his head in disapproval. “He’s going drunk with power, he can’t handle it. And those who fly his red banner are just as delusional and sycophantic.

“He knows Bdubs is weak. I bet he’s already been here to scout out the situation under the guise of giving condolences. We’ve seen how Ren can be – he’ll take what he wants and he might have set his eyes on the Crastle. Once Bdubs is gone or is, God forbid, even weaker, he might strike you. If he comes again, keep a dagger close. Just in case.” He nodded once. “I just wanted to let you know.”

Cleo eyed the lord before her. He seemed to speak sincerely, but it was debatable whether he really cared. At least his hatred for Ren was genuine, though would it translate into concerns for the Crastle? whatever his plans were, they did result in him bringing his (possibly genuine) condolences and offering support and protection.

She wasn’t putting away the crossbow just yet.

“What kind of protection do you offer, then?” she asked if only to entertain him.

“You know, protection,” Scar said. “I don’t want to alarm Ren with my presence in this area, but should he ever threaten you or turn on you, you may always call on me and the Sand Army will march in your defense. You are always welcome in the Sandlands, and so is your husband. If you’d like, I can also throw in a couple of strong potions to help Bdubs function throughout the day.”

Cleo shook her head. What the hell was she supposed to do with this?

“I’ll think about it.”

Scar bowed his head. “That’s all I’m asking of you.”

“Now leave before I put an arrow through your head.”

“As you wish,” he said, attempting to charm her with a sober smile. It didn’t quite work. “Have a good day, milady. I’d ask you to give my well wishes to Bdubs, but I doubt he wants them.”

And Scar turned and left the hall. Cleo was alone again, and his words echoed in her mind. What a slimeball.

Still, she annoyingly found something they both agreed on: Ren was someone to be wary of.

Chapter Text

Impulse was a wonderful addition to the Red Army. Though he would not be a commander or stay on the frontlines, the service he provided was priceless. His weapons were excellent, the finest the Riverlands had to offer. Not even Dogwarts was home to such a fine weaponsmith as Impulse and his dedicated team. Even now, they were working hard to provide the army of Dogwarts with the best diamond gear. The sword Impulse had presented, which Ren had dubbed Red Winter, was one of the finest blades Ren ever had the privilege to wield, and everything else was of equal quality. The rest had been divided equally among the Red Army.

Maybe, when the war was over, Ren would offer him a more permanent position. An offer Impulse couldn’t refuse; comfortable for the rest of his lives.

But now, they needed to prepare for the coming battle. Their spies had scouted out the barren terrain of the Sandlands, highly unfit for battle. The Sand Army had set up within the ridiculous walls Scar was building; only now the gates were being added. If the army stayed within the walls, choking them off at these gates and forcing a fight there might be an option, as there was no other way in or out. This would also mean they'd have to fight in the sand, and that was something Ren's army wasn't used to. Ren liked to keep his options open, and so he explored other possibilities.

Across the room, Martyn sat and looked over similar reports. Ren glanced in his direction, a proud smile coming to his face. He sometimes still saw the little boy that followed him around, always wanting to play with his big brother. Martyn had grown into a great warrior, a loyal man. Ren’s heir, by lack of an available lady to marry and have children with. Ren should make work of that after he beat Scar.

For now, Martyn was more than enough, the perfect heir to the Red Throne. Ren could already picture him being crowned king after Ren inevitably died. The crown would suit him well. Ren’s only regret was that he wouldn’t be around to see it placed on his dear brother’s head.

A knock on the door brought him out of his thoughts. One of his guards opened it.

“Tango from the Crastle is here to speak with you.”

Ren and Martyn briefly locked eyes. They needed no words to know what the other was thinking. Ren turned to the guard and nodded once.

“Let him in.”

The guard disappeared from view and an anxious Tango walked in. He fidgeted with a loose thread on his shirt and took a deep breath before he put a smile on his face.

“Thank you for having me, Ren,” Tango said. He tried to sound confident. “It’s an honor to talk to you.”

“A friend of Bdubs is a friend of mine,” Ren said. The accident was still on the back of his mind, three and a half weeks after it happened. Such a cruel and pointless attack could only have come from Scar. “No need to be anxious. What brings you here?”

“My king, I foresee a terrible, terrible future,” Tango said. “A future I would like not to become a reality. A future where you might lose your life and Scar has taken your throne.”

Ren’s face hardened – why did Tango have to say that? The thought alone made his blood boil; as long as he was alive, Scar would never take his throne. He had to remind himself Tango didn’t mean disrespect – as a loyal advisor to the Crastle, Ren trusted him to a certain degree. Tango had no ill will towards Dogwarts. Hopefully.

“What makes you say that?”

“I have come to inform you of what I have been doing,” Tango said, his voice sober. “For the Crastle – for Dogwarts – I have come in good graces with the Sandlands. I’ve been gathering information to bring them down from the inside and to pass that on to you. Swords may kill, but information is crucial. The Sand people have accepted me among their ranks. They barely check what I’m doing as I do my investigations.”

“What kinf of information?” Martyn asked. Ren nodded to put more emphasis on Martyn’s valid question; what did Tango know already that could be of value?

“Many, many secrets,” Tango said. “I’ve found out their castle has a secret tunnel. I’m not sure if anyone knows about it. It’s at the back of the mountain. It’s hard to sneak around, because you can be spotted from miles away, but if you do make it, you can climb all the way to the heart of the castle.” He paused, possibly for dramatic effect. “I’ve also seen a certain llama in the stables, if you know what I mean.”

Ren groaned in annoyance. “Of course he still has the llama.”

The audacity. Of course he still cared for the animal he so carelessly stole, to the great humiliation of Dogwarts and the Crastle. Ren could already see the sickening grin on Scar’s face as he watched the llama be groomed and fed.

“That is some good information,” Ren said. “You should continue to do your work. If you find out anything at all that could turn the tide, you’re always welcome to come over.”

“If you’d like,” Tango said, “I can show you where the secret tunnel is.”

Ren had the feeling Tango talked specifically to him. It was a good instinct, as Ren was the king, but he couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed Tango would leave out Martyn. Martyn was fine with it – he hadn’t noticed or didn’t mind.

Though Ren wanted to see this tunnel for himself, he knew that was a stupid move. And thus he turned to the other option, which pained him.

“Martyn, you may go with him and check out this secret tunnel. Verify his claims. If this tunnel is real, at least one of us must know where to find it.”

Martyn nodded – he would never refuse this request. Maybe he was even glad to leave the castle. Ren placed a loving but firm hand on his brother’s shoulder, nodded once, and turned his head to Tango.

“So long as you and Martyn travel together, he will speak in my stead,” Ren said. “You may leave as soon as you’re able. Take whatever supplies you need.”

Tango bowed his head in respect, as he should.

“Thank you for your trust,” Tango said. His gaze fell on Martyn. “I can leave immediately if that’s fine by you.”

“That’s fine,” Martyn responded, maybe a little too quickly.

“Then go,” Ren said. “And be careful.”

Tango nodded and thanked Ren again. he left the room; Martyn stayed, to clean up his desk and the documents strewn about.

Ren stared at his brother, his arms folded. Worry already clouded his mind. Neither had ever gone to the Sandlands without the other. Images popped up: Martyn dying, Martyn alone, Martyn captured and tortured, and Ren nowhere near him. The images themselves were torturous. Ren tried to shake them off. Martyn was a skilled fighter. He was going to be fine.

“I won’t die,” Martyn said as he finished cleaning up the documents. “I’ll return home safely. Not before I’ve entered that tunnel, though.”

“You’d better,” Ren said. He approached his little brother. “Be careful, brother. Be cautious, even around Tango. We can never be too careful. If Tango does turn on you, you may kill him.”

“You have my word.”

Ren smiled. “Thanks, Martyn. Good luck with the journey.”

Martyn nodded and he left the room. As soon as the door fell back into the lock, Ren released a breath and slouched a little. He glanced at the empty chair and hoped it would not stay empty permanently.

Ren shook his head. He shouldn’t think like that. He shouldn’t let these thoughts dominate his mind. Martyn is going to be fine.

The Red King watched the duo ride away from his walls. He followed them for as long as it was physically possible. They eventually disappeared beneath the trees and Ren’s gaze lingered where they had gone out of sight.

Take care, Martyn.

The Red King returned to his regal duties. He worked with the same passion, though his mind wandered to Martyn every now and then. He countered every bad thought with a positive one. Martyn was fine, he was careful, he wasn’t dying. His duties provided a great distraction from thinking about Martyn and what exactly he was up to. He was fine; and if he wasn’t, Ren kept an eye on Martyn’s bed, just in case.

On the morning of the fourth day, he received word that Martyn was coming home. The news alone made Ren anxious, but he hid it well. He continued as if nothing had happened while he impatiently awaited the return of his brother, the return to safety.

The Red King watched Martyn ride back into view. He was alone; Tango was nowhere to be seen, neither lagging behind nor riding in a different direction. Ren frowned. He wondered what had happened, knowing Martyn would provide him with the answers soon.

When Martyn dismounted his horse in the courtyard, Ren approached him. In front of everyone, he gave his brother a big hug, which Martyn reciprocated. It was only a short embrace, and Ren took a step back.

“I told you I’d be careful,” Martyn said, a smile on his face. Ren grinned with him – he’d missed his younger brother, his right-hand man, his rightful heir, his true companion.

“I can see that,” Ren responded. “Did something happen to Tango?”

“He wanted to stay,” Martyn said. “Also was a bit of distraction so I could get away. It’d be a waste to travel here and back again to continue his job.”

Ren nodded – it sounded sensible. Still, he couldn’t help but feel there was some underlying threat.

“Did you see the tunnel?”

Martyn nodded. “It’s indeed hard to go to the location unnoticed, but we went under the cover of night. We crawled through the tunnel, came into the armory. Tango would have taken me deeper, too, if it weren’t for the guards patrolling the halls. He saved me multiple times from detection.”

Tango was a good man. But he could have easily played a part, too. Ren tried to cast the thoughts from his mind – Tango was aligned with the Crastle. He could be trusted. He'd saved Martyn; he could be trusted.

“What does your judgment say?” Ren wondered.

“I’m willing to trust Tango and the information he provides,” Martyn said. “I still wouldn’t let him too close to us, though.”

Ren nodded. Martyn was right to be cautious, as Ren felt the exact same. Tango was to be trusted and his word was to be taken seriously – but he had to be kept at a distance and his stories with a grain of salt.

Those were things they could discuss later. For now, Ren stared at his brother and smiled, his mind finally at peace again.

“Welcome home, brother.”

Chapter Text

Grian was lying in a bed. He had to be back home.

Something didn’t feel right. They say, when you die and awake, you don’t feel the pain your body was in. The pain was inflicted on the body that died, and not on the body that woke up. But Grian’s side throbbed and hurt, though less than before. Even the bed felt off. It wasn’t his bed, but someone else’s.

Someone else.

Grian sat upright with a jolt – his wound throbbed harder, hurt more. His hand shot to the wound and made contact with bandages instead of skin. Someone had bandaged him up while he was out.

That someone had also brought him to their house. It was a rather small abode, with a bed, a single chest, and a crafting table. Plain, undecorated wooden walls. One single glass bottle on the crafting table; it had been filled before, some droplets still inside, its purple color confirming this hadn’t just contained water.

Grian looked at the bottle with wide eyes. Potions were hard to come by in the desert; he didn’t know how it was in other parts of the world, but a bottle of anything wasn’t cheap at all. By the looks of this small abode, its owner may not be rich.

Grian couldn’t believe someone would give their valued potion to him.

The door swung open and, looking at his attire, a herbalist walked in. he stopped in his tracks when he saw Grian was sitting. They stared at each other for a while before the herbalist hurried to Grian’s side, a strict look on his face.

“Lay down,” he grunted. Grian frowned - that wasn't what he expected to hear. He wasn't sure if he expected anything.

“Lay down,” the herbalist repeating, putting pressure on Grian’s shoulder, forcing him to lay down. “You were hurt pretty badly.”

Grian nodded once. Yes, he must’ve been. His side hurt, and lying down alleviated the pain a little. He kept his eyes on the grumpy herbalist, who turned his attention to the crafting table. Many questions raced through his mind, but few managed to find their way to his mouth.

“This isn’t my bed,” Grian said. It wasn’t his bed, but he’d woken up in it. What happened to him that he ended up in this bed instead? What did the herbalist do?

“You’re still green, if that’s what you want to know,” he said, sorting the herbs he brought into his home. He barely looked at his patient. “You were lucky I was still out so late. You were lucky I had a regen potion on me, or you’d have ended up in your own bed. You’ve been out for two weeks.”

“Two weeks!?”

The herbalist didn’t respond. Maybe it was the medication, maybe it was the pain, maybe he was just groggy, but the information only seeped through into his mind gradually. He was still green, thank goodness; but he’d been suffering for two weeks. The pain that night was unbearable, even if the memory was locked away. So unbearable, he thought he was going to die.

Maybe he was supposed to. Maybe that's why it took him so long to wake up. 

“I was dying,” he said.

“You sure were,” the herbalist responded in a casual tone.

“You saved me. While I was on my green life.”

The herbalist turned to Grian and nodded once. “You’re welcome.”

Grian frowned. “Why?” Wasn’t it easier to let him die?

“Because people tend to forget their green life isn’t just a trial run, but a real life. A life you’re wasting when you do something stupidly deadly.” He shrugged. “Those are the same people who wouldn’t help a dying green life in need.”

But the herbalist helped. He understood the value of every life, not just a second or third. The thought had never crossed Grian’s mind before. Your green life was still a life, though people did tend not to think about that too much. Grian hadn’t necessarily forgotten, but he hadn’t realized it yet.

“Thank you.” He nodded at the man.

The herbalist shot him a smile. “You’re welcome, kid.”

He handed Grian a bowl of mushroom stew. Grian’s stomach growled when its smell made its way through his nostrils. The herbalist cautioned him not to gulp it down in one go, in case he would throw it up. Grian heeded the warning and carefully at the stew bite by bite, trying not to overdo it. The herbalist watched and stood by.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” he asked.

It wasn’t hard to see nor easy to deny. Spending three years in the Sandlands left a mark – or, in this case, a tan. One that did not go unnoticed.

“No, I’m not,” Grian answered truthfully. “I’m from the Sandlands, but…”

But I was born in Dogwarts. But my family used to live in Dogwarts. But I lost them. To this day, it still hurt. To this day, Grian wished he could see their faces one last time, before the house burned down. Before raiders came. Before the mobs finished off the survivors. Before Grian ran and stumbled upon Scar hours later.

“You’re planning to leave?” the herbalist wondered out loud, finishing the sentence for Grian. “Good. Do you still have family over there?”

“You could say that.” Did Scar count as family? It was the only family he had left.

The herbalist nodded sympathetically, moving to the crafting table. “It’s a good call to move away. I understand if it breaks your heart – it’s home, after all – but it’s really for the better.”

Grian frowned. “What do you mean?” As far as he knew, life hadn’t become any harder in the Sandlands – at least he hadn’t read any reports that the population was declining and fleeing. As far as he knew, Scar was doing his best to try and reinvigorate the economy and make the Sandlands a more attractive place to live and work.

The herbalist glanced at Grian – with sympathy, with pity. “I’m not sure why you and your family want to move away, but Lord Scar has doubled efforts to find rebels. Well, rebels… that’s what he calls them anyway. It’s basically anyone who’s critical of him. Whole families vanish in the middle of the night and people are blatantly arrested in the daylight. Not even children are spared.” He shook his head. “It can be such a beautiful country, but it’s heartbreaking to see the mismanagement and cruelty of its Lord.”

“Scar wouldn’t do that,” Grian blurted out. He expected the herbalist to mention it, to call him out or scold or correct him. But none of these things happened.

“Maybe so,” the herbalist said. “Even if he didn’t, his army and the desert raiders are carrying out his instructions. They could always make it worse in their arrogance.”

Didn’t every army have a couple of rotten apples? A couple of bad people that ruined the image because of their reckless actions? It surely wasn’t so bad everywhere in the Sandlands.

Grian would have to see it for himself, then.

He threw the bedsheets off of him and sat on the edge of the bed, ready to stand up – when his side stopped screaming. “I have to—”

“No,” the herbalist said. It shut Grian up. “You’re not leaving now. I’d rather see you on the road at full health than stumbling about, seconds away from yellow at any given moment.”

The herbalist’s tone was definitive. Grian pulled his legs back under the sheets, averting his gaze. Even if he’d wanted to walk around a little, he wasn’t sure how strong he was. He would’ve tried, if not for the herbalist’s tone. Maybe it was indeed better to stay in bed for a while. Heal up.

The herbalist sighed. “Hey, I’m sure your family is smart enough to lay low. Maybe they’ll even flee. When they enter Dogwarts, they’ll be safe. The Red King has been taking in refugees. If your family comes here, they’ll enjoy his protection.”

Grian frowned. “I’m in Dogwarts?” How far away from the Crastle had he ridden?

The herbalist nodded and approached Grian. He held a strangely green drink in his hand. A disgustingly thick green liquid sat in it, and the herbalist offered the glass to the boy.

“Drink this,” he said. “It’s not gonna taste great, but it’s gonna make you sleep. Some more rest will do you well.”

Grian hadn’t realized how tired he already was before the herbalist mentioned it. He’d been on high alert ever since the man had walked in, and now some trust had been built, the adrenaline faded away. Maybe he wouldn’t even need that drink.

Grian accepted the glass nonetheless. He refrained from sniffing it. He set it to his lips and drank as much as he could in one go. It was indeed disgusting; he almost spit it out again. He didn’t understand how he managed to swallow it.

He handed the glass back to the herbalist and lay down again. Finding a comfortable position wasn’t easy, but it wouldn’t matter; already he was feeling drowsy. He stared at the ceiling as his mind went over everything he just learned and tried to make sense of it all.

Scar’s not as cruel a leader as they portray him to be, right? He’d never intentionally do these things, right?

A week and a half later, Grian was strong enough to make the journey back home. He’d used the time to heal up and get some of his energy back. The wound didn’t sting and throb as much as before, as it was healing nicely. It’d still be a while before his side would feel normal again, but it was manageable for now.

The herbalist hadn’t wanted to let Grian leave just yet, but he understood the young man’s wishes. He wanted to go to his family and the herbalist could respect that. He deemed Grian fit enough to travel and prepared a package with dried food and water. Enough to last him until he returned home in the Sandlands. Armed with a decently-sized backpack with supplies and with a walking stick Grian was ready to leave.

The young man clasped his hands together in the respectful clasp of Dogwarts villagers and smiled at the herbalist.

“Thank you for your hospitality. I won’t ever forget this.”

The herbalist nodded – he, too, clasped his arms together out of respect for the boy he’d saved.

“You’re very welcome, Grian. Safe journey.”

Grian took one step, but turned to the herbalist again. “If I die, I’ll end up in your bed.” The thought just occurred to him. If he died, he wasn’t waking up yellow in his bed in the castle. He was going back to the herbalist and the bed he’d hogged while he was there. The herbalist waved the thought away.

“I’ll be there to provide you with more supplies if you do.” He sighed. “I’d rather you don’t, though. Find your family, sleep in your own bed. Bring them to safety.”

“I… I will,” Grian said with a pensive nod. “Goodbye.”

Grian turned around and slowly walked away. Away from the house where he was nursed back to health by a total stranger with a heart of gold. He looked back a couple of times; once when he’d taken a few steps; once when he reached the tree line and was about to enter the forest; once when he was in the forest and the house disappeared behind the trees.

He stopped and looked at the trees that blocked the view. He didn’t want to go back home. He did not want to return to the Sandlands. His time with the herbalist had been weirdly enjoyable, a lot less stressful than his days in the Sandlands would have been, always wondering when Scar would call him next. Grian was calmer, relaxed... maybe even a little happier than before.

But Scar needed him; he’d let Grian know on numerous occasions, and Grian had seen it many times. Scar needed him, and Grian couldn’t let him down. So he was going back home. Back to the Sandlands.

Maybe he should go the long way around. He hadn’t been in Dogwarts for such a long time; he might as well be a stranger in a strange land. He took a road that would loop past the Riverlands and the Forest Kingdom borders, only to loop back up to the Sandlands. Maybe he could enjoy the wonderful views he’d missed out on for three years. Scar needed him, but there was no rush. He managed without Grian for three weeks and a half; maybe a couple more weeks wouldn’t hurt.

His feet ached and his still recovering wound wasn’t happy with his decision, but Grian ignored them – he wouldn’t make any progress if he rested every time his feet and side hurt, anyway. It reminded him he hadn’t died. He was still green and he was going to enjoy the journey before he returned to the desert he called his home.

Whenever he could, he stopped at villages to stay the night; he slept wherever villagers found space for him. On some hay bales, on the ground, wherever they found a spot. If they offered a bed, Grian politely refused. When he died, he wanted to end up back with the herbalist. In the mornings, his hosts provided him with little more rations and Grian moved on to the next village.

The forest thickened on the way; he’d left the Riverlands and Dogwarts behind. The oak forest transitioned into a dark oak forest, with heavy trunks and a thick canopy that barely left sunlight in. Grian found shelter in a small cave when the sun set, ate one of his last carrots when the sun rose again. He continued his journey, unsure if he was going to come across another village before he entered the desert. If the map he was gifted was correct, after the prong in the road, he should take the one going north, to the Sandlands.

The last thing he expected to see was a shack by the road – it wasn’t quite a home yet, but it did look like a house, even if it was still under construction. Chests lined the road; a blonde man was rearranging something in the chest, while a blue-haired man was working on the roof. The blue-haired man spotted Grian came down from the ladder, saying something to his friend, who lifted his head and then looked at the young man coming to them. They looked familiar.

When they turned their heads to Grian at the same time, he knew it. Scott and Jimmy. Did they really decide to settle down here, in the middle of nowhere?

As Grian neared their shack, the wind carried a smell towards him – mushroom stew! Grian hadn’t had stew in such a long time. His stomach growled as Scott approached him.

“Hi,” he said. “Do you need some food?”

Grian nodded. If they were freely offering it, Grian wasn’t going to say no to that. Jimmy approached the two with a package and a map of the immediate area.

“Here you go, kid,” Jimmy said, handing him the map and the food package. “If you keep going straight ahead, you’re gonna reach a fork in the road. You’re gonna wanna go left toward the Forest Kingdom; if you follow the road, you’ll go straight into the Sandlands. Just a little while longer, and you’ll be safe.”

Grian glanced at the map while Jimmy spoke; his words sounded rehearsed. Or, rather, like he’d said them many times before. Even if they quit being knights, they couldn’t stop helping people in need. They’d seen and heard what was happening in the Sandlands, the Riverlands, Dogwarts. People fled; most from the Sandlands, few from the Riverlands and Dogwarts, toward the neutral Forest Kingdom. Some might need the supplies they provided.

Jimmy tilted his head and frowned.

“Have we met?” he asked. “I think I’ve seen you before.”

“No,” Grian said, shaking his head. He was surprised Jimmy didn’t remember him, but he wasn’t in the mood for this conversation. “No, we haven’t met before.”

“You do look familiar,” Jimmy said.

“Jimmy, stop harassing the kid,” Scott interjected. “Look at him. He’s traveling alone. Leave him be. Let him get to safety.”

Scott looked at Grian – he did remember Scar’s right-hand man, unlike his partner. He could have easily revealed who Grian was - but he didn’t.

“Thanks,” Grian said. For the map, for the food, for the anonymity.

“You’re welcome,” Scott said. “Now, off you go!”

“Safe travels!” Jimmy added as Grian walked away. He sighed in relief – he hadn’t been prepared for this encounter at all. All things considered, he probably did pretty well.

After another half an hour of walking, he came to the fork in the road; the forest already started to thin out. The road bent to the left, to the Forest Kingdom, and another road connected to it, leading north, to the Sandlands. Grian stood there for a while, staring at the place where the roads diverged, and he took a deep breath.

He looked to the left. He could go there. He could leave. He could finally arrive at the Forest Kingdom, three years late. Nobody would know. Nobody would know him. Truly anonymous. Truly free.

He could not go left. Scar needed him. Grian had been away for too long, now.

Grian tore his gaze away from the road leading to the Forest Kingdom and continued north.

Chapter Text

As promised, Impulse got to work as soon as he returned home. He told his crew exactly what needed to happen, based on Ren’s order, and though none were too thrilled about becoming a war machine, the promise of emeralds and diamonds was enough to silence the dissidents. Ren’s flag hung in the middle of the room; a reminder of who they were doing it for. A show of support.

Because flying a flag showed support, even if nothing else happened after.

Ren settled on sturdy iron enchanted gear for his men, as well as formidable diamond armor and weapons for himself and his closest allies. Impulse stepped down from his supervisor role for a while to help his employees with the large order. Impulse focused on the diamond armor and weapons, while his employees took care of the iron gear. The diamond gear couldn’t be anything but perfect. Because if it was less than perfect, Impulse wouldn’t know how Ren would react.

He pushed the thought to the back of his mind; he pushed any thoughts to the back of his mind, working tirelessly to produce the weaponry Ren had ordered. He had no time to wonder about Ren and his expectations; no time to wonder how Bdubs was doing; no time to wonder how Tango managed both sides. Any of these thoughts could unnecessarily distract him from the urgent work at hand.

So he worked, day in, day out, for almost a month straight. Maybe more – the days blended together. After the first week, the usual customers had spread the news that Impulse worked for the Red King now and that he had little time and space for their orders. They were happy for Impulse, scared they may be, and they stayed away so he could do his job. He missed the sound the bell made when a new customer walked through the door; now, he was surrounded by the familiar sounds of smithing in his workshop.

Impulse was surprised by the dedication and the speeds with which his crew worked. After four weeks of working non-stop, they had almost completed Ren’s order. Just a couple more chest plates, some paperwork, and general checks, and the order was ready to go. Impulse feared he wasn’t going to make the deadline, but with the diligence and hard work of his team, he’d make it. Maybe he couldn’t deliver the goods before Ren mobilized his troops – the timing was unknown to Impulse – but he could transport them to the battlefield and deliver them before any major battles break out. Ren was sensible enough to wait for the new and improved armor.

And then, some free time. Hopefully. He could almost feel the relief in the workshop – the relief that this job was almost done, that things were slowing down, that they could relax.

Impulse feared it wouldn’t be the case, but said nothing. He didn’t want to demoralize his workers with his suspicions about Ren’s plans after the fight with Scar. Maybe there wouldn’t even be any plans, and Impulse would have worried for nothing.

By the end of the month, Skizz decided to pay him a visit. These had become regular – what once was a spontaneous action made from the desire to see his friend again, almost became a chore, to check up on Impulse and the progress. Skizz probably didn’t see it that way, but regularity hadn’t been Skizz’s strong point in the past, and there was no doubt that Ren put Skizz up to this.

“Hey, buddy!” Skizz said and Impulse smiled at him. No matter the circumstances, hearing Skizz’s voice lifted his spirits.

“Hi, Skizz,” Impulse said. “You came at just the right time.” He had just finished one of the chest plates and wanted to bring it to the makeshift warehouse behind the workshop.

“I can see that,” Skizz said, that silly grin on his face. “When was the last time you actually got your hands dirty again?”

“It’s a large order,” Impulse retorted. “I thought I’d step in and help. It worked, we’re almost done.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

Impulse picked up the chest plate and lead Skizz outside, to the backside of the workshop. They barely had the space to store the order, so Impulse had thought ahead. He was going to have to transport the goods anyway, so why not store them in carts already? He left some tarp over it, to protect them from the sun – the summer had been kind so far and there hadn’t been any extreme weather. Impulse climbed on the nearest cart and placed the latest chest plate on top of it.

A few paces behind him, Skizz could barely believe his eyes. That was a lot of carts with weaponry and chest plates, all stacked up until nothing could fit anymore.

“Dude, that’s amazing!” Skizz exclaimed.

“I know, right?” Impulse beamed with pride for his team. This wouldn’t have worked if they weren’t as dedicated as they had been. “I still need to do some checks and not everything’s been made yet, but we’re almost there. Do you think this’ll please the Red King?”

“He’ll be pleased, alright!” He grinned widely at Impulse. “I don’t know how you and those guys in the workshop do it. You’re gonna deliver them in these carts, right?”

“Yeah, I thought I’d put them in carts immediately, so we don’t have to deal with storing them and then moving them all over in the carts and losing time that way.”

They weren’t technically his carts; he just rented them every time someone placed a large order and they wanted their weapons and armor delivered to them. Usually, these were lords and knights, and their orders were too large and too heavy to just be transported by a man on a horse. This time, Impulse rented the carts for a longer amount of time, paying their owner accordingly, and he’d return them as soon as the gear had been delivered to the Red Army.

“That’s smart,” Skizz said. “You’re so smart, buddy. Now it’ll certainly arrive on time.”

“On time,” Impulse repeated. The deadline was conclusive, yes – so they had to be in line with whatever Red was planning to do, right? Or did the red insanity go to his head already? How long was Ren willing to wait before he gave the official order to march to his half-brother?

“Say, do you know when the Red King’s going to war?” Impulse asked.

“Oh, that’s very soon,” Skizz said. “I’d say he wants to leave within two weeks, at the latest. He wants to stand at Scar’s ridiculous wall and go through the gaping hole he left there. Once we’re in, with your amazing weapons, we’ll easily cut him down as well as his army.”

His amazing weapons. Weapons made for war – weapons Ren was going to use to wage war. Impulse didn’t know why it bothered him so much. He knew what he was getting into when he decided he was going to produce weapons and armor. But noble intentions such as ‘arming the population for their defense’ fell flat when the Red King had weapons and armor made specifically for offense.

“So it’s really happening, huh?” Impulse said absent-mindedly.

“Yep,” Skizz said and he caught the distracted look on his friend’s face. He wiped the smile off his face and put a hand on Impulse’s shoulder. “Are you okay, buddy?”

Impulse wanted to nod. Instead, he sighed.

“I wish we weren’t going to war, you know?”

“Dude, me too,” Skizz said. “Me too. But we gotta do this. We’re gonna win this.”

Impulse shook his head.

“It’s not about winning or losing,” he said. “Someone’s gonna win, but someone else’s gonna lose. I’m not just talking about Scar. I fear for the people living in the Sandlands and the people of Dogwarts. It’s a conflict between Scar and Ren, but these people are gonna pay the price. Families ravaged, torn apart because their lands were occupied, attacked, their sons and husbands sent to war, never to return, the constant death waves…”

Silence fell, hung heavy from their shoulders. War wasn’t the solution. War was never the first resort, either. Ren had done everything he could to avoid a battle, right? Else this wouldn’t be happening. Else this shouldn’t be happening.

“That’s exactly what would happen if Scar wins,” Skizz said with a serious look on his face. “But he’s not going to win. The Red King is. And none of that will happen.”

Impulse doubted that, but he wasn’t going to argue with Skizz. He’d rather come out of this conflict between lords with his friend by his side.

“What happens after Ren wins?” Impulse wondered out loud. “Do you think it’ll stop?”

“It will if nobody bothers the king,” Skizz said, and Impulse could see he genuinely believed that. He patted his friend on the back with a modest smile. “It’ll be alright, buddy. We’re gonna win this within hours. It’ll be over soon. No long-term drawn-out fights, spanning years. Just one battle. The Red King only needs one battle to bring Scar on his knees.”

Impulse nodded. “If you say so.”

The workday hadn’t ended yet, but Skizz still dragged Impulse all the way to the town’s pub, to drink and forget about his worries. In the end, Impulse and Skizz did drink, but Impulse never forgot about his worries. Mostly because the one thing that worried him most was sitting right in front of him, happily drinking away without knowing how the war would end for him.

And maybe his mind was playing tricks on him – maybe it was the paranoia – but he thought he caught a glimpse of Etho having a drink in the same pub.

Chapter Text

Every morning, Cleo woke up before Bdubs. She held his sweaty hand while he slept; he wouldn’t fall asleep without holding hers, without the comfort of knowing she was beside him.

Cleo liked to think he had some peace at night. That his mind wasn’t racing while he was asleep. But then she woke up and saw his restless face. Did he have nightmares? Did he relive that horrible moment? He shivered less, but he couldn’t stay still, a frown on his sweaty face.

She turned, without letting go of his hand, and she reached for the piece of cloth on the bedside table. Slowly, carefully, she placed the cloth against his forehead to wipe the sweat off of it.

Bdubs awoke with a jolt and a panicked look in his eyes. Cleo lowered the piece of cloth and never broke eye contact with him.

“It’s okay,” she told him. “It’s okay. You’re, I’m here. We’re fine. You’re fine.”

Bdubs calmed down and nodded along with Cleo.

“I’m here,” he said with a low voice. “I’m here.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Like someone is skinning me alive while someone else is pushing a million needles into my flesh.” He chuckled slightly. “At least I don’t have a headache yet.”

“Well, that’s something,” Cleo said. A small victory in the stress of their day-to-day lives. Hopefully, he wouldn’t develop a headache over the course of the day. He deserved to have a semi-good day for once.

“I am going to need my hand today,” Cleo then said.

Bdubs frowned until he realized he was still holding her hand. “Oh. Sorry.”

He hadn’t even been squeezing it – but Cleo didn’t want to take the first step. Bdubs had to let her go, not the other way around. She didn’t know where the sentiment came from, but knowing he let her go was more comfortable than her letting go of him.

She knew perfectly where it came from. She chose to ignore it for the sake of living in the present.

Cleo got ready for the day and waited in their new bedroom. She didn’t leave before a servant had come in to help Bdubs – she did not want to leave him alone, not even for just a few seconds. She didn’t leave without saying goodbye, either – another habit developed over the past few weeks.

Had it been seven weeks already? She’d lost count. A testament to her current state of mind. She found it hard to focus, as her mind was always on her best friend and how he was doing. As often as she could, she returned to their room to check on him. Whatever work she could do from the bedroom, she did from the bedroom, such as all the paperwork that came with being a Lord, so she would always be near.

However, there was something she couldn’t do around Bdubs. Something she didn’t even really want him to know about in his current situation, and that was Scar.

Today marked the third time he visited her since the explosion. Cleo never knew when Scar came, as he never sent a letter to announce his visit. Every time he visited the Crastle, he was briefly stopped by the guards. By that time, Cleo knew that he was at her gate and could prepare for the conversation that ensued.

He always came alone and never stayed long. The longest he’s ever been was two hours. All the time, Cleo held her crossbow in her hand, to remind him not to get too comfortable. She let him in, but she didn’t necessarily have to like it. His status as a Lord was the only thing that protected him and he knew it, exploited it to get a word in with Cleo.

These conversations weren’t truly conversations either. Scar rambled on and on about everything that came to mind, and Cleo only nodded, mildly interested, often responding with curt answers that made it very clear she did not feel like talking.

Still, the one thing they could agree on was that Ren was becoming dangerous. Rumor had it Impulse was mass-producing weapons and armor for his soldiers and bannermen, which Tango confirmed. When had Impulse become part of the Red Army? But Scar didn’t focus on the weaponsmith – he worried about his own position, though he also clearly expressed his worry for Cleo as well. It wasn’t unfounded. Ren always had a flair for the dramatic, always stubborn. If he wanted to beat Scar, he wasn’t stopping until he reached that goal.

Cleo would have defended Ren in front of Scar if it weren’t for the fact that Ren specifically had Martyn kill him so he could be red. That was the biggest red flag Cleo had ever seen – and not just their banner – and only strengthened her distrust for Ren. Keeping him as a friend might trap her as much as making Ren an enemy would result in her death. She’d never liked the way Bdubs openly invited Ren to do whatever he wanted while in the Riverlands, afraid the king would target their county in one way or another. She tolerated it – but those had happened in times of peace. Ally or enemy, this was a lose-lose situation, and Scar agreed with her.

She didn’t mind his presence, per se. He was charismatic enough to keep around, and listening to his rants was a good way to pass the time, even if these rants often didn’t make sense. Sometimes, she wondered just how lonely he was, coming all the way to the Crastle to rant about things that have happened to him, and to affirm his offer still stood.

Maybe that’s why she allowed him to rant about the most useless topics to her. He seemed lonely, and that’s exactly how she felt, especially when she looked at Bdubs in their bed, a quill in his hand, papers on a wooden plate on his lap, dozed off, exhausted from the little work he managed to do. Bdubs couldn’t keep a conversation like he used to, and the passion in his voice and the fire in his eyes were missing as he spoke – a quality she recognized in Scar.

They parted on semi-good terms. Scar again offered his security, help, and hospitality. Cleo didn’t give him a clear answer. She did not want to think about it for as long as she could. When the moment arose, she’d know what to do. She’d know what the right decision was. For now, she let him entertain the thought that she might end up on his doorstep one day, begging for help like the damsel he perceived her to be.

It was quiet after he left, and Cleo continued with her work. She returned to the bedroom, where Bdubs tried to read a letter without skipping over every other line, trying to retain its message. She asked him if he needed help; he proclaimed he was fine.

He was distracted, even more so than usual. Three pillows were propped up behind him, so he could comfortably sit up in the bed. The wooden plate lay on his lap, papers spread across it. His eyes darted over the letter, but he didn’t seem to register anything. Cleo tried not to pay attention to it. It would distract her as well and things still needed to be done.

But she couldn’t help herself. After a while, she turned her head. Bdubs stared out of the window, his eyes tired. She didn’t like to see him so still, the only sign of life was his chest rising and falling and his eyes occasionally blinking. Off in a world of his own.

“Bdubs.”

He blinked a couple of times, pulled back to reality, and turned his head to her. “What?”

“Your mind is wandering again.”

Bdubs nodded once, slowly. “I know that. I’d rather have it wander than feel anything. Or do anything.” He placed the piece of paper on the plate and sighed, clearing his throat. Cleo smiled at him and returned to the paperwork on her desk. With some luck, she would finish it before nightfall.

“How was Scar today?”

Cleo froze for a second. She continued as if nothing was wrong, hoping Bdubs hadn’t registered this second of stillness that implicated guilt.

“How should I know?” she casually wondered.

“How should you know…” he grumbled. “I know he’s been here.”

Cleo sighed and turned her head to Bdubs. His gaze was firmly on her. Even the anger was tempered – numbed by the pain that seared through his body daily. She wished he had the energy to raise his voice.

“You’re ailing.” He shook his head slowly. Through the anger, through the pain, she could see his disappointment. She could feel it.

“I know what I know, Cleo,” he said. How she wished he could raise his voice. “He’s obnoxiously loud and I can hear him arrive when the window’s open.”

The window had been open. Scar had been particularly loud when he arrived today, to the point where Cleo wanted to shut him up for being so loud. She’d been right, as Bdubs heard him. Bdubs recognized Scar’s voice.

She didn’t want to lie to him. She tried to protect him from extra stress, but she couldn’t lie now he knew Scar has been here. Not while he was getting worked up because she allowed Scar to enter their Crastle. She should try to calm him down, before he did stupid things that would only worsen his symptoms.

“What were you doing?” he asked in a neutral voice.

“Bdubs—”

“What were you doing?”

Cleo shook her head. Not at him – this wasn’t Bdubs’ fault. She shook it for herself, for letting it get this far. Maybe she should have taken a lucky shot; maybe she should’ve killed Scar when he first walked through the door. She’d still have to care for Bdubs, but at least that was one less stress factor to deal with.

“I owe you an explanation.”

“Yes, you do.” He pointed at the door. “You willingly let the enemy within our walls!”

“He’s not as bad as you make him out to be,” Cleo said in an annoyed tone. Why was she defending him? It wouldn’t change Bdubs’ opinion on the Lord of the Sandlands. “He is that annoying, yes, but not as bad. He can ramble on and on, but never threatened me or you. He even offered protection.”

His eyes widened. “And you took that offer?”

He sounded so accusatory. Cleo almost got worked up over it but took a deep breath. If she couldn’t stay calm herself, how was she supposed to try and keep Bdubs calm?

“I never did that,” she said as calmly as she could. “He first visited right before you were slightly getting better, around the time you still drifted in and out of consciousness. Yes, he offered protection, but it wasn’t a one-time deal. He kept affirming it, that he’d still offer us protection. I nearly did take him up on that, because Ren’s not doing anything at the moment. His promised aid hasn’t come through, he hasn’t come to visit a second time. It’s been seven weeks! So yes, I almost did take Scar up on his offer, because this world is cruel and I am tired of waiting. I’d rather make allies now than wait until you’re—”

She swallowed the final word. Bdubs tilted his head after a few seconds of painful silence.

“You can say it. When I’m dead.”

He might as well be dead – nobody knew how badly his rebirth into his third life had messed up his organs. The bags under his eyes had only grown and he’d lost a lot of weight. Almost a corpse. She never mentioned it, but she encouraged him to take breaks and eat a little more. Nothing helped, and they both knew it. Except it seemed Bdubs had made peace with it while Cleo couldn’t accept she would never see her best friend’s energetic, chaotic, passionate side again.

And in this mess, she realized she called taking Scar up on his offer making allies. Was that how she subconsciously thought about Scar? At least he’d been acting more like an ally than Ren.

Bdubs had sunk a little. He placed his hands on the bed and pushed himself up, a pained expression on his face. A grunt escaped his lips. How much energy did that take? How much pain had that simple movement caused?

“You need to rest,” Cleo said.

“I can rest plenty tomorrow,” he said, balancing the wooden plate on his lap and placing all the papers in a neat pile. “Give me a quill, ink, and a blank piece of paper.”

Cleo sighed. Did he have to do this now? “Bdubs…”

“I shouldn’t have put this off,” he said, staring directly at her. “I’m writing Ren. The next time that scoundrel appears at our gates, you tell him off.”

“What, so you can write Ren and safely ask for a bone?” Cleo wondered. “It’s like I said, the aid he promised still hasn’t arrived.”

Ren and Martyn only visited one time, two days after the explosion. That was the day he promise medicine and potions to alleviate Bdubs’ pain. He hadn’t kept the promise – he hadn’t even contacted the Crastle since then. The situation could have changed, and Ren would not have known about it. At first, Cleo thought the shipment was late – now, she was more convinced that it would never come.

Ren hadn’t done anything. Neither had Scar, but at least he reinforced the idea that Cleo only needed to say the word and he’d be there, and Cleo believed him. Currently, that was more than Ren ever did.

“He’s at war, he’s got other priorities. I’d rather have Ren’s protection than Scar’s, thank you very much.” He gestured at the bed he sat in, a defeated look on his face. “That madman is the one that put me in this miserable position in the first place.”

“We don’t know that,” Cleo said.

“His minion rigged our bed.”

“He likely acted on his own accord.”

“Scar’s cruel enough to give the command.”

“He lost someone whose bed broke. He wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemies.”

“Yet, here I am.”

Bdubs took a deep breath while Cleo watched him. He was shivering more than usual, and not just from the pain. She could see the tempered rage on his face – rage he tried to suppress, too. Neither wanted to be worked up because of this.

“I’m disappointed, Cleo,” he said quietly. “I thought you’d be better than that.”

She thought the same thing. Since when was she defending Scar?

She silently turned to the desk and grabbed the supplies he asked for. A closed inkpot, quill, blank piece of paper. She sat on the bed beside him and handed him his supplies.

“Here.”

She wasn’t going to stop him from writing the letter. The disappointment was clear on his face – disappointment for her, maybe even for himself for arguing with Cleo. At least he seemed a little calmer now, though the quill trembled in his hand.

“I understand where you’re coming from,” Bdubs then said. “I’m not mad. I know you’re doing what you think is right. I just… I just wish you didn’t confide in Scar, y’know.”

He grabbed the ink pot, to open it. He paused, stopped in the middle of the movement, and his face became rigid. The closed inkpot slipped from his hand and fell onto the blankets – the hand grabbed his chest, clenched the shirt, tried to pull it away from his chest, his breathing stalling.

“Bdubs?”

“Cleo…” he could barely speak.

Cleo reached for the hand that had held the quill and held it tight. He tried to hold on to her.

“I’m here,” she said, not even hiding her panic. “I’m right here. Don’t you dare go anywhere. Don’t you dare, I swear, I’ll kill you if you do.” Don’t you dare leave me.

He couldn’t stay upright. He slid from his pillows and fell to Cleo, leaned against her. He barely could keep his eyes open, trying to breathe but struggling.

“You sh... You shou…”

“Don’t talk,” Cleo commanded him. “You’re not going to talk, but use that energy to stay. Stay awake. You hear me? You’re staying right here. Look at me. Look at me!”

She wanted to fight against the tears. She wanted to be strong for both of them. But they came so suddenly, with so many, she could hardly hold them back.

Bdubs opened his red eyes and looked at her. There wasn’t a trace of his previous anger or disappointment. He looked at her with such love, such respect, such adoration, fought through the pain to show her. A small smile broke on his face and she almost cried harder.

“Thank you.” Barely a whisper, his eyes on her and only her.

His body went limp, the light left his eyes, and a death wave crashed into her while she stared at the remnants of his smile.

Cleo panicked, yelled his name, pulled him closer, cradled the body, cried, wailed. Cursed at the universe.

Why him?

Gods, why him?

Chapter Text

Death waves weren’t uncommon. They came as they pleased, whenever a good friend or hated enemy lost any of their lives. That afternoon was no exception. Ren and Martyn’s moods were pulled down by the death wave, but they learned to shrug it off. It was hard to figure out who had died these days, and once they were sure nobody at the court lost a life, it shouldn’t impede on the day-to-day life in Dogwarts Castle.

Still the big question was on their mind – who had died? At least Etho’s presence in the castle confirmed it wasn’t him, still firmly on yellow. He couldn’t as quickly confirm it wasn’t any of his other bannermen, though. Still, if it was one of them, a letter would be sent to explain what happened and apologize for the inconvenience of the death wave. Alternatively, a relative would send a letter to let everyone know of the permanent passing of the red life.

But no such letter arrived, even after three days. It was starting to become concerning – none of his servants had felt the death wave, which meant someone only Ren and Martyn had built up  a relationship with. But letters came from several lords and his bannermen, wondering if their king knew who had died.

Ren feared it was Bdubs of the Crastle. Almost two months ago, a scoundrel from the Sandlands broke his bed and killed him, most likely because Scar commanded it. Bdubs was already in a bad position. But he hadn’t heard from Cleo or Bdubs since they first visited after the incident. Ren regretted not being able to visit another time, due to the war with Scar. He could only hope his shipment of medicine and potions reached the Crastle alright. He could only hope that, if it was Bdubs, Cleo was too distraught to write the necessary letters.

Martyn wasn’t as concerned as Ren. The message would reach them in due time, he’d say, and Ren would agree. Still, Ren stayed in the castle and made the last preparations for the war while Martyn went out for a ride, to check in on some nearby villages that were hit pretty hard by the relentless raids.

Martyn returned home early, in a hurry. He still panted when he threw open the door of Ren’s study. Ren almost spilled the ink across his desk.

“Is everything alright?” Ren asked, immediately worried. He stood up, his gaze on his brother while he tried to catch his breath.

“What happened, brother?” Ren asked him, nearing him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Did you get hurt?”

Martyn shook his head.

“I’m fine,” he reassured his brother. “I was riding around. I saw Lady Cleo from the Crastle. She traveled alone, which was odd. I tried approaching her for a little chat, but she rode away. She didn’t want to talk. I think she glared at me.”

“Where was she going?” This did not sound good at all.

“I don’t know. She was going north, though.”

Ren frowned. Cleo didn’t usually travel alone, and she rode north. Toward the Sandlands. He shouldn’t assume that was her destination, but the thought was stuck in his mind. The Sandlands were quite a ride away from the Riverlands – this didn’t feel like a quick ride to clear her mind. And she’d never leave Bdubs’ side for such a long time.

Something was very wrong here.

“Martyn, we ride to the Crastle today.”

In the evening sun, the Crastle looked as majestic as ever. Even at a glance, something seemed off. Like something was missing – something they couldn’t quite place yet. Martyn had the same feeling. The brothers shared a glanced and continued to the gates.

The drawbridge was open, and no guard was in sight. Anyone with bad intentions could easily walk through and gain access to the Crastle. Was there even anyone around to protect the treasures, weapons, people who were still there?

There was nothing more unsettling than a seemingly empty castle that was lively only days ago.

“There’s nobody here,” Ren said, his eyes on the gatehouse. He was afraid to ride through and investigate. What dark powers were at play? What happened at the Crastle.

“Ren.” His brother drew his attention. Martyn had dismounted his horse and looked at something currently blocked from Ren’s view, at the foot of a lonely tree. Ren directed his horse toward Martyn.

A small pile of dirt lay under the tree. Evenly spread, one foot or lower above the ground; a couple of wilting flowers lay on top. Ren dismounted his horse as well and approached it. A headstone leaned against the trunk, bearing Bdubs’ name.

Ren had been waiting for a letter that would never be sent. Dogwarts had lost a veritable ally, and they’d already buried him under a tree instead of at a graveyard, possibly in a great rush. If Cleo rode away as quickly as Martyn claimed, they indeed were in a great rush.

“Bdubs has fallen,” Ren said, “and his wife flees the Crastle.”

This grew stranger every second. For a second, a horrible thought crossed his mind. Cleo with a pillow, seeing her husband suffer, deciding she didn’t want to see him suffer anymore. Ren dispelled the thought – Cleo would never do that to her best friend. Something else was going on and nobody presented them with the clues.

“Shall we take the Crastle?” Martyn said, his eyes on the Riverlands castle. Ren shook his head.

“No, my hand,” Ren said. “This isn’t ours to take. Our friend worked hard for this architectural beauty. We will not take it from him.” Let it be the home of a new lord, with whom new alliances could be made. These people were mourning, in disarray, needed a leader. Maybe Ren could help in their search for a new lord once Scar was dealt with.

A servant girl walked up to them, bowed her head in respect for the Red King. She presented him with a letter that bore the seal of the Crastle. He thanked the girl as she ran off, not waiting for Ren to even break the seal, and read Cleo’s last letter to them. He read it out loud, so Martyn would also hear what Cleo had to say.

Cleo announced the captain of the guard had control of the Crastle and its guard. He would ensure things run smoothly in her absence, and that the Riverlands would not be caught up in the war between Ren and Scar. She followed this message with the news that she traveled to the Sandlands to stay there, feeling abandoned by Ren. The words she used to explain how she felt about his so-called betrayal were explicit, and she spent most of the letter chastising him for never helping Bdubs and pushing her into Scar’s arms. She specifically stated that she didn’t want Ren to take his anger out on the Riverlands; in fact, she encouraged him to protect them from the raids, as he would be enraged with her and not the people. She pleaded him not to harm Bdubs’ people and closed the letter wishing him well for Bdubs’ sake, but specifically not her own.

Ren lowered the letter and looked at Martyn, who was just as shocked and confused.

The shipment had left Dogwarts Castle, but it seemed they never made it to the Crastle. Odd, considering Ren sent several guards with it to ensure it would reach the Crastle. These soldiers all came back fine, not missing any lives. Whatever had happened, it made Cleo feel like Ren had abandoned her and instead fled to Scar.

At least she left her army here. Ren was tempted to ask them to fight for him, but he was sure the captain of the guard would rather protect his own lands from the raids than fight Dogwarts’ war. At least they hadn’t traveled with her to the Sandlands. Ren still had his advantage over the poor Sandlands soldiers. They could still win the war without the help of the Riverlands.

Two days later, Ren called his bannermen to his halls. He had Tango, who’d just arrived three days before, write the letters to inform everyone about Bdubs’ death, as Cleo didn’t give him that courtesy. He couldn’t finish the job – his hands trembled and tears fell on the paper. Ren had to take over and finish writing the letters. He attached an invitation to meet at Dogwarts Castle, for a moment of remembrance, and to meet once more before they left to go to war.

Almost everyone came. Impulse sent a message, telling them he wanted to finish some more last-minute stuff for the equipment. Ren forgave Impulse’s absence, for he lay all the groundwork of their future success. The other bannermen had arrived as expected, and Ren stood before them. Martyn. Joel. Skizz. Bigb. Etho. Tango, too, as he asked if he could be present. They waited for Ren to speak.

“My bannermen,” Ren began in a steady voice. “I am sure you’ve all read the letter. Our dear friend and ally, Bdubs of the Crastle, has passed away five nights ago.” He turned his head to Tango. “Tango, my sincerest condolences to you especially. It’s always hard to lose such a close and trusted friend.”

Tango nodded once, acknowledging Ren had spoken to him. His eyes were red and swollen. He was barely able to hold himself together, his gaze fixated on a random stone in the wall. He could barely speak without tearing up. Staying silent was the better option. Ren respected the silence and moved on from the mourning advisor.

“However, we must also discuss the dark side of this terrible news. After his death, the lady Cleo failed to write the letters. She did not come to us for aid or protection. Instead, she hastily buried our good friend and rode off to the Sandlands.”

The bannermen shared confused looks. Even Tango frowned.

“What are you suggesting, my king?” Skizz wondered.

“Unfortunately, she has abandoned us.” Ren spoke without faltering, not giving his bannermen time to let this sink in. “She has fallen for Scar’s manipulative tactics. Along with her husband, she has buried any chance at a peaceful conversation so long as that madman is alive. The enemy has wormed his way into her head and she cannot be trusted to be in a safe space where she can make rational decisions on her own.”

Ren turned to Tango, a compassionate look on his face. “Tango, will you keep an eye on her while she stays with Scar? I must know if she is there of her own free will. I need to know how strong Scar’s grasp on her is. If you can, convince her that Dogwarts is there for her and that she can always return to us if she so wishes.”

Tango nodded once. “I will.” His voice broke.

Ren turned to the other lords in his audience.

“Joel, Bigb, I ask of you to rally your troops. We will march as soon as possible and your men need to be ready for the fight. Bring every man you can spare to the battlefield.”

“Of course, my king,” Bigb said, and Joel nodded in agreement. Both were ready to end this conflict, and Ren smiled at their tempered enthusiasm. It paled in comparison to Skizz’s fanaticism, sharply contrasted by Etho’s seemingly calm demeanor.

“Etho, Skizz. You have no men under you, but I trust you will be by my side when the battle starts. I trust you will assist me in my victory.”

“I don’t want to be anywhere else, my king,” Etho said, followed by an excited “YEAH!” from Skizz.

And then there was Martyn. Ren didn’t have to ask – he knew Martyn would be right beside him all the way.

Ren looked around the room. With the obvious exception of Tango, these men were ready for war, ready to go out there and defend the honor of Dogwarts. Ren grinned at them – these were his men, his loyal bannermen. Such a shame Impulse couldn’t make it, but he imagined him standing next to Skizz, grinning from ear to ear with his best friend.

“Gentlemen,” Ren announced, “we are going to war.”

“For Dogwarts!” Martyn then yelled, unsheathing his sword.

“For Dogwarts!” the bannermen followed suit.

“For the Red king!” Martyn pushed the sword in the air, light reflecting off the diamond blade.

“For the Red king!”

“March out, my Red Army,” Ren said. “I will see you at Scar’s pathetic wall.”

Chapter Text

He actually finished the walls.

Grian stood on top of a dune, on one of the main traveling ways to the mountain castle. You could already see the walls which, if memory served, still needed its gates. That seemed to be a problem of the past, as Grian could see a continuous wall. Scar actually finished the walls.

Right on time, too.

Grian made his way to the gatehouse, thinking about this whole journey. He’d lost track of time, but it had been quite a journey back home. As peaceful as the journey through Dogwarts had been, so stressful was it to cross the desert. With every town he passed, he noticed the heightened military presence; the unease was almost tangible, and the streets that had once been so lively now were empty. The few soldiers stopped him, swords already drawn, but they let him go as soon as Grian showed him Scar’s seal, a small coin that identified him as an associate of Scar; a neat little gift Grian had never needed until now. Soldiers hadn’t stopped him and asked for identification until now.

Even at the gates of Scar’s wall, the guards stopped him and asked for identification.

Grian frowned. He recognized these men. They had to be kidding, right?

“It’s me, Grian,” he said, and he showed them the coin. “You know me. Do I really have to prove it?”

“I’m sorry, Grian,” the guard said. “New rule. Don’t let anyone in without identification or invitation.”

One of his colleagues approached Grian and took the coin for a second, holding it in the light. Though it lasted only seconds, it felt like hours. But the guard handed the coin back to Grian.

“Here,” he said. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

Grian wordlessly accepted the coin back. He entered through the gates, onto the large field of sand. Tents littered the back; Scar’s army was camping inside the gates, waiting for Dogwarts to come and fight them in the sand. A natural advantage. Grian hoped it was enough. As he passed them to the main road up the mountain, he could spot a couple of raiders in there. They glared at him when they noticed the stare, and Grian quickly looked away. He did not want their attention.

The climb was long, but Grian didn’t necessarily mind. With a horse, this trek was shorter and easier. Now, with the harsh midday sun on his head, it was even worse. But there were no shadowy places where he could rest for a minute, so Grian continued the climb.

Eventually, Grian arrived at the top, exhausted, hot, dehydrated. He managed to drag himself to an awning, with a table on it, outside of the castle. In the shadow, on the bench, he caught his breath, trying not to focus too much on his parched mouth. He glanced at the oasis, where some gardeners were hard at work in the small kitchen garden – did he have the energy to drag himself over there, for some water? What were the chances of him being so exhausted that he’d fall in?

One of the servant girls recognized him and rushed towards him with a jug of water and some food. Grian ate a bit and greedily drank most of the water. He knew he should pace himself, but he didn’t care. After that long trek up the mountain, he deserved to drink a little more water than was necessarily good for him.

She had left him with the food and now empty water jug. He didn’t mind the loneliness – it gave him some alone time, as he reflected on his journey and looked out over the sand. An endless sea of sand and dunes. Once they seemed golden, now bleached. They had lost their charm. The heat seemed harsher and even in the shadow, the air was hot and heavy.

Had he made the right call coming back?

He had, right?

Three people emerged from the castle. One was the servant girl, pointing out Grian to the other two. Lord Scar and a Lady with fiery red hair whom Grian recognized as the Lady of the Crastle. Somehow, his blood ran cold. What was she doing here? Did that mean that man who wanted to be a spy also walked around here? What happened after Grian placed the bombs and fled?

Cleo didn’t approach Grian the way Scar did – in fact, she walked away from the scene. Scar came toward Grian with a worried look on his face. It was all Grian needed to know he’d made the right decision. Scar was worried about him. Scar did need him.

“Grian, you’re alive!” the Lord of the Sandlands said with enthusiasm while his familiar wide grin appeared on his face; pure relief.

“Scar,” Grian said to the best of his ability with a still recovering throat. He offered a small smile as well.

“I was so sure you died, but you didn’t end up in your bed. Did you sleep elsewhere?” Then he lightly frowned, staring at Grian’s eyes. Scar gasped. “But you’re still green!”

Grian nodded. “Yes, I am.” All thanks to that nice herbalist from Dogwarts. Scar didn’t need to know that detail.

“Boy, am I glad you’re back,” Scar continued, putting a hand on Grian’s shoulder and holding it tight. “The last two months have been stressful. It made me realize I really cannot do this without my right-hand-man by my side.”

Grian nodded – exactly as he had expected it. Though Scar was fully capable of ruling on his own, he still wanted to involve Grian in day-to-day activities. He needed Grian’s presence. But when Grian looked at Scar, it seemed the grin was just a little unnerving, his gaze a little too intense, his tone a little too happy, his grasp on Grian’s shoulder a little too tight. He should ignore this; the people he met on his way home had tried to convince him Scar was someone he was not. He couldn’t be a tyrant maniac – Grian would’ve noticed if he was, right?

“Did I just see Cleo? From the Crastle?” Grian said, to take his attention elsewhere. “Why is she here?”

“Oh, you don’t know?” Scar asked. He didn’t leave any room for an answer. “Why, you did great at the Crastle! Maybe a little too great, I mean, I wouldn’t have suggested using the bed, but great idea.”

Grian frowned. This didn’t sit right with him at all. “W-What are you talking about?”

“Oh, right,” Scar said, and he adopted a more serious tone. “Lord Bdubs, bless his soul, tragically passed away in his lady’s arms. So tragic.”

“Wasn’t he yellow?”

“He sure was, but he died once from the bed - again, great idea - and then another time from natural causes. That means he’s gone for good. Cleo, such a smart woman, she made the sensible decision to come to us for help. I offered her protection and hospitality and she came through.” He briefly paused. “She also came alone. She left her army in the Riverlands. Which is fine. Totally fine. We wouldn’t be able to feed or pay them all, anyway.”

Grian wasn’t really listening, and he zoned out while Scar rambled a little. Scar was hiding something – even if he hid it by just not mentioning it to Grian. He’d never felt that Scar kept information from him, but this one time, it almost seemed too blatant, ranting about things he didn't have a problem with, such as Cleo's army. Even then, Grian's mind drifted to the horrors of war. He’d heard the stories, seen the damage, even before any real battles had been fought. How would this end? When would it end? And of how much would Scar be truthful?

“Grian?” Scar said, waving his hand before Grian’s eyes. “Are you even listening?”

Grian shook his head.

“This is one big mess,” he said. “How did this all start again?”

Scar remained silent, and Grian realized he truly didn’t know. He had always assumed the other lords hated Scar, but something much more sinister was going on. Under all the smooth-talking Scar hid a secret, the cause for all this pain, the cause for this war between him and Dogwarts. Something had started this, but Grian had no idea what it was. He just rolled with it and never questioned why, until now.

But Scar knew what started this.

Grian frowned and turned to Scar. “Actually, how did all of this happen? Scar?”

Scar did not want to say anything. Maybe he even wanted to avoid the topic altogether. But Grian wouldn’t take no for an answer, so Scar had to give his right-hand man a satisfying answer – one that was close to the truth.

Scar finally sat down next to Grian and stared out over his lands. He took a deep breath – stalling, no doubt. Then, he finally opened his mouth, his gaze still fixed on the desert.

“I might have accidentally stolen a llama.”

Grian blinked. What?

“You… you stole a llama?”

“Accidentally.”

“Is it Pizza?”

“It is.”

Was that it? “How did that—”

Scar put his arm around Grian like a friend would. But the arm lay there uncomfortably while Scar still stared ahead, only sporadically glancing at the person he was talking to.

“Grian, I was once young, like you are now. A little immature, impulsive and stupid. I attended the wedding of the late Lord Bdubs. I wanted to support my fellow lords, even if they didn’t want my support. But Ren, Red King Ren, my stupid half-brother – I saw him and he saw me. He had this grin on his face, I’d never forget it. Arrogant. He mocked me. When he paraded that llama into the hall, I knew I had to have it.”

Scar shook his head, adding a small smile to the performance. “It’s a stupid little thing. I shouldn’t have taken the llama, but I was petty and wanted to send him a message. So I did.” He shrugged. “I didn’t think they’d be so hung up about it. They wanted conflict, to take the llama back by force, by cutting through my people. I tried to keep my hands clean, but I eventually had to put in my own patrols at the border. I had to turn to people who were capable fighters, even if they weren’t the most… reliable.”

Scar let go of Grian, who could breathe freely again. The story intrigued him, as he’d never heard it before, and Scar was a master storyteller. He even spotted a hint of guilt in his gaze.

“The raiders…” Scar shook his head. “The Sandlands were poor then, and I’m still trying to fix that, but it’s hard. These raiders were bolder than I thought they’d be. I underestimated how reactive they’d be against Dogwarts patrols wandering into my territory, trying to get a reaction out of my men to start this whole mess.”

He paused for a moment to let the information sink in. Grian took this moment to think about everything Scar had said. All of this sounded plausible – but would a well-disciplined Dogwarts patrol unit ever enter the desert? Why wouldn’t you be prepared for raiders being extremely reactive, more than willing to chase someone who shot at them?

Scar nodded once to himself. He sighed, the carefully crafted grin wiped off his face.

“I wanted to give the llama back,” he said. “I tried negotiating peace, but they all rejected it. They’d rather fight me than take back what I took and have peace with me. I learned what they have yet to learn – humility. These men are too stubborn and too bloodthirsty to call off their troops. They smell blood and are coming for us. They use any excuse to wage war, even when I tried to defuse the situation. They force us to retaliate, such as with the explosives at their castle. Sometimes, it feels like I’m the only adult in a room filled with self-righteous teenaged bastards. Ren just wants to show how amazing he is, how much better he is than me.”

Scar sighed dramatically.

“I’ve tried, Grian,” he said. “I really tried, but they’re making it difficult. I’m keeping the llama – not to spite them, but because it reminds me that I am better than them and that I shouldn’t lower myself to their level. But if Ren wants war, if he is threatening our lives, my people’s lives, I have no choice but to defend myself.”

“To defend yourself,” Grian said. “But what about the people? What about whole families taken, vanishing from their homes? What about them?” Who would protect them? The soldiers wouldn’t – they’d just take them if someone so much as did the wrong thing. The raiders definitely wouldn’t, and Grian wasn’t so sure if Scar would.

“Vanishing families?” Scar said incredulously, shaking his head. “Grian, where have you been and what nonsense have they been feeding you!”

Out of the Sandlands, Away from home, alone for the first time in three years. Ready to learn about all the negative sides of Scar’s rule, especially the last few months, which Scar had never wanted Grian to see.

“I’m not taking families. That’s a lie Dogwarts constructed, geared toward their own people as well as mine to instill more hatred of me.” Scar paused and sighed, less dramatically this time. “Yes, not everyone will agree with the way I rule. That’s only normal. There are also people in my territory who wish to cause me harm, whether they make plans to overthrow me or just try to portray me as the villain. My people need stability. They don’t need instigators running amok, wreaking havoc and causing chaos. It’s for them I’m doing this. For their safety, their stability, I’m arresting these instigators, no matter if they are Sandborn or scoundrels from Dogwarts. Yes, sometimes that includes taking their families for questioning, but if they have nothing to do with this, I let them go. And I never bring children into the dungeon. They don’t deserve to be punished for something their family members have done.”

That oddly specific detail made Grian think. His mind was flooded with images of villagers pulled away from their homes, to the dungeons of the castle, to be tortured and interrogated. Somehow, he didn’t see it below Scar to actually take complete families captive to stop any rebellious actions.

“You are awfully quiet,” Scar then said. Grian could hear a vaguely threatening undertone in it and realized how familiar it sounded. During the three years he'd known Scar, he’d never been able to give it a name until now.

Grian nodded, tried to hide how uncomfortable he felt. “I believe you.”

A grin broke on Scar’s face and he took a breath of relief.

“I knew you would,” Scar said. “But really, Grian, it’s good to have you back here. It's not the same without you.”

“Thanks,” Grian said. “It’s good to be back.”

Despite that long speech, besides that tone, Grian was still glad to have finally come home, atop the mountain. Let the adventure stay in a sea of green – he was at home in the Sandlands, with Scar. Even if it was uncomfortable now, that feeling might pass. He hoped it would pass soon. This was home, after all. Everything would fall into place. Even if he may never unhear that undertone in his voice, it would all be good again.

Because Grian wouldn't know what to do if it fell apart.

“Say,” Scar then said. “Have you heard from Jimmy and Scott recently?”

Grian froze. He’d passed Jimmy and Scott, handing out supplies to refugees who wanted to go to the Forest Kingdom. They had their new home, still being built, yet cozy in the woods. Though it was hard to judge from just a few minutes, the two seemed happy there, still helping people in a way that wouldn’t bring Scott to his red life; that wouldn’t kill Jimmy.

“I-I don’t—”

“You have, haven’t you?” Scar interrupted him, that sneaky smile on his face. “Now, don’t be shy. Where are they?”

“They want to be left alone,” Grian said softly. They did not want to have anything to do with this war. They just wanted to help people flee from it.

“And they will be,” Scar said. “After they help me deal with this pest of a king. Now, where are they?”

There was that tone again. Grian found himself helpless in this situation. He told Scar what he needed to know and felt bad about it.

Chapter Text

Five days ago, the Lord of the Crastle Bdubs passed away. Two days ago, Lady Cleo was seen riding away from her home. This alone was more than enough to worry the citizens of Riverbed and presumably the rest of the Riverlands. When Impulse visited the Jumping Cod, this was the only topic people talked about.

Rumors sprung up. They said Cleo died as well, making her red, but nobody felt it because it happened at the same time as Bdubs. They said Bdubs decided to end his misery and Cleo couldn’t resist joining him so he wouldn’t be alone. When the news spread that she rode to the Sandlands, they said Scar put a spell on her to murder her husband and lure her to the desert in some sort of power play.

If they weren’t speculating about what happened in the Crastle, they looked to the future and wondered what they were going to do now, who would lead them, and if that person was going to be as good to them as Lord Bdubs had been.

Impulse was swarmed with questions. He knew Tango, a Crastle advisor. He was on friendly terms with Bdubs and Cleo, surely he’d know what was going on. He told them what seemed most probable – Bdubs passed away and Cleo did what she thought was right. This placated some, but others rejected the theory. They were too deep in conspiracies to see the truth.

Now, in the afternoon, Impulse sat in his living room, two mugs on the table. He expected a visitor – he wasn’t sure if he was going to make it, as that all depended on Ren and how long he was going to drag out this meeting. The door was unlocked; they only needed to walk through.

And there he was; Tango had arrived. Impulse rose from his seat to greet his friend.

“Impulse,” Tango said as a greeting, nodding once. He looked miserable. The death weighed on him like a stone. Impulse hadn’t been as close with Bdubs as Tango had been the last few years, but losing someone you loved like family hurt a lot.

“Hi, Tango.” Impulse grabbed the mugs and walked closer to his friend, who closed the door behind him. He offered Tango one of the mugs. “Here.”

Without much thought, Tango took the mug. The two friends stared at each other silently for a moment before they both softly clinked their mugs against one another.

“To Bdubs,” Impulse said.

“To Bdubs,” Tango repeated and they both drank.

Tango’s sip was considerably larger than Impulse’s. They walked to the table and put down their drinks. Tango sighed and shook his head as he sat down on one of the four chairs.

“What is the world coming to?” he wondered out loud.

Impulse shrugged. “You tell me.”

It has been only a few months since Scar rejected the peace offering. How did this conflict escalate so quickly? How did the world become so violent and hostile in less than a year?

“I saw the banner,” Tango said. “Are you…”

“Apparently,” Impulse said. He’d hung the red banner outside the workshop’s front door, but hadn’t paid much attention to it. It had become part of the décor. Some customers were glad to see they had Ren’s protection, while most had voiced their concerns about Impulse supporting the war. They seemed to have a stronger opinion on the side Impulse was on than Impulse himself.

Tango frowned lightly. “That doesn’t sound too convincing.”

Impulse sighed briefly. No, it did not. Then again, he wasn’t too convinced, either.

“At least I tried to stay neutral,” Impulse said. “But then Skizz waltzes in with this optimistic laugh, bringing a request from Ren…” And you don’t refuse when Ren asks you to do something. And Impulse could never disappoint his best friend. “I don’t know how he does it.”

“Beats me,” Tango commented and he finished his drink.

Without Skizz, Impulse may not have become Ren’s weapons dealer so soon. He would have stayed in his workshop near Riverbed. He would never have set foot in Dogwarts castle and presented Ren with the best sword he’s seen in forever. He would not have had this monstrous order, but he’d prefer the smaller ones from people he knew and trusted than a large one from a king who had no say over the Riverlands. Ren would know of Impulse’s existence, but Impulse was sure that Skizz brought up Impulse as the best of the best, which must have prompted Ren to look into placing that humongous order. Which prompted Ren to include Impulse in his army. How could Impulse have refused?

“Are you exclusive, too?” Impulse then asked. Tango had been in the Sandlands recently, only arriving back in Dogwarts right after Cleo started her flight to the desert. While it was clear how he felt about the Crastle, Impulse thought it was hard to tell which side he truly worked for.

Tango shook his head. “No. I’m still on either side.”

“If you don’t get caught.”

“If I don’t get caught.” Tango leaned on the table, his somber gaze now pensive, too. “That’s the risk, isn’t it? If I don’t get caught. It’s only going to get harder, especially since Ren decided today is the day they go to the Sandlands.” He glanced at Impulse. “You gotta get that gear over there soon.”

“I will,” Impulse said. He was leaving first thing in the morning. And then, he could only hope it was enough. “But you gotta be careful, man. I’m not sure Scar’s army will appreciate you walking in and out of there at random.”

“There’s a secret tunnel at the back, beyond the walled section,” Tango said. “It’s easy to find if you’re looking for it. I’ll get in through there safely, and I can safely leave if need be.”

He let the silence hang between them for a moment before he spoke again, somehow adopting an even more serious tone. “I’m not sure how long I’m gonna be able to keep this up. So far, I’ve done more harm than good. My intel already…” He trailed off, tears welling up in his eyes, trying to blink them away. “When I’m going back to the Sandlands, I’m staying with Cleo. I’m going where she’s going. I’m not losing her, too.”

Impulse could only stare at Tango. The pain, the emotion, was genuine. He had no idea what Tango meant with his intel causing harm, but he didn’t have the heart to ask – not while Tango was in such an emotional state. He filled Tango’s mug again, and his friend took another sip. The situation weighed down on him, and Impulse could only comfort him with drinks.

At least, if it became too difficult or hostile, Tango could still grab Cleo and make it out of there alive. There was a safe way out. Impulse might even feel better about his friend going purposely back in enemy territory for Cleo.

Their further conversation lasted two hours; two hours of bringing up memories, commenting on the state of the world, and discussing how this war would end. They both had different ideas about the end, but one thing was certain: many would lose their lives, the death waves coming from the battlefield would be massive, and with so much dread and despair, many who would be hit by the death waves could plunge the outskirts of Dogwarts and the Sandlands in deep chaos.

There were only stories about the insanity of death wave after death wave, but the way the old men and women spoke about them was more than enough to take their words at face value; to assume they knew the terror of temporarily losing your mind and doing something you wouldn’t normally do, only to later realize what you did was wrong and not knowing how you were ever capable of such horrible things.

Before too long, the sun was setting, and Tango had wanted to leave before sundown – before the mobs crawled out of their holes and roamed the forests to take any unsuspecting traveler off-guard. The men stood up from their chairs and walked out of the front door.

“Hey, before you go,” Impulse then said, “do you happen to know if Ren knows where I live?”

Tango shook his head. “I don’t know. Do you want me to tell him?”

“No, it’s fine.” Still, Impulse didn’t want to assume Ren didn’t know. He had to think of Etho – Etho, ever the wanderer, working for Ren. Etho, whom Impulse had seen in Riverbed’s the local pub before, and who must have also spotted Impulse in the vicinity. Maybe Etho hadn’t said anything yet, but Ren only needed to ask and Etho would tell him. Hell, if Ren asked, Skizz would gladly ride all the way to the workshop with Ren and even offer a tour, completely unaware of Impulse’s silent desire to keep his address a secret.

But two of Ren’s bannermen could easily give Ren that information, if the Red King wished to know. That was dangerous.

“Good luck, Impulse,” Tango said. “Take care.”

“You, too.” They shook hands one last time before Tango disappeared into the forest, on his way to Cleo – to the Sandlands, toward danger. Tomorrow, Impulse would make the same journey, with all the weaponry he’d made for Ren’s army. Tomorrow, they’d be on opposite sides of the same wall.

Once again, the big question came to mind. Was this all worth it? How was this going to end? Ren wasn’t stopping before he secured a victory and wouldn’t rest until the last of Scar’s entourage was permanently dead.

Ren would never stop. Impulse predicted he’d take the Sandlands, and maybe turn to the Riverlands as well, as it didn’t officially have a lord or lady anymore – though that depended on what would happen to Cleo. And when Ren turned his gaze elsewhere, Impulse would be locked into the Red Army permanently, no way of escaping. Maybe Ren would want to secure his favorite weaponsmith and provide Impulse with everything he could ever want, trapped in Dogwarts Castle with no way out.

Ren was a dangerous man. Impulse still trusted Skizz with all his heart, but he could not trust the king his friend swore his allegiance to with the same fervor. Luckily, Impulse never swore an oath.

His gaze fell on the red banner on the wall – it looked like blood in the orange evening sun. It taunted him, reminded him of his future in the gilded cage. Not even Skizz would think it strange that Ren would want Impulse so close.

Impulse ripped the banner from the wall and stormed inside, crumpling it into a ball and throwing it into one of the fires. He watched the banner burn, turn to ashes, determined to come out of this conflict a free man.

Chapter Text

Food poisoning sucked.

Cleo lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. She would have liked to do anything – anything, even something she hated – if it meant she didn’t have to waste her time lying in bed and feeling miserable. A bowl stood next to the bed and it reeked already – if she had to vomit, at least she could aim for the bowl. That scent wasn’t helping things, but she didn’t have the strength left to call out for someone to remove the contents of that bowl.

On second thought, maybe it wasn’t food poisoning at all. Maybe it was just poison and she was slowly dying. Either way, she was miserable and wished that it would happen quickly, so she could move on. It would put her on her last life, her red life, but at least she’d be able to do things.

Maybe a nap would make time pass a little more quickly. Her body needed the rest either way. Her eyes closed a little too easily and sooner than she’d anticipated, she drifted into a dreamless sleep.

Then, she woke up completely fine.

It was a strange feeling. One moment, you’re suffering, you’re hurting, and you want it to end. You don’t really feel it happen until it’s already done and the death wave has gone into effect. It was so weird to be in so much pain and then wake up fine. To wake up as if your body had just reset, because it had, was so jarring.

It happened so quickly that Cleo took a couple of moments to take it in – this really happened. She didn’t need a mirror to know her eyes were red now.

Well… she was feeling better, so she could at least get up, get presentable and go out of this stupid windowless room.

Footsteps rushed down the hallway and before Cleo could wonder what the fuss was about, the door swung open, hit the wall with a loud ‘thud’ and in the doorway stood Tango. He panted, looked at her with panic in his eyes, preliminary tears already staining his cheeks.

“You’re…” Tango couldn’t finish the sentence. You’re red now. Cleo nodded.

“I know,” she told him. “I’m fine. It just sucks.”

Tango nodded to himself. “It really sucks.”

He tried to look at her, but he couldn’t keep his focus. His eyes darted around, especially after trying to maintain eye contact. The red eyes may be too confrontational for him, still. He still mourned Bdubs as well – maybe that is why he was so hesitant to leave the Sandlands again and continue his spy duties. She had chosen a side under extreme duress, and he seemed to follow suit by staying by her side.

“I’m fine, really,” she said. “I’m only on red. I’m not going anywhere.”

Tango finally gave her a small smile.

“Good to hear,” he said. “Good to hear.” He reached for the door, to pull it closed behind him. Yet he couldn’t help but look behind him one more time and look at her.

“Be careful,” he told her. Cleo nodded.

“You, too,” she said, and then Tango left. Silence returned to the room and Cleo sighed. She shot an annoyed glance at her reflection – what are you doing here?

To prevent her mind from wandering, she decided to go on a walk. Walking never hurt anyone, and the sights would be enough to draw her attention away from what just happened. If she could have not died to spare Tango that heartache that came with a death wave, she would have done so. It’s not like people have a say in the matter, and thus she could only feel sorry for it, feeling the need to apologize even though there was nothing she should be sorry for. She didn’t kill herself; she did not poison herself. She had nothing to be sorry for.

She did regret one choice, though.

She regretted not planning ahead. She regretted not being prepared when her best friend left this world for good. Sure, she knew the day was coming, but not that it would come so soon. She had assumed she had time to prepare, and that was her big mistake.

If she’d been prepared, she could just read off a list she’d previously written and do what it said. Instead, she wrote quite a vindictive letter to Ren, which she didn’t even send out. She'd packed what little stuff she needed, she told the captain of the guard to hold down the fort and that he was the steward of the Riverlands in her absence.

And then she rode to Scar. He welcomed her with a delighted grin and a worried tone of voice, even managed a tear or two when she told him Bdubs had died. She’d be safe here, he promised. Ren wasn’t going to hurt her here, he promised. She’d made the right decision, he reassured her.

Was it, though?

In her anger and sorrow, she wanted to hurt Ren by going to his arch-nemesis – Scar would love it if he knew. She could have just stayed in the Crastle and not have given Ren the time of day. She didn’t need Scar’s protection per se – but maybe the prospect of meeting Ren, of his army coming to the Crastle had scared her too much. At least she ran to a place Ren already redirected all his anger toward. At least the people of the Riverlands weren’t going to be caught in the crossfire.

On the other hand, now she and Tango were firmly placed in that crossfire, with no clear way out.

Scar believed he had her wrapped around his thumb. She was more than happy to play along if it meant she and Tango were safe. Still, if a Dogwarts soldier – maybe one of the generals – found her, she wouldn’t hesitate to tell them she was a prisoner against her will, she now saw Scar had manipulated her, she’d make a mistake, get her and Tango out of there. Yes, it did involve admitting she made a mistake, but at least she’d enjoy the protection of Dogwarts for as long as they were in her vicinity.

With a bit of luck, she might be able to pull it off.

If she hadn’t written that damn letter to Ren, maybe she would just disappear. She’d go to Tango, ask him what the safest way out was, and leave with him. But no – Ren expected her to be here, and if they didn’t find her after the oncoming battle, she may be even more in danger than she already was. Ren wouldn’t find her and assume she was a traitor because if she trusted Ren, she would have stayed and waited for his rescue party.

Ren was already out there. When Cleo walked along the hallways and looked out the windows, she could see the lights in the distance. His army had been camping there for three days now; each day, they would get in battle formation and wait – but nothing happened. The only visible change was that someone had come on the second day – Cleo guessed it was Impulse – and handed out shiny new diamond armor and weapons to the Red Army, making them considerably stronger than the leather and iron gear of the Sandlands army. She'd hoped Impulse was better than that, but even an honest man who wanted to stay out of trouble could be swayed by the promise of diamonds.

She shivered – she not only pitied those who would die during this pointless war, but the temperature was decreasing as well. That might be what she disliked the most about her current residence – those late-night freezing temperatures and the hot sun at noon. How could anyone survive in a biome where the temperatures swung so wildly? She pulled her cloak a little more tightly around her before she continued deeper into the castle, wherever her feet would take her.

As she walked along, she could feel a pair of eyes burning into her back. She’d turned around on multiple occasions, but hadn’t seen anyone. Paranoia, she thought. But it kept happening, and her gaze always directed her to dark corners and hallways branching into the one walked in. Though she didn’t see anyone, after the fifth time, she knew someone had to be out there – someone who didn’t have good intentions.

Her gut was rarely wrong.

“Show yourself,” she proclaimed loudly. “I know you’re out there. There’s no point in hiding.”

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a young blond man stepped from behind a corner. He wore leather armor dyed black, unenchanted, and held a dagger loosely in his right hand. For the first second his face remained hard, hostile – but it softened when he looked into her eyes.

“Martyn,” Cleo said. She instantly recognized Ren’s little brother, the crown prince. It was a miracle that he ran around without Ren these days. Or maybe Ren was hiding somewhere else. The king disliked leaving his brother alone for longer than a minute at the most – at least, that’s what she heard and she wasn’t going to dispute those claims.

“Cleo,” he said in a soft tone, forcing a small relieved smile on his face. “Thank goodness you’re alive. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, I didn’t know whether you’d call the guards on me or not.” He quickly glanced behind him, to see if anyone was coming. “Look, Ren’s worried sick about you. I can get you out of here. I can bring you to safety. This place will soon turn into a battlefield and we don’t want you caught up in this mess.”

She could almost hear the ‘we don’t want to hurt you, but-’ in his voice. Ren wasn’t worried sick. If anything, he’d be worried about her calling over her army to strengthen Scar’s position. Which she wouldn’t do, but she thought it ridiculous that Ren might even consider this.

Either way, this was the moment she’d been waiting for. Martyn had come to bring her to safety. To Ren. And though she liked the idea, she wasn’t born yesterday. Ren would bring her back to her Crastle and propose a replacement for Bdubs. Someone needed to be the Lord of the Crastle, after all, and she’d never heard him speak of a Lady of the Crastle – of any castle – being in power. And if she wasn’t going back to the Crastle, he’d have her spend the rest of her red life in Dogwarts Castle.

She would have preferred Martyn coming to her in the heat of battle than in the dead of night. Just like she preferred the freedom of the mountain castle to the performative freedom of Dogwarts.

“I’m good here,” she said. She wasn’t quite sure if she regretted those words, but she knew she did not want to go with Martyn right now. And she didn’t quite know how to express it either, especially as Martyn looked at her with pity and a hint of disgust.

“What has that madman done to you?”

Cleo sighed – really? That was the hill Martyn was going to die on? She was out of patience, she just died of food poisoning (or actual poison), she did not have time for Martyn’s bullshit or performative pity.

“Nothing,” she said. “You don’t want to hear it, but it’s true. He’s done nothing. He’s been nothing but kind to me. He’s been treating me well and hasn’t tried to force my hand, unlike others. Don’t tell me you care now, now, when you couldn’t even bother to see how Bdubs was doing, to offer any help, or to even bring the help you offered.”

Her red glare made him stumble backward, but it was no reaction to her words. He didn’t react to the news that no help had arrived; no adverse reaction, as Cleo had maybe hoped. Just a silent confirmation that they indeed hadn’t sent help - wilfully hadn't sent help - and that he knew about this.

“You’re not here to bring me to safety, are you?” Cleo asked in the same tone, demanding an answer from the prince. He gripped the hilt of the dagger a little tighter and took a step forward.

“Cleo, you have to come with me—”

“I’m staying here,” she said, his intentions crystal clear. As she spoke, she never broke eye contact with him. “Well, here I am. On my red life, with no weapons or any form of protection. I just died, I don’t care what you do to me. But when you plunge your dagger into me, the least you can do is watch the life slip away from me instead of attempting to murder me when my back is turned, you coward.”

Martyn hesitated. Just a moment, but he hesitated.

She lunged at him. She grabbed his wrist and startled the prince. And she yelled before he could react. One long, loud scream – a war cry that echoed against the wall, that certainly would attract attention.

She tried to wrestle the dagger out of his hand. Martyn managed to get it into his left hand and then followed hot pain in her stomach; warm pain, warm blood dripping from her stomach; a sharp pain that cut off the war cry. He pulled the blade out of her. He stabbed two, three, four times, in the same area, probably more.

He stabbed her until she fell on her knees, clutching her stomach. The pain exploded, burst through her vital organs, slowly spread around the area of impact.

Cleo fell over on her side. She was losing a lot of blood; that dagger must have been enchanted. From her position, she could see Martyn kneel down next to her. He looked sad – she couldn’t tell if it was genuine. For a moment, he put the dagger away, ready to pick her up and take her somewhere, but his head made a sharp turn. He heard something she couldn’t yet, and he glanced at her one last time.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and then he was gone.

The guards appeared when the world around her slowly started to fade away. One or two soldiers stayed behind to comfort her in her last moments while the others chased Martyn. Did they know it was Martyn? She hoped they did. Her throat was dry and she wouldn't speak again.

Though her hearing faded, too, she heard a wailing – a cry of emotional anguish. It sounded familiar. Then, a familiar face with blond hair. Not the pale, dirty blond of Martyn; the warm, golden blond of Tango. The hand he placed on her shoulder trembled, and there was nothing her weak hand on his could do to stop it; it almost took all of her energy to do so.

There was nothing anyone could do. Potions would come too late. She knew this was something you could not recover from within the time given. She might as well make it quick for everyone involved – might as well not give Tango any more cruel hope – and move on.

As she sank away in the darkness and the world disappeared, she thought she caught a glimpse in that darkness – a glimpse of a familiar, warm grin in the distance, friendly wide eyes, arms opened for a long-overdue embrace, telling her it’s okay, telling her how proud he was.

She’s fought back.

Martyn didn’t think she’d fight back. He didn’t think she’d notice he was there in the first place - but she did, and it unnecessarily complicated things.

She’d yelled. She’d alerted the guards. They must have found her by now. Which meant his time in the mountain castle had become limited and he needed to find his way back out. Where did that secret tunnel begin again?

He snuck around the castle. The adrenaline raced through his veins, his mind in full panic mode, and he must have run past the spot probably twenty times before because he couldn’t remember where that bloody entrance was. He should try to find a safe spot, away from the guards, to calm down and remember how  to best leave the mountain castle.

“Who goes there?” a voice called from the hallway ahead. Martyn easily recognized them; Scott and Jimmy. The two knights who’d rather disappear than serve their king. Two more traitors inside this castle.

Only after Scott moved to grab something did Martyn turn and run.

Martyn took a few steps. Something hard hit the back of his head and shattered; he fell on his face and was incapacitated. He grew dizzy and his head ached. A little further ahead, through his hazy vision, he saw the shards of a flower pot.

Martyn groaned and fell unconscious.

The dungeon was dark, musty, cold all the time. There was one single torch, on the other side of the iron bars. There were no commodities whatsoever in this dark cell, other than the bed he was tied to.

The intention was clear. They did not necessarily want him to stay in bed to keep him from roaming around the cell. They didn’t keep him down because they cared about his injury – it throbbed and ached and they probably didn’t do anything to help other than slap a bandage on it. No, that is not what they wanted.

They wanted him to sleep.

They wanted him to sleep in the bed. If he died, he would end up back in this bed. It would give them the opportunity to torture him to the point of death. He was still on his green life – they could afford to push the boundaries of torture and they could kill him twice without losing an asset.

Martyn kept his mind busy. He sang, he counted, he tried everything to make sure he wouldn’t close his eyes and drift away into sleep. He did not want to give them that satisfaction.

And inevitably his mind drifted to this failed attempt at ‘saving’ Cleo. What had gone wrong?

She fought back. That’s where the trouble began.

Maybe the worst part was that he’d already made up a story; he thought he knew how this was going to end, and reality had smashed this fantasy, knocked him out, and put him in this cell. Still, the fantasy remained in his head, and he relived what would have been.

He’d come into the castle; he’d evade all the guards and he’d find Cleo. Willing or not, she’d come with him. She was a lot tamer in his version of events, so taking her with him to the tunnel was easy. They’d come across guards – he figured the place would be swarming – and they’d fight and make their daring escape. They’d run into the tunnel, through the tunnel, rushing to the exit.

Cleo would not have made it out alive either way.

And Martyn would return to the army, carrying the Lady of the Crastle bridal style, his cheeks stained with tears, and he’d gently put her down on the grass, asking for a white sheet to cover her with. And Ren would come and cry and ask him what happened. And Martyn would have told him that it was the guards; he’d tell Ren that Cleo was remorseful and didn’t doubt to come along. He’d tell Ren the guards found them and they fought and fled. He’d tell Ren Cleo succumbed to her wounds in the tunnel, whispering to him that he should tell Ren how sorry she was for making such rash decisions.

And Ren would cry more, his red rage taking over, and he’d believe Martyn because his brother would never lie to him about something so serious. Maybe, if Martyn was bold enough, he might have added that Cleo thought Martyn would be a good Lord of the Crastle.

Martyn never got a chance to live that fantasy. Now he was in the dungeons of the mountain castle. He thought he knew how it was going to end, but this painted a clearer picture.

Footsteps approached the cell. Martyn was able to lift his head and look through the bars. Tango stepped into view. Martyn was just able to catch it before he had to put his head down again – his head was killing him.

But he wanted to look at Tango so he lifted his head and fought against the pain. Even in the limited light of the torch, Martyn could see the downtrodden, miserable look on his face. His eyes were red, swollen. His gaze was blank, looking at Martyn in his bed. He clenched his fist, taking shallow breaths.

“Tango!” Martyn said, struggling with the ropes tied to his wrists and ankles. “Tango, get me out of here!”

Tango did not respond. He stood there, doing nothing. And his blank gaze changed ever so slightly.

“Did you kill her?” Tango asked in a monotone voice that could break any moment. “Did you?”

Martyn sighed. Of course he knew – it’s not like one of the guards would suddenly turn on one of Scar’s guests.

“She attacked me first,” Martyn claimed. He wasn’t even lying. “I never wanted to hurt her. I swear I didn’t want to kill her. It was self-defense. I tried to save her—”

“And now you’re here,” Tango interrupted him. He shook his head lightly. “Maybe it should have been me in that cell.”

Martyn nodded. At least he and Tango were on the same page – he had never dared to trust the Crastle advisor with his spy activities, and today might just prove him right.

“We can arrange that,” Martyn said. “Just go find the key, get me out of here and you can stay in this cell instead.”

Tango clenched his fist even harder than before, his gaze – his glare – growing more intense every second. Martyn could understand Tango was upset, but this wasn’t the moment. This dead time shouldn’t be wasted time, when Tango could have helped Martyn.

“Tango, talk to me,” Martyn demanded. “Get me out of here.”

But Tango shook his head, took a deep breath.

“No.”

“What?” Martyn had been justified after all. “Why?”

“Because you took everything from me!” His loud voice echoed against the dungeon walls, carrying far. He took some deep breaths and fought against the tears – Martyn didn’t want to see them, and he figured Tango didn’t want him to see them, either. “Everything I had left. You took that from me. I’m not letting you out.”

Tango turned away and walked back to the exit. Martyn pulled against the hope, with a renewed energy, anger towards a supposed ally of Dogwarts. Not anymore; not in his book.

“Tango!” Martyn yelled. “Tango, come back here, you traitor! Tango!”

But nobody returned and Martyn let his head fall on the pillow in defeat. It sent more pain down his head and neck, but he didn’t care. Tango had just betrayed him and his kingdom. That was enough to keep his mind off of the pain.

Then the realization set in. Martyn was alone.

He was all alone

Nobody would help him.

Chapter Text

Dogwarts was ready.

The army had set up camp at the meadow nearest to the desert and Scar’s mountain castle. The walls loomed over them, their gates wide open. It was suspiciously quiet on the other side, and Ren couldn’t help but stare. The army was ready to strike, had been for five days now, but he hadn’t ordered them to attack yet. He’d wanted to see what Scar was going to do. He wanted Scar to charge first, so Ren could react.

They were in the perfect position to strike. They were going to win this.

But Martyn hadn’t returned yet, and that worried Ren. It’s been two days – where the hell was he? He hoped his brother was just lost in the desert somewhere. It was better than being captured by the enemy.

In the meantime, his bannermen were getting restless. Two days of camping before the enemy’s gate tended to have that effect, especially on the more impatient and bloodthirsty of his men.

“We need to strike,” Skizz said, his mouth almost foaming. “We must strike now!”

“Patience, Skizz,” Ren said – he feared he wasn’t going to be able to keep Skizz in their little look-out post for very long. He smelled blood and he needed to satiate his hunger to let out his rage on Scar.

“I’m going in,” he said. “I’m going in. I’ll kill ‘em all!”

“You will, but not now,” Bigb helped out his king. Joel nodded in agreement, while Etho strategically placed himself near the entrance, to prevent Skizz from just running out and doing something incredibly stupid.

“How else are we gonna save Martyn?” Skizz wondered.

“Not by running in blind,” Ren said. “Those gates are open for one reason, and it’s to draw eager men into a trap they could have easily avoided if they were a little more patient.” He paused, his gaze resting on the restless knight. “I’d love nothing more than to get my brother back from that monster and I’d love to do it sooner rather than later, but this is not the way to do it.”

Two days ago, Martyn left the camp and snuck around the walls. He snuck into the castle from behind, through a secret tunnel that Tango had pointed out to him. It was a simple mission; Ren’s bannermen had no idea that Martyn wasn’t just sent in to scout out the enemy’s weapons, but also to seek out Cleo. To return her home, safely away from the Sandlands. Ren had felt a death wave, and then some more, but it was hard to say whose deaths they announced and if Martyn was even one of them. It might as well be an old friend who was nowhere near.

Either way, Ren was worried about the well-being of his brother, and he could barely keep it from clouding his judgment and blinding him. How he wished he could just worry about Martyn now and not about the army awaiting his commands – or about Scar and his next move.

“When do we attack, then?” Etho asked.

“Soon, Etho,” Ren said. “Martyn is still in there, as well as Tango. If he gets out in time and finds us, we might adapt our strategy accordingly and strike.”

Ren had not stopped Tango from returning to the mountain castle and providing Scar with false information one last time. With a bit of luck, Tango could still sneak away and provide Ren with one more update on the situation within these walls. Until then, until they’ve seen a sign of life from Martyn, Ren was going to wait it out. He banked on the fact that Scar was not as patient as he presented himself and would start this fight with a dumb move.

“I hope it’s over soon,” Joel said. He was enthusiastic about the war, but he’d rather sit at home and spend some time with his wife. Still, Ren insisted on having his bannermen around him to advise him, in case Ren went insane and wanted to do something his men needed to talk him out of. Joel was the perfect man for that job. (he was also perfect for enabling Ren in his rage if need be).

“It will be,” Ren said. “We have more men than him. He doesn’t have Cleo’s reinforcements and we outnumber him. But we can’t forget Scar is unpredictable. We don’t know what tricks he has up his sleeve.”

That was something else that scared him. What crazy things was Scar going to pull off? What insanity was Scar going to plunge them into? They needed to be prepared for almost everything. That was why he ordered his army to get ready for battle every morning, leaving only a small battalion at night. It was exhausting.

Luckily, they also outclassed Scar when it came to weaponry and gear. Impulse arrived on the second day with the promised goods. Section per section, the army replaced their iron gear with the diamond versions. It was a sight to behold.

After all the gear was passed around, Impulse got ready to leave again. He was not a fighter, hadn’t picked up a sword in battle for years, and it was cruel to keep him around the battlefield if he didn’t want to stay. Ren had enough capable blacksmiths at the ready, should some armor need adjusting. After the war, however, Ren planned to make him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Still, Ren would have to be around to ask, and he didn’t want to act preemptively. They would discuss this when times weren’t as turbulent.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” Skizz commented on his friend’s craftmanship, a proud wide grin plastered on his face.

“He truly is,” Ren said and he turned to Martyn, who compared Impulse to the better weaponsmiths from history.

That happened before he left. It had been Martyn’s own idea; to get Cleo and possibly Tango out of enemy territory, so neither would be caught in the inevitable crossfire. Ren had agreed – while Cleo seemed to hate him, he did not hate her and wanted only the best for the Lady of the Crastle. Except Martyn left days ago and Ren had felt death waves – more than one – hit him and his close circle of bannermen. They feared the worst.

But Martyn was alive. Ren was certain that his brother was still alive, beyond those wretched walls. He had to be.

He had to be.

From their little turret, Ren and his bannermen had a good view of what was happening on the other side of the wall; at least through the opened gates. They were on their way there when the soldiers in the front whispered.

Whispers in themselves weren’t so uncommon. From time to time, one soldier couldn’t stand the silence and said something to their neighbors. It was to be expected when nothing happened for days. Now, more people whispered, and others talked, and something was definitely going on at the front; something unusual.

“Something’s happening,” Joel said, mild curiosity in his voice.

“Let’s see what the fuss is about,” Ren said, a knot forming in his stomach. He had to see it – he didn’t want to see it. Still, he and his bannermen went to the frontline. It might have been safer to check it out from their outpost, but they were on the ground already and nearby.

Scar had his army also stand at the ready, weapons and shields raised, eager to run into battle. That was new, but not as exciting as what was going on in front of these men. Scar rode back and forth within his walls, producing a dust cloud that almost concealed what was going on. Ren’s mind raced – so that was what they would do.

But Scar rode the horse, and he didn’t just hold on to the reins. He held a rope, tied to the wrists of their prisoner, dressed only in a loincloth, dragged behind the horse and forced to keep up, stumbling over their feet in an attempt not to fall over and faceplant the sand.

“Martyn.”

This wasn’t just a taunt. It was pure humiliation. Ren balled his fist, trying hard to hold himself back. It’d be no good running up there, into the trap Scar had set. But it broke his heart to see Martyn dragged around, almost like a ragdoll at moments, almost completely naked.

Etho held on an arm to block Skizz’s path. He was just as mad as Ren was and keen to jump into any fight.

“Skizz…” Etho said in a wary tone.

“I’ll kill him,” Skizz said. “I’ll kill him!”

“Not now,” Ren said. Running in would mean trouble for his men. And if the soldiers saw one of the bannermen charge with the purpose of fighting the enemy, the army may follow. They should wait for the command, but eager men would see Skizz or anyone run in and take it as the command to go.

To make matters worse, Ren could hear faint laughter. Not only was Scar humiliating them, but he also laughed about it like the madman he is. Not a surprise, but an extra blow to Dogwarts, something Ren couldn’t forgive him for.

Martyn fell – he was unable to find his footing while he tried to keep up. He hit the ground face first and his body went limp. Scar rode along without noticing the person he was toying with wasn’t moving anymore.

Fear gripped Ren. What happened? They were too far away to tell for sure. Had he hit a hidden rock or something? Was he playing dead to try a crazy escape attempt? Did he just want to stop Scar from toying with him by refusing to cooperate? It was hard to tell and Ren had no idea what was going on. He hoped Martyn was alright.

“Is he dead?” Joel wondered.

“He’s not,” Ren said. “We would’ve felt it. He’s not dead.” How long was that going to last?

Scar finally noticed. He hopped off his horse and walked over to the prince in the sand, placing his hands in his sides and staring at Martyn, wondering what to do. He softly kicked Martyn in his side, to see what he would do. Ren wanted more than ever to run up and kill Scar, but he could see the glint of Scar’s sword. Scar kicked Martyn again, and again, and again.

Then he fell over.

He’d tried to kick Martyn again, but Martyn had grasped his leg and pulled him over. In the same move, he pulled the rope out of Scar’s hand, got up, and started running for the gates.

Ren could barely catch his breath. Martyn was coming back. He was going to be safe. He never doubted his brother; and yet, he couldn’t be truly stress-free until he could hold his brother in his arms again. Next to him, his bannermen cheered his brother on.

“Yes!”

“Run, Martyn, Run!”

“C’mon!”

Martyn stumbled a couple of times in the unstable sand but he pressed on. Behind him, Scar had gotten up as well, and Ren could imagine a grimace on his face. He gave the order to fire, and arrows whizzed past Martyn and almost hit him.

In the meantime, Scar had gotten up as well. He gave the order to fire, and arrows started whizzing past him, almost hitting him.

“C’mon, brother,” Ren muttered under his breath. He could do it. Martyn had to be fast enough. He could avoid the arrows.

Martyn’s voice carried to where they stood; he’d been shouting as well as running.

“Tango’s a traitor!” Martyn yelled, coughing in between. “Tango betrayed us!”

The bannermen exchanged confused looks.

“What?” Bigb said, frowning. None of the other bannermen knew anything about that. Tango had always been so trustworthy – could he be a traitor? Maybe, when Martyn was safely among them and he had calmed down, he could explain just why and how Tango was a traitor of Dogwarts.

But that was currently at the back of Ren’s mind. At the moment, his focus was on his brother and the distance between them.

“Just a little further, brother,” Ren called out. “You’re almost here.”

Martyn sprinted, but still ran on sand and was much slower than he would have been on solid ground. Arrows still flew by him, past him. One arrow hit him in the shoulder blade, and a second pierced his back. Martyn fell and did not get up.

Ren’s anxiety levels spiked. “Martyn!”

He ran forward, unable to hold himself back any longer. His bannermen rushed with him, holding up their shields to protect him from any more arrows.

Ren fell on his knees before Martyn; even now, Martyn was still crawling, trying to get to Ren, and get the message across while blood ran off his back and he fought against the pain and exhaustion. The shadow over his head prompted him to look up. Red eyes met red eyes, and Ren’s heart almost stopped.

“Tango’s a traitor,” Martyn wheezed. Still he crawled closer, and Ren helped him.

“I know,” Ren said. “I know. Hold on, help is on the way.”

Ren helped pull him up a little, allowed Martyn’s head to fall into his lap. It was better to let Martyn rest his head there instead of on the sand. Still, sand clung to him everywhere, to his hair and skin. Ren barely noticed how his bannermen positioned themselves around their king, their shields up, blocking any incoming arrows.

And the world slowed down and quieted. He forgot the world; it was only him and Martyn now, in a moment that never should have occurred. He should’ve never let this happen, should’ve never let Martyn go into the castle.

“Don’t trust Tango,” Martyn said and he coughed up blood. “didn’t free me from my cell…”

Ren frowned. Tango could’ve helped him? Martyn had been imprisoned and Tango had done nothing? Martyn had no reason to lie about this, so it must be true. Tango was a traitor.

“Hush, brother,” Ren said, stroking his brother’s hair to provide a little comfort in this cruel desert. “Spare your energy. Help is coming. Martyn?”

Their gazes met again; Martyn wheezed, his breaths slowing down.

“I’m sorry,” he said with a voice that was too weak. “I’m… I’m…”

Another coughing fit; more blood on Ren’s lap. Martyn’s breathing slowed down even more until it stopped altogether, and his gaze slipped away from Ren’s. The red hue in his eyes turned to grey as the death wave crashed into Ren and the bannermen and everyone else who had ever made a meaningful connection with the prince.

“No,” Ren whimpered. He cried, ran his hand through Martyn’s hair, pulled him up a little higher to cradle the body. Not Martyn. Anyone but Martyn. Why did it have to be Martyn? They were supposed to make it out of this together. His brother, his heir, his right-hand man, his most loyal supporter. He even used his last breath to inform Ren about Tango being a traitor. Martyn was supposed to outlive Ren and take the crown.

And now he was gone, and Ren was alone. Completely and utterly alone.

Ren lifted his head, tore his gaze away from his brother. Through the tears, he spotted the vague outline of the mountain castle and the dark blob of the army waiting at its foot. Their arrows had slain his brother. Their arrows had taken away the person he cared about most. Red rage rushed through his veins.

“What are your orders, my king?” Etho’s voice seemed to come from far, though he sat almost directly next to Ren, his shield up, protecting them from potentially incoming arrows.

Ren’s eyes were fixated on the mountain castle, hand still on Martyn’s head.

“Slaughter them all.”

Chapter Text

Grian stood at the edge of the fortified plateau the castle sat upon. It was where he’d rested upon his return; from this angle, you could see the entire battlefield, the opened gates, and the armies, waiting. And, of course, Scar rode back and forth, dragging Martyn along with him.

Grian felt no sympathy for the prince. He had murdered Cleo in cold blood – a defenseless lady. He’d plunged Tango into a depressive spell where he didn’t want to do anything. The murderer spent the last few days in the dungeon, where he died two times, bringing him down to his last life and making him even more valuable.

Grian had visited once, when Martyn was unconscious. The prisoner had no idea that Grian had come down to the dungeon. But Martyn wasn’t the reason that Grian snuck into the dungeon, even if that was his excuse when he encountered guards. He walked deeper and deeper, looking for something he wished he wouldn’t find.

Of course the cells were filled; a sight he wished he wouldn’t see. Men, women, and children, squinting at the bright light of the torch. Villagers who didn’t try to ask for help anymore. When he looked at their eyes, there was not a single green pair between them; Grian was lucky to see three to four pairs of yellow eyes. They had water, but he saw no food. The one thing they did have was a single bed per cell; one bed, in poor condition, so that those who died ended back in the cell.

Grian’s mind pulled him back to the present, his gaze on the Lord of the Sandlands who taunted the Red Army generals. Scar was too far away, but Grian imagined Scar was laughing at the misery of others – at the misery of the ‘rebels’ he’d captured and kept in the dungeon. The thought alone made Grian uncomfortable.

The prince fell over and did not get back up. Scar got off his horse and kicked him or something, but Martyn toppled him and he ran. Scar got up and shouted something.

Arrows flew through the air, as the order rippled through the relatively small army that Scar had at his disposal. The archers who heard the command shot arrows, and the others followed suit. As did some archers from this high position, this vantage point.

Grian watched the prince. Absentmindedly, he picked up a bow and an arrow. He wasn’t expected to fight, but Grian couldn’t stand around and do nothing. It was an impossible shot anyway. So he drew the bow, aimed for Martyn, and let the arrow fly. He followed its trajectory, arching up and then down, towards the target.

The arrow hit Martyn’s back.

The bow clattered onto the ground. No way his only shot was that lucky. No way.

“Nice one,” a guard who stood nearby said. Grian nodded at him after a few seconds.

“Thanks,” he mumbled and he turned his gaze back to the battlefield; how had he landed that shot?

Martyn could only crawl; the generals of the Red Army rushed forward, surrounding the king and his brother, protecting them with shields. It was impossible to tell what happened down there, but the death wave that followed was unmistakably Martyn’s.

Why? When had Grian formed a meaningful connection with Martyn? How did he feel this death when he shouldn’t care less about the prince? Did Scar’s humiliation generate more sympathy from  Grian? Did that arrow do it? None of his explanations made sense. Why was he feeling this?

The Red King stood up and retreated; he carried Martyn’s body in his arms. His generals moved with him, shields still up as they retreated to their army. All but one disappeared behind their ranks, and that man raised his sword and shouted something.

Then the Red Army attacked.

They moved like a wall, inching closer to the Sandlands army. If they ran, it was hard to see, but they moved as one. Grian could hear commands being shouted below him, at the foot of the mountain, and the army prepared for the upcoming clash, slowly advancing. They might still have an advantage so long as the Red Army had to fight in the sandy underground. That did not take away that the Red Army was noticeably larger than the army Scar had called on.

The armies collided with one another and chaos erupted.

Grian doubled over, clutched his stomach. He tried to stabilize himself with one hand on the ground, but he shook and he fell to his knees. The knot in his stomach grew bigger and he gagged. This wasn’t just dreadful or sorrowful, this was sickening, maddening. Death waves not washing over him but hitting him like someone repeatedly bashed his head against the wall with great force. It wasn’t something that asked for some attention for five seconds; it demanded constant attention, took it when you weren’t paying attention, and forces all those emotions down your dry throat. Grian feared that if he so much as opened his mouth, he might just puke out his stomach.

He sat down and closed his eyes. Just breathe. Deep breaths. He tried to focus, to keep his mind from wandering to all that was wrong and evil. It was going to end soon, he tried to convince himself. It was going to end soon – and if not, it hopefully wouldn’t be long before he could get used to the feeling enough to function and bring himself to safety if need be.

How could anyone fight for more than ten seconds in this madness? Grian shivered. He should have removed himself from the situation. He should have stayed inside, should not have watched the lead-up to this battle. Maybe then, he wouldn’t have garnered sympathy for those who were going to die. And apparently looking at these armies from a distance, not even fully knowing their faces was enough for a death wave to present itself. He shook his head and focused on his breath.

Slowly, agonizingly slow, he came to a point of tolerance, but barely. He still felt sick and his mind was one big desperate mess, but at least he could keep a clear mind for a while. At least he could stand again, though he did not want to look at the carnage below him. he couldn’t get caught up in the madness that turned these soldiers into mindless raging animals.

And he heard a voice, coming from the side, calling out Jimmy’s name. Grian turned his head. Scott. He came running, ready for battle. But his sword was still sheathed and his gaze darted around. He only seemed to calm down a little when he saw Grian sitting close to the edge of the platform.

“Grian,” he said, coming close. He helped Grian to his feet. “Are you alright? You don’t look—”

“Death waves.” He needn’t say any more, but he did glance at Scott, who was surprisingly unaffected. “How don’t you feel that?”

He looked uncomfortable.

“I know how not to feel sympathy,” Scott muttered. “I know it’s awful, I hate it, but it’s honestly better than… Just stay away from the edge, sit back, keep calm. Go inside when you can.”

And Grian realized the knight must’ve seen it all before during his three-year adventure. He must have felt that more than once when he hadn’t wanted to. He had learned to cope, like Scar – but unlike Scar, Scott hated having to think like that.

And then Grian noticed Scott was all alone.

“Isn’t Jimmy with you?” Grian wondered.

Scott shook his head. “No. I turn my back for one second and he’s run off again. We’re gonna need to talk about that when I find him.”

If you find him. Grian didn’t say it out loud – he didn’t want to suggest that Jimmy might be dead, or close to death, as that was an image that must already be floating around in Scott’s mind.

And Grian couldn’t help but feel crushing guilt, which wasn’t helped by the force of the death wave bringing him down. He shouldn’t have caved when Scar asked where they were. He shouldn’t have brought Jimmy and Scott to the Sandlands, where Scar must have blackmailed them into helping him. Scar was desperate enough to recruit two knights into the army – two knights with great name recognition, nothing more. Two knights, who weren’t going to make an iota of difference, but whom Scar wanted to involve in this mess anyway.

And one was looking for the other who’d gone missing.

Grian wanted to apologize. But Scott was no longer looking at him and before he knew it, the window of opportunity had closed. He glanced over the edge as well, to the carnage below.

The Red Army wore red clothes under their armor and were easy to spot in the crowd. This wasn’t just two lines of soldiers fighting each other, pushing back and forth; many soldiers from the Red Army had penetrated the line and were now going deep within the sand army. These soldiers had no choice but to keep fighting through the death waves, could not take a moment to center themselves and get over it. They had to push through, ignore it – and a death wave never wanted to be ignored.

And they fought like beasts. If there was an order within the chaos, it was long thrown out the window. Had they gone insane? They had to. Only fighting was on their minds, urged on by the strong emotions, insanity, and bloodlust that only a death wave could induce. They fought tooth and nail, breaking formation and attacking anyone that wasn’t wearing the same colored clothes – until not even that mattered anymore and they attacked whoever was unfortunate enough to step into their line of sight.

From the corner of his eyes, Grian spotted Scar walking towards him. A shiver ran down his spine – he’d never seen Scar so mad since they’d met. For a moment, Grian believed that rage was aimed at him, and he backed away as far as he could while Scar approached them. Scott just stared him down.

“Has either one of you seen that traitorous rat of a Tango around?”

Grian blinked – he was relieved it wasn’t about him, but he also didn’t have a satisfactory answer.

“Um…”

“Fine,” Scar said in an annoyed, “I’ll find him myself.”

He was about to walk away when someone yelled– almost triumphantly, but mostly primal, a voice ringing above the crowd. It was a voice Scott immediately recognized, and he and Grian locked eyes immediately.

“Was that…” Grian didn’t finish. Was that Jimmy?

Almost the exact same time, Grian and Scott looked over the edge. There, surrounded by enemies, stood Jimmy. He swung the sword everywhere, striking the enemies, swiftly killing or incapacitating them, nimble on his feet. He’d lost his shield, but he didn’t seem to need it. He struck down mostly Ren’s soldiers, though he did not slow down even a bit when he hit one of the sand soldiers. He mowed down the soldiers around him, never relenting, more brutal than Scott was used to from him.

“Jimmy!” Scott shouted. “Jimmy, come back up here!”

“They can’t hear us from up here,” Scar said. He was lurking behind them with mild interest, and he stayed with them to watch Jimmy being a beast down there, an absolute animal.

“Uh-oh,” Scott then said, and Grian could see the fear in his eyes.

“What is it?”

“Skizz.”

A knight in red had his eyes on Jimmy – the ‘Skizz’ that Scott mentioned. His gaze was just as murderous, his drive to kill just as big. Skizz roared and charged at Jimmy, and they fought. They were evenly matched, having fought side by side for over three years. Thus they knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses, too. It was only a matter of seeing who would make the first mistake.

Grian could barely follow the fight below him. It had gone so fast. One moment, both stood on their feet. The next, Skizz’s blade pierced through Jimmy’s abdomen.

“NO!”

Scott’s scream was harrowing, painful to listen to. Grian winced visibly, not sure how to react. It’s his fault Jimmy is dead. If he hadn’t told Scar…

Skizz pulled his sword out of Jimmy. The knight fell over and hit the ground. He didn’t get up.

Grian stared. It was weird to look at the corpse and not feel a death wave – because it got lost in a sea of death waves, still beating at anyone even close to the carnage. Skizz looked around for a next victim and looked up – at Grian, Scott, and especially at Scar.

Grian glanced at Scar. He seemed unbothered by the whole situation; borderline bored. His interest wasn’t with Jimmy, nor the different skirmishes below. He turned his back to the fight and walked away without saying a word; back to the search for Tango. Grian had no sympathy for traitors, but he feared today was Tango’s last day on earth.

Grian said nothing to Scott – what would he even say? Scott still tried to process what just happened, tears welling in his eyes as he could not take his eyes off of Jimmy, his partner, his very best friend, now dead. Grian stared with him; while he couldn’t look at Jimmy, he did look at Skizz, who paced around and had his gaze fixed on his next two targets up there. truly a beast.

Something moved in the corner of his eye. Grian turned his head and saw an unfamiliar man. In a panic, Grian pulled out his bow with an arrow and pointed it at the unfamiliar intruder with green eyes, who raised his hands in defense.

Chapter Text

What was he even doing?

Impulse should have continued homeward. He should have gone home and continued with the preparations to move out. He should have made sure everything was going according to plan back there. He should have been closing the door to his workshop to leave for good.

But he didn’t. Because he got a stupid idea in his head that made him turn around and return to the desert.

He worried about Tango. He worried for his friend and could not turn his back on him. Who knows, maybe he was in trouble. Maybe he wasn’t, but the feeling kept gnawing at Impulse. Though he knew Tango would try to keep himself safe, would use that secret tunnel to get out if he needed to, Impulse still felt the stupid need to go in and grab Tango.

And when he saw the desert it was too late to convince himself to just go home and let things happen.

Were the armies clashing already? Impulse had no idea. The death waves didn’t reach him thanks to a small trick he’d learned from Skizz. It was hard not to think of the army, of the people who would lose their lives in this battle, but it was better not to feel any sympathy for these men than to be driven insane by the death waves those deaths elicited.

But that also meant he had no idea if the armies were fighting already. He continued through the desert, past the wall. Impulse didn’t see any guards looking at him; those he did see were staring at something that was happening inside the walls. It made it easier for Impulse to sneak around the back and find the secret entrance Tango had mentioned.

Easy to find, when you knew where to look. Though Impulse had no idea where to look, he did find an anomaly in the sand; something that looked odd if you stared at it long enough. Something that might be the entrance of the secret tunnel, if you knew there even was one.

Impulse climbed off his horse and approached the weird spot. It was a plain stripped birch wood door, blending in with the color palette of the desert wonderfully. Impulse opened the door and started climbing.

Again, that unease crept up on him. He should have turned around. He should have left. He had to take semi-frequent breaks, to catch his breath, to focus on the cold wall he touched, the damp air he breathed, the sounds he heard. He ought to be getting close to the exit, right? He powered through the exhaustion that came with climbing uphill for a while and continued.

He ended up in what appeared to be an armory, close to the entrance of the mountain castle. From up here, the sounds of the battle at the foot of the mountain were horrific. It almost sounded like the world was ending, and Impulse found himself in the middle of the madness, albeit high above it. it was a miracle he didn’t yet feel the death waves crashing in. Thank you, Skizz.

He stumbled out of the room, out of the castle. Remember to breathe, don’t think of the battler. Try to find Tango.

There was no telling where he would be, but it couldn’t hurt to check the outside first. Though it was more likely that he was hiding somewhere in the castle, he needed some fresh air, too, after that damp and musty tunnel.

He came across a gravestone and a freshly dug grave. It caught his attention and he stopped for a moment. Some withered flowers lay under the gravestone, for Lady Cleo of the Crastle.

When did that happen?

This wasn’t the time to dwell, though Impulse wished he could. He nodded once at the grave, as an acknowledgment. She’d always been kind to him; to everyone who deserved her kindness. He didn’t know what happened, or when, but he also had no time to stay there and pay his respects. He would have to come back one day. It pained him to know her remains were nowhere near Bdubs’ in the end.

The plateau on which the castle was built was surprisingly empty, with the exception of two people on a platform looking out over the battlefield. Impulse recognized Scott, but he had no idea who the young man in the red shirt was. Impulse guessed it was Scar’s right-hand man, whom he had heard so many bad things about.

The young man turned his head and his face paled. He immediately took out his bow and put an arrow on it, aiming at Impulse, ready to fire. Impulse stopped and raised his hands. So far, he’d been lucky – could he push his luck further?

“Easy,” Impulse said and he gulped. “I’m not here to fight.”

“What are you doing here?” his voice was shaky, as was his bow. He was just as nervous about this encounter as Impulse was. “Who are you? Not another step.”

“I’m— My name is Impulse. I came for Tango. C-can you tell me where he is?”

“You’re not going to fight?” the young man wondered as he slowly lowered his bow. Impulse shook his head – he did have a small knife hidden away, but that was more a precaution than anything else. He was better off not letting the young man know where his weapon was.

“He’s not, Grian,” Scott said. He finally turned his head to Impulse – he looked defeated, tears in his eyes. “Impulse is no fighter. If he’s here for Tango, he’s here for Tango.”

Grian looked from Scott to Impulse. He decided he could cautiously trust the newcomer, to Impulse’s great relief. He lowered his arms and looked at Grian, who still had his eyes on Impulse.

“You know we’re in the middle of a war, right?” 

Impulse nodded. “I know, bad timing. Where’s Tango?”

Please let him be okay. Please let Tango be okay.

“Last I’ve heard, Scar is looking for him for being a traitor,” Grian said. “The prince yelled that he was a traitor.”

So neither of their strategies worked. Impulse tried to stay neutral, but ended up in the employ of Ren, presumably until the end of his life. Tango tried playing both sides, but he was outed. If Scar knew and Ren did, too. With Bdubs and Cleo gone, Tango had nowhere else to go. Tango could be anywhere by now.

Impulse shook his head. He should have left when he had the chance. He didn’t want to know all this; it was all but certain that he was going to lose his good friend to this war, through nothing but a little suggestion Impulse had made. Tango had done as Impulse suggested – now he was being punished for something that wasn’t even his own idea.

What a waste of time. You should've gone home.

“Thanks,” Impulse said and he sighed. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Grian just looked at him as he said that. When it became clear that he wasn’t going to say anything back, Impulse turned his back and started to walk away.

“Uh-oh,” Scott said, his eyes still glued to the ground beneath him.

Impulse stopped in his tracks.

“What is it now?” Grian said with a frown. He walked to the platform and looked over the edge. “What?” he repeated, slightly louder and more confused.

“He’s climbing,” Scott said.

“Is he insane?” Grian asked.

“Probably.”

Impulse came closer to the two again, wondering what the fuss was about. A soldier, climbing up the sand mountain rather than trying to get past the heavily guarded mountain pass leading up to the plateau. The most dangerous way up and down – it had to be something people only do because they had no time to try and ward off all the negativity the death waves dumped on their fragile minds. Someone was bound to snap – and that someone was climbing the mountain.

Grian tried shooting at the man, but it did not seem to work. Scott grabbed some loose rocks from the edge and threw them o the man. But neither Grian nor Scott shouted in victory, so Impulse assumed the soldier continued to climb. He didn’t go near the edge to check, afraid he’d fall and be one of many to lose a life today.

Grian reached into the quiver he’d taken arrows from, only to find it empty.

“I’m out of arrows,” Grian said, looking at Scott, who threw the last loose rock he could easily pry from the ground.

They retreated from their little platform and looked around, in search of a nearby supply chest or barrel.

“What are you still doing here?” Grian wondered, using a noticeably accusatory tone. His eyes fell on the blade that Impulse had pulled, the small knife he’d carried. It might not have been the best time, but he couldn’t leave yet. He wanted to help, and three against one madman seemed like better odds than two against one madman.

“I’ll keep an eye on the platform,” Impulse said. “You guys resupply.”

Grian waited for another second, but Scott moved first. He thanked Impulse, and Grian followed suit, still eyeing Impulse suspiciously. The only reason he trusted Impulse was because of Scott, and Impulse knew it. and while Grian and Scott disappeared behind him, to run to the nearest supply chest, Impulse looked at the edge of the platform, waiting for some movement that came with the grunts that grew louder.

One hand appeared, then another, two arms. The soldier pulled himself up further until he’d climbed over the edge and stood up.

Impulse clutched the hilt tightly. He did not stand a chance against the enchanted diamond sword the soldier carried on his side, but he was going to try and stall for time. Where were Scott and Grian?

You should have run, his mind told him. you can still run. But could he outrun a man driven insane by death waves, with bloodlust rushing through his veins?

The soldier lifted his head and locked eyes with Impulse.

His eyes were dead, nothing but red rage, cold rage, one that wouldn’t die down so long as the battle raged on. His familiar red gaze landed on Impulse, his mouth a dangerous growl, his forehead dripping with sweat. His hand hovered over the hilt of his diamond blade, trembled.

And Skizz blinked a couple of times and frowned. Only now it registered who stood before him. only now did the negative cloud that occupied his mind start to lift. His hand dropped to his side and he hung his shoulders in defeat, his gaze still on Impulse.

Impulse lowered the blade. Skizz frowned still, but it wasn’t just confusion – it was sorrow, desperation, heartbreak that one only experienced when someone betrayed you after giving them your full trust forever. Impulse returned the favor and looked at Skizz with that same heartbreak, because this wasn’t his best friend. That man was a killing machine, a monster far removed from the person Impulse knew.

Skizz tilted his head.

“Impulse?”

A roar came from behind Impulse; a battle cry worthy of the battle raging below. Scott darted past Impulse, towards the platform. Impulse’s presence alone had distracted the bannerman enough to react slowly. With one move, Skizz fell backward off of the edge.

Impulse’s stomach dropped as Skizz did the same. “Skizz!”

He rushed to the platform and looked over the edge. There, he fell, and he hit the ground below, landed on his back, landed between corpses in a spot where the fighting had died down. Impulse stared and stared, hoping to find any sign of life, in disbelief and denial at the death wave. That wasn’t Skizz. That couldn’t be Skizz. That had to be someone else who died at the exact same time Skizz hit the ground. It couldn’t be Skizz.

His best friend wasn’t gone. He couldn’t be.

Scott said something, but Impulse didn’t hear it. A hand on his shoulder brought him back to the present, and Impulse lifted his head – how did you get in? secret tunnel, Impulse found himself answering, trapdoor. Scott let go and walked off.

Impulse fell to his knees, barely scraping the edge, his gaze on his friend. Skizz hadn’t moved. Why hadn’t he moved yet? He should’ve moved by now. that death wave was someone else’s, couldn’t be Skizz’s.

Impulse felt sick to his stomach and the world seemed to spin around him. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all. Maybe he should get away from the edge before he…

Fell. And he fell, the wind whipping against him, the edge further and further away from him. Before he even realized that he was dropping down the same edge Skizz had fallen down, he too hit the ground.

And then he lay in his bed, all the way in Riverbed.

Impulse gasped for air but stayed in bed. He was home. He was safe. It was just a nightmare.

Except it wasn’t a nightmare.

Impulse was glad he found himself under the covers of his bed, and he grabbed them tightly and pulled them closer, no longer able to deny what was true.

Skizz was dead. His best friend was dead. And he’d watched him fall.

And Impulse mourned his friend and cried.

Chapter Text

The fighting started and nobody could ignore it. the massive death waves released from the battlefield hit anyone who felt even a little sympathetic toward either side. Ren’s bannermen were no exception.

Though, somehow, this seemed different to Ren. They hit him with the same intensity as they hit his most trusted allies, but it was… pale. Unsure. Didn’t quite have the same impact as the singular death wave earlier today.

He had carried Martyn out of the desert, to the safety of the outpost. There, under a blanket, he rested. It was a little too small, his pale hair and forehead in plain view. Ren’s gaze drifted to the pale hair. Martyn would get the funeral he deserved when the fighting was done. When they had won and the Sandlands no longer posed a threat, Martyn would be buried and Ren would allow himself to properly mourn his brother.

Bigb and Joel had stayed with him in the outpost; Skizz had run head-first into battle with the army. Etho saw to it that Ren made it to the outpost before heading to the battlefield himself; Ren hadn’t heard his reasons, though he was probably going to fight. Or maybe find a way up. Either way, Etho wasn’t in the outpost. He walked among Ren’s men – men who fought for him. Ren watched with dull eyes – he should have the decency to watch them massacre the sand army. Those bandits deserved it; they supported a cruel tyrant who needed to be stopped. A cruel man who had no qualms humiliating his political prisoners and killing them. A man who hid behind his bandits like the coward he was at heart.

A man unfit to be lord. A lord of sand who ought to be lord of nothing.

“So much death…” Bigb said. He fought back against the tears; the death waves pulled everyone down to their rawest and darkest emotions. Ren could feel it, too, but he didn’t show it. He had revenge on his mind, and that kept him centered enough to brave these feelings and resist their temptations to lure them into insanity. Bigb seemed to be doing relatively well – he couldn’t tell how Joel was doing, for he was standing in the back of the room and hadn’t said a word since the fighting started. Maybe Ren didn’t want to know.

“We must brave through this, Bigb,” Ren said. “Wars demand a terrible price, and we are paying it. We acknowledge their deaths and must move on if we want to stay sane. If we want to come out victorious.”

Bigb nodded once and turned his head to Joel before looking at the battle ahead. Ren did not look away from the battle, did not even turn his head; he barely glanced at Bigb to see what he was doing. Checking on Joel, presumably. He was awfully quiet – even more than usual. It only seemed normal, as the world descended into madness and the carefully strategized fighting became a bar brawl, unorganized, fighting to fight and not to beat an enemy.

A noise from behind caught Ren’s attention. It was barely audible; the sound of a small blade pulled out of a sheath. Since the circumstances were less than ideal, the death waves being them down, Ren turned his head.

He could just see Joel pounce on him, his knife drawn.

Ren’s reactions were swift. He jumped out of the way and drew his sword. Joel bumped into the railing; he was disoriented for a moment. Ren pierced the weapon through Joel’s back.

Joel slumped as he breathed his final breath. He vanished, away to his bed, and his belongings clattered to the ground. Ren bent over to pick up his blade, not concerned in the slightest that he had just murdered Joel.

“Are you okay?” Bigb asked Ren, who nodded.

“He didn’t touch me,” he said in a monotone. “He’s slept in our quarters, right?”

A redundant question. Bigb nodded once, unsure what Ren was planning next. Ren himself had no idea– he just knew he had to see if Joel appeared safely in the bed, and if he had backup gear, and if he had come to his senses.

“Stay here,” Ren said, and he left the outpost, to go to their sleeping quarters. Each had a tent at their disposal, with a bed. If any of them were to die, they would not end up at home, far from the action, but nearby, where they could continue the fight immediately. Joel was going to be in that tent.

Ren spotted Joel frantically rummaging through his chest, looking for his backup gear. Ren slowly approached, his deceptively calm gaze on Joel.

“What was that about, Joel?”

Joel looked up. He was frightened, two red eyes staring at the Red King. He had no weapons, no armor, on his last life. He backed away from Ren and the sword that was stained with Joel’s blood.

“I-I don’t know,” Joel said. He desperately tried to sound calm, but that only gave away his panic. “I genuinely don’t know. I… it must’ve been the death wave. I wasn’t thinking straight. At all. I thought, in some weird twisted way, I thought killing you would end this, but it doesn’t, and I should’ve said something, but I didn’t, though I should’ve. It’s… unlike anything I have ever felt before and it just dragged me down, clouded my judgment, made me do something incredibly dumb.” He paused a little. “I never wanted to do this. never would otherwise, but I wasn’t thinking straight. My sincerest apologies, my king.”

Joel bowed his head but briefly, to show his respect for Ren and then to keep an eye on the king, who still approached, the sword loosely in his hand, his nearly emotionless gaze on his bannerman.

“So the death waves influenced your thoughts?” Ren asked with a deceptively calm tone that sent a shiver down Joel’s spine.

“It did,” he said. “It… still does. I should’ve asked for help. I promise you, I will ask for help when it becomes tough. It won’t happen again.”

The silence hung between them, tense and cruel. Ren came closer to Joel, who had nowhere else to run. But his gaze seemed kinder, the atmosphere a little more friendly.

“You’re right,” Ren told him. “It will never happen again.”

He plunged the sword into Joel’s chest, piercing his heart. For just a brief moment, Joel was shocked, confused. He reached for Ren’s wrist, to do something. His body went limp before he properly realized what was happening to him. Ren pulled the sword out of the body and sheathed his blade while the body dropped to the floor.

Ren turned and left the tent, his mind on war, on revenge, on Martyn. With every step back to the outpost, he could feel the bloodlust rising within him, his mind slowly slipping away, grabbing it tightly to prevent it from slipping any further.

Maybe the death waves were getting to him, too.

Maybe.

He returned to the outpost, looking over the battlefield. Nothing much had changed in the time he’d been away from his safe space. The men still fought, killed, lost their lives for a good and just cause. For him.

He barely noticed Bigb’s worried look.

“Where’s Joel?”

“He’s not coming back,” Ren said. “He’s never coming back.”

Bigb turned his gaze to the battlefield as well, not saying a word. Ren preferred this silence; he could focus on what was important, on not falling under the influence of the death wave too much. He needed to at least be semi-focused before he walked onto the battlefield in search for the bastard that had his brother murdered.

Something changed.

“They’re breaching the second gate,” Bigb noted.

The fight moved from the open space at the foot of the mountain to the mountain pass. Slowly but surely, the red army was fighting their way to the top of the mountain.

That was it. The moment Ren had been waiting for. The gate had been breached; a large portion of the sand army destroyed. And Scar, the coward, was somewhere safely in a tower.

Not for long.

“Let’s not wait around, then,” Ren said. He already moved to the door of the outpost, but stopped when he only heard one pair of footsteps. Bigb wasn’t moving from his position. Ren turned his head and looked at his bannerman, waiting for an explanation.

“I’d rather stay here,” Bigb said. “Hold our position, should something go wrong.”

Ren nodded. That was a good idea. Though the war was as good as won and the battle over, something could still blow over. It only took one mad move from Scar to turn the tide – and if that happened, unlikely as it seemed, Ren might want someone out here, safely away from the danger.

“Very well,” Ren nodded. “Hold our position. I will join my forces on the battlefield.”

Bigb frowned. “Isn’t that—”

“I must be the one to kill Scar,” Ren told him. “He must look into my eyes so I can see the life fade from it. I cannot do that from this outpost.” He paused. “If this is the last goodbye – your loyalty is admirable. Pick up the pieces of Dogwarts. Be the leader my people need when I’m gone.”

Bigb nodded – one small gesture to let Ren know he was never going to abandon him as Joel had done. Ren turned his back to his loyal bannerman and walked towards the battlefield.

Each step was another victory; each breath hotter and hotter. He hated the sand in his shoes; he kicked the spot where some of Martyn’s blood was still visible. I’ll avenge you, brother. I’ll avenge you. His eyes right ahead, his gaze threatening. Ren drew his sword and walked towards the carnage, which grew louder and louder the closer he came.

Some stragglers ran around; men fighting men, regardless of their alignment. Soldiers from the same armies fought, having gone completely insane, though still, some engaged in fighting the enemy. Ren ignored them. Though he was itching to kill, he had another plan in mind. If someone dared attack him, Ren retaliated. If not, Ren let them be and continued to the mountain pass ahead, the one way to get to Scar.

“My king!” shouted a familiar voice from the side. Ren turned his head – Etho came towards him. He had a nasty cut on his arm, but other than that, he seemed to be completely fine. Hadn’t lost a life either, his yellow gaze on his king.

“Etho,” Ren said and he sighed in relief. “Am I glad to see you alive!”

“Likewise,” Etho said, glancing at the sword. He probably assumed Ren had joined the fighting; where else would Ren have drawn blood? He glanced to a spot behind Ren. “Skizz wasn’t so lucky.”

Ren turned his head. A little further, before the mountain sloped upward into a cliffside, lay a couple of corpses. One was that of Jimmy – had he been here to fight for Scar? It didn’t matter, because Skizz lay close by, his limbs splayed in such a way that suggested he’d fallen. He’d actually tried to climb up, and he hadn’t been lucky – or he had reached the top and had fallen. Either way, Skizz paid for it with his last life.

“Another good man has fallen,” Ren said. He turned to Etho. “There has been enough bloodshed today. Let’s find Scar and put an end to the madness.”

“Of course,” Etho said. “I found a safe way up. Follow me, my king.”

Ren followed Etho, as he’d been asked to do. He had found a relatively safe shortcut up the mountain that wasn’t too steep. They completely bypassed the fighting, the soldiers that slaughtered each other in a maddening rage. Ren knew better than to join them; knew better than jumping off and slaying the first man in sight. Though he wanted to.

He had to choose his targets carefully, and the only target he had in mind was a cowardly bastard hiding away in the highest tower. Let him stay there; he would have nowhere to run when Ren turned up. When Ren had him meet his blade.

When they reached the top of the plateau, Ren looked at the view. Sand as far as the eye could see; only sand. Just the sand. For three long years, this was what Scar had ruled over. His army was a mess, his economy in shambles. He was not a good leader; for three long years, Scar had already been the lord of nothing but sand. And yet, some people still followed him blindly.

On a platform stood a young man in a red shirt. Ren remembered him from the meeting they’d tried to hold; that was Brian – or was it Grian? –, Scar’s right-hand man. And for a moment, their eyes met.

Grian’s eyes widened in fear. In a blind panic, he pulled out a bow and arrow and started shooting at them. Ren had barely time to pull up his shield before the arrows hit. He could have been dead if he had been any slower.

One arrow struck his leg. Ren yelped as his leg gave way and he fell. Ren tried to keep the shield up while Etho moved forward. Ren could barely see what was going on, but he could hear it. The young man tried to get a hit on Etho too, but it didn’t seem to work out that well. He could hear the now-familiar sound of diamond cutting into someone’s flesh and assumed Etho had taken care of the threat.

Etho walked up to him, helping him undo the shield. The boy had vanished; he had been on his green or yellow life. He must have woken up in his bed, in the castle. They were going to butt into him again.

“Are you okay?” Etho asked as he assisted Ren with standing up. Ren nodded – the leg hurt, especially where the arrow had hit him, but that was it. It was sensitive and extremely painful, but at least he wasn’t losing any blood. Right now, his mind was stuck on the young man that had caused this damage. It confused him, almost pulled him out of his red rage.

“He was young,” Ren said, frowning. “Barely old enough to—”

“Let’s not think about that.” Etho pulled Ren’s arm over his shoulders, so they could advance to the castle together. “We’re going to find Scar in there. I’ll help you get there.”

Ren nodded. He grabbed his sword; it was hard balancing trying to walk and having the sword out, but he was going to have to try. With his other arm, he clung to Etho, who provided him with the support to go on. Etho had his sword out, too, and they moved slowly to the castle, at the rhythm that suited Ren best.

“Do not leave my side,” Ren said.

“I won’t.”

Chapter Text

Grian awoke in a panic, his hand reaching to his chest where the sword had pierced him. The hole was gone, as was the pain. But he was safe, in his bedroom on the first floor. He might have thought this was one big dream if he didn’t hear the fighting going on outside.

The battle raged on and Grian had just lost his first life.

He jumped out of bed and sprinted to the mirror. His face was the same – it was all the same, except for his now yellow eyes. He trembled, leaned against the wall. He hadn’t lost a life before. He didn’t think he would be losing one of his lives today. Why hadn’t he thought that was a possibility? He should’ve expected it.

How wasn’t he on his red life yet?

Maybe he should’ve run after Scott. He knew where the armory was, maybe he could’ve offered to bring Scott so they could both run while they could. Why couldn’t he be as sensible as Scott? Why didn’t he just leave?

Because Scar needed him. Didn’t he?

Didn’t he?

He wasn’t sure anymore.

But the small reprieve came to an end – his own death had reset the effects of the death waves. And it all came crashing back into his mind, unprepared as he was.

He never felt so small, on the verge of tears, his hands trembling terribly, his mind more unstable than it had ever been before. His vision blurred briefly, and he took a couple of breaths to steady himself. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all. He couldn’t stay alone, not now.

He had to get to Scar.

That was doable. He could manage that small objective – get to Scar. Enough to keep his mind straight while he moved around.

Grian carefully walked out of his room. Who knew who stalked these halls, who was going to stab him at first sight. To get to Scar’s room from his position, he would need to pass the small courtyard. It wasn’t too big, threats lurked around every corner, especially as the Red King and one of his lackeys were lurking around, looking for any sign of the enemy.

As Grian snuck around the edge of the courtyard, he saw the two. At least Grian had managed to hurt the Red King; the arrow stuck out of his leg, just below his knee, and his lackey had to support him. They moved at a slower pace, but they moved nonetheless. It was all Grian could have done – delay the inevitable.

Fear gripped him. Were they going to see him? Grian quickly made his way to the nearest entrance and hurried through, pressing his back against the wooden wall.

The stables. He was hiding in the stables, waiting for the King and his lackey to be gone. The sound of their boots on the stone echoed away from his position, and Grian breathed in relief. He didn’t want to die twice today.

A weird noise drew his attention. It was the llama, Pizza. It was unaware, stared at Grian with mild disinterest. It had no idea of the bloodshed, the shouting the death outside.

And yet it wasn’t so innocent as it looked.

Grian stared back at the llama. This was the animal that started this whole mess. Scar had stolen it; gifted to his late wife, who never got to enjoy it, kept as a trophy to remind himself to be ‘humble’ – to remind himself of his victories, no matter how petty or small. Grian’s mind devolved from there, equating the animal with Scar’s power, ego, the misery he brought upon the Sandlands and its people. He tried to pull out of these thoughts, but the death waves weighed down on him, only enhanced these thoughts that made him unable to look away.

And then he stood up, dropped a pair of shears. He glanced down and noticed the red stains and droplets on the ground and hay. He followed the droplets and found himself staring at a dead llama on the ground with a big gash across its throat, spilling blood. The gate to Pizza’s pen was open, and Grian stood in the doorway.

Grian blinked a couple of times, frowned at the image before him before they widened in horror.

The llama was dead.

He’d killed the llama.

The Red King and Etho were on their way to Scar.

Grian took a breath. He had to get to Scar, now more urgently. He had to warn Scar of the danger coming.

Grian abandoned the stables and ran to the stairs. The Red King and Etho couldn’t have gone too far, and they had gone in the wrong direction. Still, there were multiple ways to get to the top of the castle, and they might well stumble upon the shortest way to Scar and get there before Grian could. Or was that another delusion? But as he ran, generating a lot of noise, he spotted the two at the edge of his vision.

Grian ran faster. They’d seen him. Damn it, they’d seen him! Now he was the one to lead them to Scar. Or they would’ve found their way up at one point anyway. At least Scar had some weaponry up there, some guards too. It was going to be fine.

And Grian sprinted up the stairs, out of breath before he was even halfway there. he walked the remaining stairs, looking over his shoulder to see if the Red King and Etho had come into his field of vision again. Slower than he would’ve wanted, he reached Scar’s bedroom.

There were no guards. Grian frowned – he’d made a giant lapse of judgment. Scar might not even be here; at least he would’ve delayed the inevitable again, but that would mean he’d wake up with red eyes soon. But if Scar was here, then where were the guards? Why was he alone?

He would never know if he stayed in the hallway.

He stumbled into a weird scene. Scar sat next to his bed, where Tango was chained with his wrists to the bedpost. He lay on the ground, unconscious, and Scar almost jumped up when the door opened. He relaxed when he recognized Grian, bringing his hand to his heart.

“Oh, Grian!” he exclaimed. “You scared me there, am I glad to see you!” When Grian approached, he frowned. “Wait, are you—yes, you are! The yellow suits you.”

Was that all? Was that all Scar had to say about him, his situation? Yellow suited him? Nothing about the blood splatters on his fingers and hand. Nothing about the spy at his feet. And what was that with the surprise in his voice about Grian’s eyes changing colors?

“What did you do to Tango?” Grian wondered, to take his mind to the least problematic part of this whole ordeal. But Scar waved it away, glancing at Tango.

“We’ll deal with him when the siege is over. Until then, he at least won’t be able to run anywhere.”

Splendid.

Now they were stuck with Tango on the top floor, the Red King and Etho in pursuit. They were going to be found. There wasn’t really anything here to defend yourself with; Scar had a sword, but there was no spare for Grian. The best he could find was a letter opener, and even then it wouldn’t do against the Red Army.

Stuck.

He was going to be dead again.

Breathe. He couldn’t let the death waves get the better of him again. He couldn’t. Think about something, anything will do. Anything…

“The llama is dead,” he blurted out.

Scar’s face distorted into a horrified expression. He dramatically placed his hand against his chest, in a manner that seemed completely undeserved for the situation.

“Pizza?” Scar breathed, truly feeling this loss. “Pizza’s dead?”

“I-I saw the corpse,” Grian said, wishing he could take back those words. “He’s gone.”

Scar ran a hand through his hair. “No, not Pizza. Not Pizza…”

Grian hadn’t been planning to tell Scar that he had been the one to kill the llama – he wasn’t even sure Scar noticed the blood on his hands. But he reacted the way one would react to losing a loved one, a good friend, anyone. His reaction to the news was too over the top, too undeserved, too inappropriate for the current circumstances, especially because of what happened earlier.

“Are you crying over a llama?” Grian wondered indignantly, incredulously. “There’s a war going on, people are dying outside – you watched Jimmy die! And you cry over a llama.”

“Yeah, well, Jimmy wasn’t always around,” Scar said in defense of his emotions, still trying to recover from the loss of his beloved llama. “Pizza was. He’s been here all these three years; a true companion from the start. My poor Pizza…”

Huh. So Pizza had been the true companion.

Would Scar even shed a tear if Grian died permanently? Would he even care, or shrug it off? After all, yellow suited Grian – there weren’t condolences or worry about Grian when he showed up with yellow eyes. Did he even care enough about everyone around him to feel the death waves around him? He seemed way too chill when he watched Jimmy die; when he saw his own men die, and no emotions when Grian confronted him with those yellow eyes – Scar had no idea Grian had died.

The cracks were showing. All it took was the death of one llama to reveal it all.

The door swung open and the Red King and Etho entered. The Red King let go of the support his bannerman provided and limped deeper into the room, the arrow still sticking from his leg. Grian fell back into a corner, behind Scar, and he grabbed the letter opener he’d spotted earlier. Not too sharp, but desperate times turned everything into a weapon and if necessary, Grian could still do some damage with it.

If they didn’t overpower him.

Scar stood up, facing the Red King. He clenched the dagger in his hand – Didn’t he have a sword? What happened to that sword? – and glared at his half-brother. His weapon was considerably smaller, only an iron dagger against an enchanted diamond sword.

Grian could feel his mind slip back into panic. His fear of the Red King and Etho prevented him from closing his eyes, the nearby threat stopped him from properly breathing and taking his time to stay calm. He couldn’t block them out – he was going to lose another life. He was going to lose another life within five minutes, and there was nothing he could do about it. The death waves hammering on him dragged him deeper into that panic, into the negativity, into insanity.

He tightened his grip on the letter opener.

“Hello, brother,” Scar said. His voice sounded painfully cheerful, albeit a little strained. Grian would want to bet Scar even wore his stupid grin. The Red King shook his head.

“We’re not brothers,” he said. “You never had that right. Even if you did, you destroyed it when you had Martyn murdered.”

“And now you’ll kill me?” Scar cackled. “Has anyone ever had the guts to tell you you’re so full of it? You say you’re doing everything right, never wrong, but you’re just as bad as I am. I like to have some fun, but you? You’re the warmonger. You’re never going to stop. You will never be satisfied with—”

The blunt blade disappeared into his back. Scar’s speech was cut short, and he stammered, fighting to get each breath out, trying to figure out what happened.

“What the—”

Grian pulled the letter opener out of the Lord’s back and watched Scar drop to his knees and fight desperately against the darkness that tried to claim him finally. He tried to crawl away.

Grian’s hand trembled and came down on Scar again. And again. And again. His vision blurred. And again. How many was that? He’d lost count. Again. And again.

A firm grasp around his wrist stopped him mid-air.

Grian lifted his head. His yellow eyes met the Red King’s surprisingly soft red gaze. Why wasn’t it looking at him with hate? Why did he bother to stop Grian?

Why did he stop Grian?

Grian looked away from the Red King – his gaze alone had pulled Grian back to reality, back to the top bedroom of the mountain castle, to the body at his feet with too many bloody holes in his back.

The letter opener clanged to the ground. Grian’s hand trembled.

Had he done that?

Somehow, he was empty. There was nothing. He should feel something – he supposed he felt the death wave – but none of the emotions registered. The llama is dead, and so is the man who stole it. was that a good thing? He wasn’t sure. It wasn’t a bad thing, but it wasn’t good either. And Grian still couldn’t stop tears from streaming down his cheeks when he watched the lifeless body of the man he’d called family for three years – the only family he had for three years.

He wished he’d pushed past Scar and had gone for Ren instead.

He wished his murder wasn’t just a blur.

“What have I done?” Grian said under his breath, shook his head, watched the body. A small part of him wanted Scar to get up and wreck Ren and Etho. What am I doing?

“You did what you had to do,” Ren said. His voice was surprisingly non-hostile. “And it’s brave, to stand up for the man who manipulated you. That doesn’t take away from the severity. You were brave.”

Grian didn’t want to be brave. He didn’t want any of this. He should’ve followed Scott, he should’ve gone, he shouldn’t have gone to Scar, he should’ve stayed away.

He shouldn’t have asked Scar to take him in hours after he lost his family.

Since when did Grian sit on his knees? He wasn’t sure, but he noticed when Ren crouched beside him and looked at him with that same godawful soft gaze. He didn’t deserve that soft gaze, he deserved the harsh look in his eyes, the same Ren directed to his enemies.

“How old are you?”

Too young to deal with any of this. The words were stuck in his throat. He quietly tried to process what was happening – not just the murder, but also what Ren did and didn’t do. The non-answer was an answer in itself, and Ren’s eyes widened, shaking his head at everything Scar had done to keep Grian on his side, despite his age.

An unfamiliar groan drew the attention, and Tango stirred. Ren stood up again and he and Etho shared a glance. Grian didn’t move; he couldn’t care less about the spy who betrayed both sides.

“My head…” Tango frowned. He tried to get up, but the chains around his wrists kept him tied to the bed. He lifted his head, pulling at the chains – he wasn’t going to free himself with a big pull. Then he turned his head to the right, noticed two pairs of shoes, and looked up with his red gaze.

“Ren!” Tango shouted in relief. “You’ve come to save me.”

Ren did not immediately answer. The stoic look on his face already made Tango nervous. He tried to sit without using his hand, so he wouldn’t be lying.

“Tango,” Ren said in a tone that was a little too cold. “We’ve heard some unsettling news about you.”

Tango’s face paled.

“Me?” he said. “I-I’m just doing my job.”

“Martyn said you were a traitor,” Ren continued. “So I can assume you were working with Scar.”

“I was feeding him false information.”

“Until you weren’t,” the bannerman said. Tango turned his head and seemed disappointed.

“C’mon, Etho!” He shook his head. “I needed to keep his trust. And yes, I gave him kernels of the truth, but never the full truth. He was not prepared at all for your attack; I mean, eh…” he turned his head and finally spotted the body mere feet from his own. Tango gulped nervously, his answer coming a heartbeat too late. “A-as evidence by the corpse at your feet, he was not prepared. I was helping you! I gave you all the information you needed to secure this victory.”

Ren shrugged. “Who’s to say you weren’t lying to me?”

“I would never, my king,” Tango said. He came off as desperate, and Grian had a hard time believing him, even if this was the truth. “If I were such a close ally, why did he chain me to this bed? Why did he knock me unconscious?”

Re did not answer. When he looked at Etho, he offered little help as well.

“You’ve made a miscalculation,” Etho said.

“No, no, no, no, Etho. You know I’m on your side. I am on your side.” He sighed. “Etho.”

Etho had folded his arms and shook his head at Tango.

“I can’t help now.”

“C’mon Etho, please.” Tango was begging at this point. “Ren, please. You have to believe me.”

“If you truly were on our side, you would have helped Martyn.”

He straightened his back and glanced at Etho. The silent supporter nodded once. Ren turned his attention to the young man who witnessed these events.

“Come on, kid.”

Grian blinked a couple of times, pointing timidly at himself. “M-Me?”

What’s going on?

“You are as much a victim of this tyrant as everyone else,” Ren said, in a softer and more caring tone. “Scar manipulated those around him. You were brave. I can get you safely out of these walls. Far from war and suffering.”

Grian nodded.

It felt wrong, going with Ren, but he had to accept this was the best option. He had a chance to get out, and he took it with open hands, even if it was with the enemy – or the people he’d come to know as his enemy. He stepped around Scar and followed Etho and Ren to the door; he could feel Etho’s warm hand press against his back, as he was lead out of the room. It calmed him enough to keep the insanity of the death waves at bay.

“Wait a second, wait!” Tango shouted, pulling the jingling chains. “Are you gonna leave me here?”

Grian couldn’t see Tango anymore; but his voice was just as desperate and hollow from the hallway. Ren walked to the door and appeared before Tango once again, his hand on the doorknob.

“You should have helped Martyn.” Ren shut the door and walked with Etho and Grian down the stairs. Even with the door closed, they could hear Tango’s panicked screams, begging for attention, for someone to let him go. But the castle was all abandoned and he was sitting in one of the highest towers. It’d be a miracle if anyone found him.

But his screams faded away, and silence fell over the castle. The fighting outside had stopped as well.

It was over. Finally, it was over.

Chapter Text

Scott had been running for days.

He almost felt back about stealing Impulse’s horse, but he reminded himself he wouldn’t have been able to put so much distance between himself and the war without it. He wouldn’t be so far from home. Scott hoped Impulse wouldn’t mind – he could handle himself. And Ren seemed to trust him. He’d surely get mercy.

He hoped Impulse would get mercy.

On this journey, Scott couldn’t help but reflect on the fragile peace he’d known. Peace that lasted only a couple of months into retirement. Peace, with Jimmy, in the flower valley. The nearest village had been a two-hour leisurely ride to the west, and journeying there was the most adventure either had expected for the rest of their lives.

Where had it all gone wrong?

Dogwarts stood at their door and threatened with dire consequences if they didn’t join the Red Army. Scott and Jimmy only needed one glance to start packing up and to settle elsewhere. This ‘elsewhere’, along the road at the border of the Forest Empire, soon a well-traveled road as an influx of refugees passed, from Dogwarts and the Sandlands alike. And they helped – they had the means, why shouldn’t they help anyone that passed by? Until Scar stood before them and took away their choice.

Grian was barely able to look them in the eyes. Scott had recognized him when he’d passed by earlier. Seeing him alone almost gave Scott hope. He’d hoped Grian had taken that left turn to the Forest Kingdom; he wasn’t surprised to know Grian couldn’t leave Scar behind. It’s hard, leaving behind all you know.

It's hard, leaving everything behind. Especially the body you once hoped to bury.

Scott cried, the scenes flashing before his eyes over and over again, on repeat. They filled his nightmares, disturbed any peaceful moments. And the same words accompanied these flashes. They’re dead. They’re dead and Scott lived.

Jimmy. Always kind, always helpful. Red by accident. His smile would follow Scott for an eternity, wherever he went. Jimmy had wanted to avoid conflict with Scar – he’d convinced Scott to play along, they could stay away from the fight and maybe even defect if the battle turned in the favor of Dogwarts. They could sneak away before any damage was done.

But the battle raged and Jimmy – so empathetic, too empathetic – was overcome with the same red rage and insanity as the men below, felt everyone die. Scott would never stop blaming himself for turning his back that one second. One moment, Jimmy sat before him and the next, he'd run off to join the battle. The next time Scott saw him, Skizz impaled him and dimmed the joyous light in his partner’s eyes forever.

Skizz. Always eager, always ready to jump into action. Red by accident; coincidentally, the same accident that brought Jimmy to red, too. How ironic he was the one to take Jimmy’s last life. Only fitting that Scott took his revenge and end it for Skizz as well.

It didn’t feel good. In fact, it made Scott sick to the stomach. After Jimmy’s death wave, he didn’t need to feel Skizz’s as well – but he did. They’d still traveled for years – enjoyed adventures for years. Skizz was – is – was a good friend. Maybe Scott shared in that red insanity when he saw Skizz after the murder, though Scott was still yellow. When Skizz tilted over the edge, Scott already regretted, wanted to reach out for Skizz to grab his hand, but he was out of reach already.

And then he was alone, unsure, grieving. And then he left.

The soldiers had seen Skizz impale Jimmy. They might have also seen Scott push him off. If that wasn’t a sign Scott had ‘turned against the Red Army’, he wouldn’t know what was.

These thoughts kept Scott company until the climate grew colder and he neared the mountains he’d unconsciously been running towards. There was a small settlement in those mountains; Scott, Jimmy, and Skizz had stopped there once before on their travels. They stayed for a week or two, a break from questing. Jimmy loved the snow but hated the cold. Skizz hated the whole situation, but warmed up to it when Jimmy threw the first snowball. And Scott had watched, joined when the first snowball hit him, too, and they enjoyed this small break. A nice change. A nice memory.

It wouldn’t be the same without them – especially without Jimmy. But they never told anyone about this settlement in the mountains. Scott would be safe here, far away from Dogwarts or the Sandlands, whoever had won. He feared it was Dogwarts.

At least, he would be safe for the foreseeable future. He’d live, for Jimmy. That was enough.

Grian missed the desert, but Dogwarts was magnificent. When he first walked through the gates, not as a prisoner but a guest, he felt awkwardly out of place. This feeling never changed, however much Ren tried to negate those feelings. The people and servants were nice enough, and none seemed nice because Ren asked them to be. Would they still be nice if they knew Grian caused their wall to blow up? Would they kick him out if they knew he was responsible for the last death of their king and the start of the war proper?

And it made him wonder, how much was he responsible for? He thought back to that day. He’d placed the dynamite and timer. He’d done so as retaliation for Scar’s second death. Because Martyn had pushed Scar off the wall. In retrospect, that was impossible. It was more likely that Scar had fallen than that a prince of Dogwarts got onto the heavily guarded walls and pushed Scar off. And Grian, half-tired and willing to believe anything Scar told him, had come up with a vile plan.

Was it all his fault?

He didn’t know. He couldn’t ask anyone, either, as they’d all take Dogwarts’ side and put the blame on Scar. All biased commentators, much like Grian himself.

Ren had assured Grian he could choose what he wanted to do. If he wanted to leave, Ren would let him. If he wanted to stay and work, Ren would accommodate. He seemed nice enough, but Grian never was at ease around him. Maybe it was because of three years of resentment towards the king. Maybe because he’d been burned by one ruler already and didn’t want to be used again, made to feel necessary again. He was already glad Ren did not need him like Scar seemed to need him those three long years.

Three years… had it only been three years? Three long years by Scar’s side. But he was gone – now his purpose had fallen away, what could Grian do?

Grian had made up his mind a day before the funerals were planned. He asked to speak with Ren – the king had been busy and Grian had to wait an hour. But Ren showed up and a shiver ran down Grian’s spine. He’d never seen Ren in casual clothes, without a stately cape or armor. He wasn’t even wearing his crown, and he seemed oddly normal. Oddly out of place. It reminded Grian of Scar and the way he only dressed the part of a lord for visitors. It only reinforced the unease.

“I’m leaving the castle,” Grian said. “I want to travel.”

Ren didn’t press on; he accepted Grian’s decision. He had his staff prepare a package for Grian for his travels: a good cloak against the weather, sturdy shoes, enough food to last him a while, and some coin to keep him going if he ran out. Before Grian was sent on his way, Ren told him he was always welcome back if he wanted to. He had a friend in Dogwarts.

Grian knew they wouldn’t be so nice if he hadn’t killed Scar in his insanity – if they knew he blew up the wall. So he quickly thanked them and left the castle behind him. He didn’t look back once.

Though he had a destination in mind, he had no idea which way to go from Dogwarts castle. So he traveled until he came upon a familiar village. From there, he followed a route he’d taken before, only in reverse. He left the known world behind him and journeyed into the forests.

And eventually, after nine days of travel, Grian found it again. A familiar small hut in the middle of a forest clearing, a small herbal garden with a familiar gardener. The herbalist looked up when he heard his visitor come closer and he frowned.

“Grian?”

Grian’s throat was dry. This felt right – this was the one thing that was right. But what if the herbalist didn’t want him here? What if he heard about Scar’s right-hand man? What if he realized what Grian had been doing? What he’d done? Would he still want to help him? Would he—?

“My family’s gone,” he said before his thoughts could spiral any more, almost choking on his words. “He’s dead. I-I didn’t know where else to go and—”

“Grian.” The herbalist stood up, approached the young man, and placed his hands on Grian’s shoulders. “You’re always welcome here. Come on in.”

Grian let out a breath when he stepped into the home. For the first time in three years, he could fully relax.

Ren sat on the front row in his large hall, next to Etho and BigB. A little further along sat Joel’s wife, Lizzie. Impulse was somewhere around here, too, but wasn’t sitting on the front row, somewhere between the soldiers and common folk who wanted to pay their respects to the brave souls who laid down their lives at the Battle of the Red Desert. A battle so bloody that it colored the desert red with the blood of the fallen. A battle for the history books.

For the occasion, the throne had been removed and instead five caskets lay in the front. If Ren could have paid his respects to the fallen separately, he would have. But so many died, and as the king, he could impossibly attend every funeral. A compromise was this commemoration, doubling as the funeral for these five, and the names of the known soldiers who’d died were read aloud, for everyone to hear.

But Ren could only focus on the closed caskets and who was put to rest inside.

Joel’s was on the far left. Ren regretted dealing the killing blow to someone whom he considered a friend, someone who could not have fought against the death waves and who’d made a mistake. Ren would never know if insanity or treasonous thoughts made him draw his blade, but not including the name of this lord would demonize the county he ruled over. The last thing Ren wanted was for Joel’s wife to rebel against Dogwarts. Joel had been a good friend nonetheless, and his inclusion in this line-up more than a formality.

Cleo of the Crastle lay next to Joel. When Ren learned she had perished and had been buried in the sand before the battle, he had her dug up and her remains placed in a casket. She could be returned to her husband, her homeland, and Ren would win the favor of the Riverlanders. He’d already told the story, as nobody else was able to – Scar had her killed when her usefulness had run out and turned Tango against her. The Lady of the Crastle, though she acted unwisely, deserved a proper funeral and burial, as did her husband.

Skizzleman rested in the middle casket. The last time Ren had seen him alive, he’d taken charge of the army while Ren carried his brother away. He’d led the Red Army into battle and fought like hell, even as insanity claimed him. Survivors claim he was a beast; he slew everyone who dared step into his field of vision, hesitated long enough for the Red soldiers to move out of the way and for Skizz to lock on to a Sandlands target. They say he killed hundreds before he made a nasty fall. Truly a hero of Dogwarts.

Then, to his right, lay Jimmy. Though Ren had no idea who Jimmy had been fighting for, he wanted to assume Jimmy and Scott came to support Dogwarts. Jimmy’s body lay close to Skizz’s, as well, which indicated he might have tried to defend his friend’s body. It did beg the question – where was Scott in all this? Why wasn’t he here for the funeral? It was at the very least suspicious. Jimmy was still a good man, who fought for Dogwarts, with enough fame not to include in this line-up.

And on the far right, Martyn. His casket was the nicest; Ren only wanted the best for his little brother. Maybe he should’ve been placed in the middle in Skizz’s stead, but Ren hadn’t thought about that until the funeral started. Ren only looked at his brother’s casket – a true hero, loyal to the bone, even in his last moments. He would have been a great king. He should have been a king. But he never got the opportunity, the first fallen soldier in the battle. Ren could only hope there was an afterlife, and that his brother was doing alright up there.

At the end of the commemoration, when the soldiers and commoners and guests walked to the exit, Ren made sure to stop Lizzie and Impulse. He held Lizzie while she cried and gave her his sincerest condolences. She shouldn’t worry, Joel’s county would be hers if she formally pledged her allegiance to him. He lamented the formalities and hoped she’d do as he wanted without thinking of him as pushy.

Ren was taken aback when he saw Impulse and his yellow eyes – he’d died during the battle, but not on the battlefield. It was a topic Impulse danced around – he fell, and that was all he had to say. Ren assumed Impulse was walking down some stairs when Skizz died, so he lost his footing and fell to his death. So Ren gave Impulse his condolences. They could discuss Impulse’s promotion later. He would have to visit Impulse’s workshop when things had calmed down. Etho would know where he lived.

But these commemorations weren’t all that would fill his day. While everyone else got three days off, three days of national mourning, Ren was at work. He had no time to rest. He needed to sit with Etho, BigB, and – eventually – Lizzie. Today, he needed to reward Etho for his loyalty. The lordship of the Riverlands seemed a good enough reward.

And then, they needed to discuss Scott and what he could be planning. His absence today made Ren paranoid – he must have a good reason not to attend, but Ren could not see it. Both Jimmy and Skizz gone, and Scott didn’t show up. Without evidence to the contrary, Ren believed Scott planned something – that he’d run home to the Forest Kingdom and tried to drum up support for… something. Before Ren could strike, however, he needed to be sure this was truly what was going on.

But when the evidence that Scott was planning something finally presented itself, Ren had to be ready to strike.

Impulse glanced one last time into his workshop.

It was empty; though it was the middle of the day, nobody was inside. There hadn’t been anyone since the Battle of the Red Desert. And maybe that was a good thing.

Ren was coming. Impulse didn’t know when, but he was coming. The last time they saw each other was at the mass funeral. Ren held him, comforted him, and told him he was sorry for his loss. Ren had no idea Impulse had watched his best friend die, that Impulse fell after him, that Impulse was in enemy territory to find Tango, now branded a traitor. Impulse said nothing and accepted his condolences.

Impulse pulled the door closed behind him. He didn’t bother locking the door; it didn’t matter anymore, as Impulse had no plans of returning here.

He had fired everyone, closed down his business. He did not leave these good people empty-handed – he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t at least give them something until they found a new job. He split his wealth under his employees, giving each one a fair share. He kept some of it himself – enough to last him a month or two, until he found something else to do.

Unlike his employees, he wasn’t staying in Riverbed.

He did not trust Ren at all. He still believed Ren would bring Impulse to his castle, to make him work from there until he had so few freedoms he could no longer escape. Impulse saw the writing on the wall and would rather leave now before it was too late.

He glanced at the building he had called home for three years. It pained to leave it behind, but he had no choice. They were going to figure out where he lived sooner or later, and he had to be gone by the time they figured it out.

And he walked away – his horse was still in the desert, probably dead. Maybe he could buy another one on his way if he hadn’t already made it most of the way to the Forest Kingdom.

Impulse did not look back. He couldn’t bear to – he was leaving everything behind, and looking back would make it that much more painful for him.

On his way, he was deep in thought as his mind took him down memory lane to pass the time. Too many memories of this place; too many good memories. Him and Tango; and before that, him and Skizz. In the local pub, anywhere else, just traveling and sharing stories. It was never the big moments that returned to him; though they were important, it was the smaller things that now came to mind. The many adventures he and Skizz went on in their youth… nobody was taking that away.

The further he traveled, the fewer people recognized him. He only ever stayed one night and paid accordingly for food. His feet were killing him, but they reminded him that he was alive. He was alive.

While others weren’t.

On the third day of his travels, Impulse came across familiar grounds. It had been an eternity since anyone had been here; it had been too long since Impulse had been to these neutral grounds, this old tower his parents came to and discussed their plans when neutral grounds were necessary. The tower had long fallen, the ground he used to play on with the other kids now overgrown.

Impulse stopped for a while and his mind was catapulted back to that day. Back to simpler times, when he and Skizz pretended to be knights, when death was only a possibility not often thought about. It was strange to think about his friends as children, but there was solace in these memories, where everyone was innocent and nobody had bad intentions.

His eyes fell on a familiar tree.

Impulse approached it, unsure if he would find what he was looking for. But as he came closer, he saw the scratches made ages ago. The names they’d carved into the tree were still visible, and Impulse read over each name, a living monument to a peaceful day when kids left their mark on the world.

Impulse and Skizz, carved right next to one another. Cleo had carved her name as far from Bdubs’ away as she possibly could. Ren tried to have his name be the one carved at the highest point, but Jimmy managed to carve his name higher, despite protests and being almost physically held back by Martyn. Martyn found a spot under his brother’s name while Joel took his time and carved his lowest, still close to the others.

But there was a ninth name – one that hadn’t been there when these children and their parents left.

Scar had added his name. All the way at the bottom – very broad and not as deep as the others. It was hard to tell if Scar only recently added the name or if he’d done so right after everyone else had gone.

Impulse put a hand on the tree. From the eight – nine – names on the tree, only two had lived to see today.

Only two.

He looked up to the sky, his sight blocked by the leaves and branches. He tried to recall the laughter, the fun, the happiness, the joy of that evening. The simplicity of being children, messing around with friends, when swords were mere sticks and Ren only pretended to be a cruel king because that was all he knew.

Impulse took a deep breath and patted the trunk twice.

“Take care,” he said. To the tree. To those who had carved their names into its trunk and had passed away. To those who watched from up high, where they hopefully found peace. To Skizz, whom he could still see falling. Whom he would always see falling.

Then he walked away from the tree, to an uncertain future in the Forest Kingdom.