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KYLE
The Festival of Realms transformed the usually empty borderlands into a chaotic explosion of color and noise. Merchant tents from every race and realm sprawled in every direction, their fabric walls billowing with spices and illusions. Flags representing all the realms of Zaron, both ancient and newly invented flapped overhead while diplomats, commoners, and con artists mingled in a temporary ceasefire of mutual exploitation, just as they did every five years for The Festival of Realms.
At the center of it all stood the Grand Pavilion, where the ceremonial opening would soon take place. It was a heavily guarded massive tent structure that changed color depending on which angle you viewed it from. Guards from every realm stood at attention, their ceremonial weapons gleaming with enchantments.
The Festival of Realms wasn't just a celebration. It was a pressure valve. Every five years, ancient enemies put aside blood feuds to share mead and negotiate treaties. Assassins declared temporary truces. Even the warlocks and rogues had emerged from their groves to trade rare herbs for questionable trinkets.
Kyle shouldered his way through a crowd of gawking tourists, the weight of his ceremonial crown and the other's stares making his neck cramp.
"For the last time, I don't need six guards to walk fifty feet," Kyle hissed to the captain.
"The Queen Mother insisted on eight. I talked her down to six."
Kyle rolled his eyes. "Fantastic negotiation skills. Write that down for my diplomatic lessons."
"Remember, during the Youth Exchange, the Kupa Keep's Prince will try to make you look foolish. He does it every year." Sheila adjusted his collar for what felt like the hundredth time. "Don't rise to his bait."
"I'm not going to embarrass the kingdom, Ma."
"And whatever you do, don't eat the cake."
Kyle frowned. "What cake?"
"The ceremonial unity cake! It’s just for show. Beside it sits the Unity Dagger. Do not touch it. It's enchanted with old binding hexes from all seven kingdoms. Stealing it is considered an act of war."
Kyle nodded, mentally filing this under "arbitrary rules that make no logical sense but will somehow cause a war if broken."
The three ancestral voices immediately began arguing in his crown.
"Assert dominance. Eat the entire cake!" suggested his warrior ancestor.
"Perhaps observe which delegates touch the cake first," countered the scholar.
"Replace it with an identical cake made of soap and then eat the dagger," whispered the trickster.
Queen Sheila nodded approvingly. "Good. And if the Dwarven envoy offers you salted meat, accept with your right hand only. Left implies you think their mines are failing. And-"
"And never refuse a toast from the Centaur delegation unless I want them to challenge me to a bare-knuckle brawl," Kyle finished, his voice monotone. "I memorized the appendices, sections three through seven."
His mother beamed. "My little diplomat! A natural. The ancestors watch over you."
Yeah, and they can’t agree on anything, Kyle thought. But he'd stopped mentioning the actual voices in his crown after his parents scheduled that awkward session with the spiritual wellness cleric. That had been three hours of "visualizing his inner council" and "letting go of the false voices in his head" while the trickster ancestor made fart noises every time the cleric said "spiritual harmony."
Kyle stifled a yawn as his mother fussed with his ceremonial robes. The ancestors in his crown had fallen into their usual bickering, becoming white noise against the festival's chaos.
He trudged toward the central pavilion where all the realm's youth delegates would gather, a collection of entitled heirs and heiresses who treated realm politics like a popularity contest. Now that Kyle was getting older, he'd found himself having to start navigating flirting attempts from those in poorer kingdoms as well. Another session of pretending to care about trade routes and marriage alliances when Zaron had actual problems nobody wanted to address. The drought in the eastern provinces. The mysterious plague affecting magical creatures. The increasing raids from beyond the Frozen Wastes.
"But sure, let's obsess over which fucking hand to accept dried meat with," Kyle thought to himself bitterly. It was always the same bureaucratic bullshit.
Kyle gripped his protocol scroll tighter, silently begging any ancestors who might be listening to just let him get through this day without dying of boredom.
STAN
Stan yanked at the collar strangling his neck. Uncle Jimbo's idea of 'formal wear' was apparently some hand-me-down shirt that felt like someone had woven sandpaper into fabric. Stan rarely wore shirts that weren't sleeveless, even in the winter. His uncle had shoved the clothes at him earlier, muttering something about looking 'presentable'. Stan figured the trip to the festival was less about trying to teach him culture as his uncle claimed, and more about Jimbo hoping to snag a rich patron for one of his questionable monster-hunting expeditions.
"Stand up straight, boy," Jimbo had clapped him on the shoulder before they'd separated. "Make sure to get the good word about about Tegridy Valley's natural herbs! You're a Marshwalker. Act like it."
Stan had just nodded, swallowing the urge to ask what the hell that even meant anymore. His family name belonged to ghosts now.
A weird ripple caught his eye by the nut vendor – like someone had punched a hole in reality. For a split second, the crowd disappeared, replaced by an empty wasteland under a bruised sky. Stan blinked hard, willing the hallucination away. This shit always got worse when Sparky wasn't around.
Gods, he already missed that stupid dog. The guards at the entrance had been total dicks about it.
"No wild animals," the taller one had said, pointing his spear at Sparky.
"He's mostly domesticated," Stan had argued, subtly adjusting his hidden sword. "And he's definitely less dangerous than whatever that guy's selling." He'd nodded toward a merchant showcasing his 'street legal powdersmoke'.
The guards remained unimpressed. Sparky whined until Stan promised him the leftover jerky from their pack.
So Sparky sat at their campsite, probably chewing through another of Stan's shirts out of spite.
A flute cut through the noise, somehow louder than the screaming merchants and drunken diplomats. Stan followed it like it was a lifeline, finding a small stage in front of one of the diplomatic tents where musicians played. A halfling juggled fire while singing about a dragon with princess-eating issues. People laughed, tossing coins. Someone's half-eaten meat pie almost hit Stan's foot, but he didn't move.
The music did something weird to the world, made it stop wobbling. The static at the edges of his vision faded, and for a blessed minute, the world's colors didn't look like they were trying to slip off the canvas. His shoulders relaxed for what felt like the first time in hours after traveling to get there.
Stan's hand went to his chest where Jimbo's borrowed shirt couldn't quite hide the lump of his old lute. He hadn't exactly meant to bring it, stuffing it into his pack at the last minute felt more like muscle memory than a conscious choice, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to leave it behind either. He sat down and pulled off one boot, dumping out a rock while trying not to look like some lost kid.
A group of elves swept past, heading towards the diplomatic tent. Festival-goers parted before them, creating a path for them to continue. A tall one in the middle, caught between childhood and adulthood, with a head of wild red curls and a stubborn set to his jaw, scowled at the guard trailing him. Stan squinted, his gaze transfixed on the teen. Recognition flickered. Elf Prince Kyle Broflovski, heir to the Elvenking.
Did he always look that pissed off? Gods, he was beautiful.
Stan had seen the royal portrait in every town crier's bulletin and proclamation scroll since he was old enough to read - an elf prince around his own age. The artists got it all wrong, didn't do any justice to the real life Prince. They smoothed out his features, tamed those curls, and completely missed the fire in those green eyes. Stan felt a weird pang, watching him. The guy looked trapped.
The music changed, jolting Stan back to awareness. He planted himself cross-legged on the grass, letting the notes wash over him. If the music stopped, he'd have to deal with the festival chaos again, and the weird tears in reality, and the fact that Sparky wasn't there to warn him when the shadows moved wrong.
For now, though, the music made the world make sense. That was enough.
KENNY
Kenny slipped easily between two arguing merchants despite the bright orange of his cloak sticking out amongst the other festival goers. Neither noticed him – exactly how he preferred it. He'd learned early that real invisibility didn't need magic - just the right posture and staying quiet.
The festival hummed with opportunity and danger in equal measure. Kenny mentally cataloged each booth he passed. Not just what they sold, but what they were hiding. Blackmail letters under that fruit vendor's table. The weaponsmith testing hilts, his thumb tracing a hidden compartment perfect for poison needles.. A rug merchant running a shell game his wife definitely didn't know about.
Angles, escape routes, guards - his mind mapped it all almost unconsciously. This was an instinct from growing up in Sodosopa, the poor realm wedged between ruined apartment towers and forgotten dimensional ley lines. The slums of Zaron weren't kind to the careless.
Kenny's fingers ran over the wooden trinkets again. Karen had spent months on the small wooden figures. Most were of monsters and unsettling caricatures of creatures that would pass by Sodosopa. Her work deserved better than a dusty corner stall, but coin was coin, and Kenny's parents and older brother were often working odd jobs in neighboring towns.
"Mmph mmph," he muttered to a half-gnome who'd tried overcharging him for booth space. The woman's face crinkled with confusion.
Kenny tugged his hood down just enough. "Said that's double what you charged the honey guy."
"That's because honey doesn't steal souls," the woman sniffed.
Kenny shrugged. "Neither do harmless wooden figurines, but here we are."
The woman's eyes narrowed. "Fifty gold, take it or leave it. Someone else'll snatch it up."
"Twenty. And I won't mention to the festival marshals about the 'genuine griffin feathers' you sold that guy over there." Kenny nodded subtly toward a halfling clutching a handful of what was almost certainly dyed chicken feathers.
After securing the decent spot near the food stalls - prime real estate for impulse purchases- Kenny arranged Karen's figurines in neat rows. Each one faced a different direction, as she'd insisted. Something about letting the spirits choose their new homes.
Kenny boredly sold what figurines he could throughout the morning, trying his best to be charming - somewhat difficult when he had to continually repeat himself through his hood.
His real work would begin after sundown. Three different smuggling operations needed coordination, and Kenny was the only one who could slip between territories without raising alarms. Death had its privileges, mainly knowing which guards were susceptible to bribes and which paths weren't patrolled by anything living.
A commotion near the ceremonial pavilion caught his attention. A round boy in a flowing purple robe with a teal hat adorned with poorly-stitched gold stars waddled importantly past bewildered guards. The boy's eyes darted systematically across the displays, lingering on anything that sparkled.
Kenny recognized that type immediately. Not someone desperate enough to steal food, but someone who thought they were playing 4D chess while actually knocking over the board. Those types could be useful, or at least entertaining.
He silently left his stall, weaving through the crowd until he could hear the kid's self-important mumbling.
"Fools. They don't even recognize true magical authority when they see it."
Kenny grinned under his hood, already planning how to involve himself into whatever this disaster-in-waiting was. A distraction this good would make tonight's smuggling runs practically effortless.
Maybe he'd even offer to help the chubby 'wizard'. After all, every magician needed a good assistant, especially one who knew how to disappear and come back from the dead.
CARTMAN
"Make way! Make WAY for the Grand Wizard King of Kupa Keep! I'm seriously - I cast Mage Hand, for crowd dispersal!"
Eric Cartman’s voice barely cut through the festival's noise. He slammed the butt of his crudely painted staff (a thick branch topped with a cracked plastic orb) onto the dusty ground. A stray cat sniffed his blue robe, then seemed to think better of it and trotted away.
Nobody bowed. Most didn't even glance his way. A few pointedly ignored him harder.
"Fine. Be unimpressed. See if I care." He adjusted the pointed hat perched on his head. The gold stars his Mom had sewn on last night already looked loose. They'd made a long journey the day before from Kupa Keep so his mom could build up her massage and tutoring business.
His mom had been gone for an hour, pouring drinks and flirting with any merchant with a pulse. She thought her 'little poopsiekins' was playing nicely with the other children. Instead, her darling son was stuffing stolen cookies into his robe pockets while plotting grand theft.
Cartman paused near a jewelry display, eyes narrowing as he assessed his surroundings. The merchant had positioned three guards around her stall—all half-orcs with biceps the size of Cartman's head. Too many witnesses. Too much risk.
"Total overkill security for this garbage," he mumbled, moving on.
He scanned every table methodically, weighing each item's awesomeness against how easy it would be to steal. Most of the good stuff was locked up tight or surrounded by guards who didn't seem as stupid as he'd hoped. But then he spotted it - a beautiful wooden dagger in the ceremonial tent, decorated with jewels.
"Sweet," Cartman whispered, pretending to care about some lame tapestry while eyeing the main attraction. Whatever it was seemed like it belonged in a wizard's collection.
Many guards stood near the ceremonial cake, looking bored. The dagger sat next to it, the jewels catching the sunlight. The dagger itself wasn't anything too intricate - it looked more like a stick someone had whittled while drunk than a dagger. But Cartman still wanted it. It would match his wizard's staff perfectly.
In his mind, he already saw the stick displayed above his bed, next to his box of emergency snacks. The ultimate weapon, the ultimate treasure, taken by the ultimate wizard.
He noted the guards' rotation pattern. Between shifts came a brief window -perhaps forty seconds- when the display stood unattended. More importantly, the afternoon feast would soon draw the crowds away from the exhibition tents.
Cartman smiled, patting his robe where several small vials clinked together. A wizard always came prepared.
The youth diplomatic exchange was, as far as Kyle was concerned, an exercise in torture disguised as cultural education. Two dozen teenagers from noble families around Zaron stood stiffly in a circle, mechanically reciting rehearsed pleasantries about their respective homelands.
"...and when the third moon rises over Gauntlgrym, our beards become our canvas, our combs our weapons," droned a stocky dwarf whose ceremonial armor kept making him scratch his ass every thirty seconds.
Kyle fought the urge to scream. The three ancestral voices in his crown weren't helping.
"Challenge them all to combat!" barked his warrior ancestor.
"Consider their economic vulnerabilities while they speak," countered the scholar.
"I once pretended to be dead for an entire Festival. Best diplomatic decision I ever made," chimed in the trickster.
When Kyle's turn came, he looked at his seventeen-point breakdown on sustainable forestry management, mentally said "fuck it," and went with: "We have trees. Lots of them. They're nice. Thank you." He stepped back into formation.
The diplomatic coordinator's quill scratched furiously as she noted his deviation from the script, as did the other teens in the circle at his uncharacteristically shortened speech. The Elven realm had a good amount of sway politically as the most powerful realm in Zaron, and usually everyone hung on Prince Kyle's every word.
While some Centaur kid went on about their superior cheese-aging techniques, Kyle's gaze drifted to the tent opening. Outside, a dark-haired teen about his age sat alone in the grass. He wore a patched-up formal shirt that had clearly survived several previous owners, but something about his quiet focus on the nearby musicians made Kyle envious. No crown. No guards. No diplomatic incident if he scratched his balls.
"Bathroom," Kyle muttered, not even bothering to make it sound convincing. The guard nodded, looking just as bored as Kyle.
Once outside, Kyle ducked behind a row of ceremonial banners and made his way toward the teen, who was watching the musicians with an intensity that made Kyle almost backtrack.
He stopped on the grass a few feet a way, quietly observing the boy and the music scene. It was a bit of a heavier tune than Kyle was used to in the elven courts, but the boy seemed calm despite this, his fingers tapping against his knee. Up close, he looked even more out of place than Kyle felt - old dresswear, worn boots, and a strange lump beneath his chest that didn't match his lean frame.
When the song ended, the crowd's applause broke the spell. The boy blinked like waking from a dream, and Kyle realized he'd been staring too long.
"They're good," Kyle said, immediately wincing at how painfully obvious the statement was. Three generations of royal oratory training, and that was the best he could manage.
The boy jumped slightly, his dark blue eyes widening in recognition. His black hair fell messily across his forehead. "You're-"
"Just another festival-goer who needed to escape the diplomatic tent before I stabbed someone with their quill," Kyle finished for him.
The boy laughed, still not seeming over his initial shock. "I'm Stan," he said, extending his hand before awkwardly pulling it back mid-gesture, his face flushing. "Wait, shit... am I supposed to bow or kneel or sacrifice something? I don't know the protocol for greeting... whatever fancy title you've got. Um. Sorry, my village doesn't see many… yous."
Kyle shook his head, chuckling at Stan's paranoia. "Gods, no. Just Kyle is fine. Please don't sacrifice anything, especially not a goat. They smell." He dropped onto the grass beside Stan with an unprincely sigh. "Lucky you don't have to endure that ambassador meeting. Pure agony. I figure I've got about fifteen minutes before they send out the royal bladder inspector to drag me back. Is your shirt actively trying to strangle you too, or is it just my ceremonial torture device?"
"This shirt? My uncle probably won a bet with a dead guy for it. Dude... your crown looks like it weighs more than my entire pack."
Kyle's ancestors were chattering nonstop in his crown. The warrior was insisting he challenge this "forest peasant" to prove elven superiority, while the scholar was demanding he document his 'common folk vernacular for anthropological purposes'. The trickster, meanwhile, was unusually quiet, which was always a bad sign.
"Pretty sure that's the point," Kyle said, lifting the stupid crown and setting it beside him, shutting up the ancestor's voices. Blessed silence filled his head as his curly red hair exploded outward in all directions. "If we can't run away, we can't embarrass the kingdom."
Stan's eyes lingered on the mass of red curls now freed from the crown, wondering how Kyle even fit it all in the first place. "Holy shit, do they stuff that thing with rocks or something?"
"Ancestral wisdom, supposedly," Kyle sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Which apparently means getting three dead relatives arguing in your head all day."
"Wait, you actually hear voices in your crown? That's cool as fuck."
"Yeah, well, don't tell my parents. They made me see a spiritual wellness cleric who tried to convince me it was normal teenage delusions." Kyle plucked at the grass. "He prescribed meditation and herb tea while my trickster ancestor kept making dick drawings in my vision."
Stan snorted. "Dude, that beats my uncle's solution for everything: 'rub some dirt on it and kill something.'"
"Sounds effective."
"It's not."
"You play?" Kyle nodded toward the lute under Stan's shirt.
Stan hesitated, then pulled out the battered lute with several replaced strings. "Used to more. Before... stuff happened."
"Stuff?"
"You know, the usual. Family supposedly died, home burned down, raised by my uncle who thinks music is for 'fancy pussy boys who can't hunt worth a damn.'" Stan's smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Shit. I'm sorry," Kyle said, deciding not to press on the 'supposedly' part of things. "You're from the forest edge, right? The farmlands?" Kyle asked, recognizing the distinctive forest green formal cape.
Stan's smile faltered. "What's left of them. Tegridy Valley."
Kyle winced. "Sorry. My tutors made me memorize all the border territories, but they're not great at updating the 'don't mention tragic historical events' section."
"It's fine. There's way too many farmlands to keep track of, anyway. Besides, it's better than the normal reaction people give me." He demonstrated, cocking his head dramatically. "'Oh, you poor forest child. Did you have to eat squirrels?'"
Kyle laughed. "Did you, though? Eat squirrels?"
"No, I try not to eat the animals. My uncle actually thinks they're a delicacy. Claims they 'taste like chicken that's seen some shit.'"
"Royal chefs could learn something. Palace food is all..." Kyle waved his hands, searching for words, "...artistic and tiny. You get these stupid little towers of vegetables with sauce dots around them. I just want a fucking sandwich sometimes."
"Trade you. Uncle Jimbo's idea of cuisine is 'if it's not moving, it's overdone'," Stan said.
"Hmm, maybe I will trade you. Still sounds better than trying to navigate all the cultural customs attached to each meal. Like turkey legs from the dwarves - it's a nightmare to try not to offend them."
"…How do you eat turkey legs then?"
"With seventeen different utensils and the constant fear of using the wrong one."
"Sounds fucking exhausting."
"It is."
Stan ran his fingers over the lute strings without actually playing, looking at the central tent, eyeing the ceremonial dagger. "So what's with the cake everyone's going batshit over?"
"Some dumbass unity symbol. Don't eat it, don't touch it, and definitely don't touch the dagger."
"I'm sorry… they put a stick by a cake and called it diplomacy?"
Kyle rolled his eyes. "It's not a stick. It's an ancient dagger that supposedly belonged to the first unified council or something. Supposedly it's sacred. My tutors made me memorize its entire fictional history. Pretty sure half of it's made up."
"All history's made up," Stan said, then looked embarrassed at his own statement. "I mean, someone decides what gets written down, right? Not sure I've really met a bard who didn't over-exaggerate before…"
"Bards are professional bullshitters," Kyle said with a grin. "My tutor made me learn this ballad about how my great-grandfather 'slew three hundred forest trolls with nothing but a dinner fork.' Pretty sure he just negotiated a trade agreement and then someone decided that wasn't exciting enough for the history books."
Stan laughed, a genuine sound that made Kyle realize how little real laughter he'd heard inside the pavilion. "My family's stories mainly get forgotten. Though there was this one traveling singer who claimed my dad once wrestled a manbearpig while completely shitfaced. I choose to believe that one."
"Did he win?"
"Against the manbearpig? Fuck no. But supposedly he apologized to it afterward, and they shared a drink."
Kyle snorted, then quickly covered it with a cough when a chaperone glared at them.
"So," Kyle whispered, leaning closer, "what's so interesting out here?"
Stan hesitated. "The music. It... fixes things."
"Fixes what?"
"The world. Like it makes it stop being so..." Stan wiggled his fingers vaguely, searching for the word. "...glitchy. You know?"
Kyle raised an eyebrow. "Your world glitches a lot?"
"Only on days ending in 'y.'" Stan' mumbled. His eyes suddenly widened as he stared past Kyle. "Dude, is that fat kid supposed to be climbing on the cake display?"
Kyle spun around. Some teen in a ridiculous blue hat and discount magic robes was half-crawling onto the ceremonial display table. Guards were scrambling toward a small fire that had conveniently erupted by the mead tent.
"Oh shit," Kyle hissed. "The unity cake with the ceremonial dagger. Nobody's supposed to touch that thing!"
"I know you mentioned earlier it was sacred… so how sacred is this dagger exactly?" Stan asked, already looking resigned.
"Sacred enough that my mother spent forty minutes explaining exactly how many wars would start if someone touched it."
"So, like… pretty bad."
Kyle was already up and moving. "Come on."
"Wait, why am I coming?" Stan protested, even as he followed.
"You spotted him first. That makes you an accomplice in diplomatic terms."
"That's not how accomplices work!"
"Tell that to the treaty of Kupa Keep, section twelve, paragraph four. 'He who witnesses dumbassery and does nothing is equally a dumbass.'"
Stan had absolutely zero clue what any Kupa Keep treaty said—he could barely remember the warning labels on poison berries, let alone political documents—so he just shut up and followed the quick elf prince. They slipped away from the diplomatic tent, abandoning the mind-numbing speeches for what would definitely become the day's first international clusterfuck.
Cartman’s strategy unfolded with textbook precision… mostly. A flicker of orange light blossomed near the ale tent, followed by a plume of smoke as he set up a contained fire. The guards jogged toward the minor blaze, just as he predicted. He slipped past the vacated historical display, his fingers closing around the hilt of the ceremonial dagger. It felt heavy, important. Power thrummed faintly against his palm.
Just as he'd touched the dagger, chaos broke loose. A high-pitched noise resounded throughout the camp grounds. An alarm spell. He hadn't factored in magical security beyond the distracted guards.
"Shit! Shit! Shit!" Cartman scrambled, eyes wide, clutching the dagger. The sound intensified, vibrating through his bones. He glanced around the tent, looking for another escape route.
Just as footsteps got closer to the tent, Cartman glanced at towering seven-tiered unity cake decorated with symbols from each kingdom. Perfect.
He quickly plunged the dagger deep into the cake's third tier, instantly muffling the magical alarm to a barely audible hum. He knew the cake was just for show and not to be eaten, so he would just have to keep an eye on the cake to grab the dagger later.
"Much better," he muttered, backing away as festival workers entered to collect the desserts for the diplomatic feast.
Cartman slipped outside, straightening his wizard hat with a self-satisfied smirk -until he collided with a thin boy with an orange hood who had apparently been watching the whole performance.
"Mmph mmph mmph?" the hooded boy asked, eyes narrowed knowingly.
"I am merely inspecting the festival grounds ensuring all is in order for the feast. Standard Wizard King procedure," Cartman announced, puffing out his chest.
The boy pointed a finger toward the dessert tent, then made a stabbing motion with his hand. "Mmph mmph dagger mmph cake."
Cartman's face flushed. "How did you… I mean, what dagger? There's no dagger. And if there was, it definitely wouldn't be in a cake."
The orange-hooded boy's purple eyes crinkled with amusement. He extended his palm expectantly.
"Okay, fine!" Cartman hissed, glancing around nervously. "Maybe I saw something. Hypothetically. If you help ensure its safe… relocation, I'll cut you in. Ten percent."
"Mmph fifty mmph."
"Are you insane?! Fifteen."
"Mmph forty mmph."
"Forty?! You're breaking my balls here, hood guy! Twenty. Final offer, you little shit!"
Their negotiation was interrupted by commotion from the central pavilion. The cake had reached its destination at the high table for the diplomatic feast, where the dagger's muffled magical alarm had finally become audible again.
Ceremonial guards and diplomatic representatives converged on the ceremonial tent within minutes.
"Fucking hell," Kyle muttered as they approached the feast tent, where chaos had already erupted.
The ceremonial cake sat on display, a tower of frosted diplomacy now featuring an unauthorized dagger accessory. Festival officials swarmed around it, their faces cycling through confusion and horror.
"I am the Grand Wizard King of Kupa Keep, Eric Cartman!" bellowed the fat kid in the blue robe, chocolate smeared across one cheek. "I was performing a standard magical inspection! The dagger clearly has demonic properties that only I can detect!"
Stan leaned toward Kyle. "Is that actually a wizard?"
"No way," Kyle whispered back. "Look at those robes—I think those stars are drawn on with silver ink."
The orange-hooded boy stood nearby, his eyes darting between exits while something lumpy deformed his cloak. He caught Stan staring and froze.
"Mmph mmmph mmph," the hooded boy said, pointing subtly at the fake wizard.
Stan blinked. "What?"
"He said 'fatass tried to bribe him,'" Kyle translated automatically.
Stan shot Kyle a look. "You speak... muffled hood language?"
"My tutor insisted I learn seventeen dialects, including 'obscured facial coverings' and 'puppet ventriloquism.' Complete waste of time until now."
The fake wizard spotted them and walked over, his staff wobbling dangerously. "You! Elf! Tell these peasants who I am!"
Kyle crossed his arms. "I have no idea who you are."
"Oh, real fucking mature - I know you heard me earlier! I'm Eric Cartman, Grand Wizard King of—"
"Of your mom's basement?" Kyle interrupted.
"Mmph mmph!" The hooded boy suddenly bolted for the exit as guards shouted and pointed in their direction.
"Bail!" Cartman yelped, shoving past an elderly diplomat who toppled into a soup tureen.
Before Kyle could process what was happening, Stan grabbed his sleeve. "We probably shouldn't be here when they start arresting people."
They burst into the afternoon sunlight just as the alarm horns began to sound across the festival grounds.
"Shit! This is exactly what ma was trying to warn me about earlier," Kyle muttered.
Stan glanced over his shoulder. "I think we're being followed."
"By who?"
"Orange hood monk guy and wizard fatass. Both heading this way."
Kyle groaned. "Perfect. Now I'm gonna get caught near the instigator."
"You're the one who decided to get involved," Stan reminded him.
"Technically, the universe involved us both."
"The universe can kiss my ass," Stan replied, then frowned, his eyes going distant. "Wait… do you feel that?"
"Feel what?"
"Like something's... pulling." Stan's voice dropped to a whisper. "The dagger wants to go somewhere."
Kyle sighed impatiently, dragging Stan behind a tent as the alarm wailed louder. "The dagger doesn't want anything. It's just a stupid ceremonial-"
"Look at fat wizard's hand," Stan interrupted, pointing.
Cartman stumbled after them, his face contorted in panic. The dagger glowed faintly in his grip, and he was shaking his arm violently.
"It's stuck! It's fucking stuck to my hand!" Cartman shrieked, slapping his wrist with his free hand. "GET IT OFF!"
"Must be a binding hex. Old security enchantment. Sticks to you if you try stealing it," Kyle said in recognition.
"I wasn't stealing it!"
"You can do magic, right? You have to get that thing off him before it kills him!" Kenny slid beside them, yanking his hood down just enough to reveal his mouth.
"I'm not helping him! That idiot is monumentally stupid to try stealing that!" Kyle snapped.
"Get it off me, Elf!" Cartman exclaimed.
Kyle’s hands curled into fists. “You absolute walking disaster, do you have any idea—”
A puff of smoke and heat burst from his fingertips, flickering flame curling around his knuckles.
Cartman jumped back. “WHAT THE HELL?!”
“Shit,” Kyle muttered, shaking his hands. “It’s just a flare-up. It happens when I’m… emotionally compromised.”
“That’s not a flare-up, that’s arson puberty!” Cartman shrieked.
A squadron of guards thundered past their hiding spot, just catching the flames dying down on Kyle's fingertips. From the central pavilion, voices rose in panicked accusations as they noticed the group of teens, Cartman now on full display with the dagger stuck to his hand.
"The elves have stolen the Unity Dagger! Did you see the Elf Prince trying to burn it?"
"Clearly this is Kupa Keep aggression!" countered an elven diplomat.
"The farmlands are rebelling!" shouted someone else.
The crowd descended into arguments about culpability for the crime, staring at the teens in horror.
"Why would we rebel with a fucking cake knife? And how is everyone blaming each other already?" Stan muttered.
"Welcome to diplomacy," Kyle groaned. "Where everything's made up and logic doesn't matter."
Kenny grabbed Cartman's arm, examining the dagger. "Mmph binding enchantment mmph mmph."
"What's he saying?" Stan asked.
"Something about a binding enchantment," Kyle translated. "The dagger's latched onto his magical signature. The binding hex is level nine arcana."
Cartman walked closer to Kyle, the dagger now emitting a high-pitched whine that attracted even more attention. "This is your fault, Elf! Fix it!"
"My fault?! You stole the fucking dagger!"
"Guys," Stan interrupted, pointing ahead. "Kenny's signaling us."
The hooded boy was frantically waving from behind a row of merchant stalls, gesturing toward a narrow gap between tents.
"We're not going with them," Kyle insisted, even as guards closed in from three directions.
"Got a better plan?" Stan grabbed Kyle's sleeve and pulled him toward Kenny's escape route.
"HALT IN THE NAME OF THE ALLIANCE!" a guard bellowed.
"Oh god, they're invoking Alliance authority. It's over, you guys," Kyle moaned as they ran.
Cartman huffed behind them, still trying to pry the dagger from his hand. "This is discrimination against wizards! I demand sanctuary!"
"You're not a real wizard!" Kyle shouted over his shoulder.
"Am too!"
"Are not!"
"Focus!" Stan yelled as they ducked through the gap Kenny had shown them, emerging into a chaotic marketplace where festival-goers scattered at the sight of the glowing dagger.
Kyle skidded to a halt behind a cheese merchant's stall. "We're dead. We're all dead. This is literally how the Third Blood War started! Some idiot from the Goblin Territories stole a ceremonial object, and three weeks later, half the eastern territories were on fire!"
Cartman flopped dramatically against a barrel. "I'm the victim here! This stupid knife is violating my personal wizard space!"
A familiar bark cut through the chaos. Stan whipped around to see a brown dog with a pink bandana zigzagging through the panicked crowd.
"Sparky? How'd you get here?" Stan asked as Sparky bounded over to him, nearly knocking him over.
"So this is your dog? Great, now we have a complete collection of problems," Kyle groaned, peering around the barrels. "Guards at both exits, diplomats pointing fingers, a pet who isn't allowed, and my mom's probably already organizing a search party with embarrassment enchantments."
Sparky suddenly went rigid, hackles rising as he growled at something over Stan's shoulder.
"What is it, boy?" Stan followed the dog's gaze and froze. Dark, shifting shadows pooled unnaturally beneath the festival tents, stretching against the afternoon sun.
"Guys, something's wrong," Stan whispered.
"No shit," Cartman huffed. "I have magical tetanus!"
A flicker of movement near a brightly colored potion stall caught Stan's eye. a guard raised a crossbow, aiming toward where Kyle and Cartman were arguing. "Look out!"
Reacting instinctively, Stan drew his sword. The plain steel hissed from its leather sheath, reflecting the afternoon sun. He lunged forward, not attacking, but placing himself between the guard and the others, Sparky joining his side.
"Drop the weapon, farm boy!" a guard bellowed.
Steel rang against steel as armored guards formed a semi-circle, pinning the four boys against a collapsed display of dried herbs and spices. Swords pointed. Crossbows aimed. Whispers erupted from the onlookers kept back by the guards.
"The prince has gone rogue!"
"That farm boy's got a sword!"
"The wizard stole the dagger. Clearly a Kuppa Keep plot!"
"What's with the kid in the hood?"
The crowd parted. A figure strode through the gap, green robes swirling around her ankles, fiery red hair pulled back in a bun. Kyle visibly shrank, his panic replaced by a deeper, colder dread.
"What what WHAT is the meaning of this?" she demanded as she took in the scene.
"Hi, mom," Kyle mumbled. "This… isn't what it looks like."
Queen Sheila's nostrils flared as she surveyed the chaotic scene. "Not what it looks like? Because it looks like my royal heir is consorting with a suspected artifact thief, an armed commoner, and… whatever this is," she gestured vaguely at Kenny, "while causing an international incident!"
The guards kept their weapons pointed at the boys, a large crowd accumulating.
"Guards! Lower your weapons but maintain the perimeter," Sheila commanded, her voice carrying the weight of royal authority. "These are CHILDREN, not enemy combatants!"
"But Your Majesty," protested a captain, "the dagger-"
"I can see the dagger, Captain Barbrady! I'm not blind!" She turned to the gathering diplomats. "Esteemed representatives of the Seven Realms, I assure you this is not an act of aggression but clearly a case of juvenile stupidity!"
Kyle winced at the word "juvenile."
Sheila addressed the assembled dignitaries. "There will be no accusations thrown across this pavilion. This matter requires careful, private deliberation. The individuals involved will be escorted to the Alliance Judiciary Conclave for a proper inquiry away from prying eyes and hasty judgments. Captain," she nodded to the lead guard, "secure them."
The diplomatic representatives murmured among themselves. A human ambassador in silver and blue nodded reluctantly. "The Kingdom of Kupa Keep agrees to the Tribunal."
"The Druids concur," added another.
Sheila clapped her hands decisively. "Excellent! Guards, escort these troublemakers to the Hall of Minor Judgments. And someone find a mage who specializes in binding hexes!"
"Yes, Your Majesty!" The guards lowered their weapons but moved purposefully, surrounding the four boys. Sparky barked, trying to follow Stan, but another guard gently looped a leash around his neck. "The animal will be held separately, Your Majesty."
"See that it is," Sheila said, moving towards Kyle as the crowd dispersed upon her glaring at them.
She reached out and put a hand on Kyle's wrist.
Kyle gave her a desperate look. "Ma, I swear I had nothing to do with this. I just-"
"What were you even doing outside the diplomatic tent in the first place, Kyle? What were you thinking?" Sheila asked.
Kyle swallowed. "I was thinking if I had to listen to one more diplomatic speech I would lose my mind."
Sheila's face softened for a moment before going back to being stern. "We will discuss this later. I'm sure you already know the embarrassment this will bring to the family." With that, she walked away.
Rough hands grabbed the teen's arms. The guards began marching them away from the chaos of the marketplace.
As the guards led them away, Cartman struggled against his restraints. "This is persecution! I demand a wizard's trial by fire!"
"Shut up, fatass," Kyle hissed. "You're making it worse."
"Don't tell me to shut up, Elf! Your kind has been persecuting wizards for centuries!"
"It's the other way around, dipshit!"
Stan walked between them, his sword confiscated. "Guys, maybe we should focus on not getting executed?"
"They don't execute minors. They just bind your magic and assign community service for like, fifty years." Kyle turned to Stan. "And what were you thinking, drawing a sword? Who even gave you a sword? Farmers don't carry swords!"
"They had crossbows aimed at us!" Stan retorted, his brow furrowed. "What was I supposed to do?"
"Not escalate things with useless steel! Those guards know magic that could turn both you and your sword into thin air!"
"Sorry for trying to save your royal ass," Stan muttered.
"My ass didn't need saving."
The hooded boy snickered, then pulled down his hood, revealing a mess of blond hair. "Kyle's ass definitely needed saving. Those guards were about to fill it with arrows."
"Oh, so you can talk normally," Stan said in relief.
"Of course I can talk. I just prefer not to around authority figures." He extended his bound hands as far as the restraints allowed. "Kenny McCormick, professional survivor and occasional thief."
Kyle blinked. "You're a thief?"
"Technically Cartman's the thief today."
"I am a WIZARD conducting MAGICAL RESEARCH!"
Stan turned to Kyle. "Look, I'm sorry about the sword. I'm a ranger. Where I'm from, everyone carries something. Wolves, bandits, bards with day long poems… the countryside's dangerous."
"Bards?" Kyle repeated incredulously.
"Especially the bards," Stan said with complete seriousness.
"Well... thanks for the help back there. Even if it was completely unnecessary and probably treasonous."
"You're welcome, Your Highness," Stan replied with just enough sarcasm to make Kyle roll his eyes.
The guards marched them through a series of increasingly ornate corridors, their annoyance growing with each step.
"Could you walk any slower?" one guard snapped at Cartman, who was deliberately dragging his feet.
"I have a medical condition," Cartman whined. "Wizard gout. Very serious."
"That's not a thing," Kyle muttered.
"It is too! My wizard bones are delicate!"
Another guard rolled his eyes as Kyle and Cartman continued arguing. "Seven hells, I'd rather escort a drunken ogre than these kids."
"At least I don't have elf ears!"
"At least I don't get mistaken for a runaway barrel!"
"I will smite you!"
"Oh yeah? Gonna wiggle your stupid fake staff at me?"
Stan sighed, drowning out the arguing that was starting to become white noise. Kenny just walked silently, scanning the surroundings with watchful eyes.
As they approached a large stone building at the festival's edge, Cartman suddenly slowed, eyes narrowing at Kenny. "Wait, I know you. You're that weird kid who sells fake protection charms behind the tannery in Sodosopa. You sold my mom a relaxation potion that was just red wine and cinnamon!"
"And it worked, didn't it?" Kenny grinned.
"She got laid by the blacksmith!"
"Exactly. Working as intended."
The guards shoved them through heavy wooden doors into a chamber. Seven massive stone chairs formed a semicircle on a raised dais, each carved with the symbol of a different realm. Behind them hung elaborate tapestries depicting historic treaty signings, all featuring remarkably similar scenes of old men with beards looking constipated.
The chamber filled with diplomats and officials, each trying to look more outraged than the next. Sheila took her seat representing the Elven Kingdom, pointedly avoiding eye contact with Kyle. Representatives from the other realms filed in.
"The Hall of Minor Judgments is now in session," announced a herald with an impressively large scroll. "Presenting the defendants: Prince Kyle of the Elves, Eric Cartman of Kupa Keep, Kenny McCormick of the Slums, and Stanley Marsh of the... um... farms."
"Marshwalker," Stan corrected. "My family are Marshwalkers. And it's Tegridy Valley."
"Nobody cares," Cartman whispered loudly.
Sheila picked up a scroll. "Let us address the most serious charge. Grand Larceny of the Unity Dagger, a magically bound artifact vital to inter-kingdom peace. Defendant: Eric Cartman, self-proclaimed 'wizard'."
Cartman thrust his hand forward, the dagger still firmly attached. "This stupid knife attacked me! I demand reparations!"
"Silence!" Sheila bellowed. "The record shows you deliberately took the dagger from its ceremonial stand!"
"I was examining it! For historical... wizard... purposes!"
"Defendant Two: Kyle Broflovski, High Prince of the Elven Kingdom. Charges: Aiding and abetting a thief, dereliction of royal duty, public affray, and uncontrolled fire magic."
Stan looked at him nervously as Kyle seemed completely speechless for the first time that day, his eyes darting to the floor, his face turning red in shame.
"And you!" Sheila turned to Stan. "Bringing a weapon to a peace summit! Section 12, paragraph 18 of the Treaty of Kupa Keep explicitly forbids unauthorized swordplay at the Festival of Realms! Did you even read the visitor pamphlets?"
"It's a utility knife," Stan said weakly. "For... cutting... diplomatic... fruit?"
A side door burst open, and Sparky bounded in, dragging a hapless servant behind him.
"I couldn't stop him, Your Majesty!" the servant cried. "He bit through three leashes!"
Sparky raced to Stan's side, barking triumphantly.
"AND an unregistered animal companion!" Sheila threw her hands up. "What's next? A dragon in someone's pocket?"
"If I had a dragon, we wouldn't be in this mess," Cartman grumbled.
"Defendant Four," Sheila continued, sighing in resignation as Sparky licked Stan’s face. "Kenny McCormick. Charges: Known associate of thieves, public nuisance, aiding and abetting the human. Suggestions for punitive measures?"
"Exile! Basnishment to the Shadow Planes!" a tiefling suggested immediately.
The Dwarf representative leaned forward. "I propose banishment to the Mines of Misery for fifty years!"
"Too lenient," countered the Druid. "Turn them into toads for a century!"
A human delegate stood, his robes gleaming with ceremonial embroideries. "The Kingdom of Kupa Keep demands restitution! A magical duel to settle the offense! Twelve days and twelve nights of combat!"
Cartman perked up. "I accept!"
Kenny nudged him. "Dude, shut the fuck up."
The bickering continued for a while as they determined what to do with the four teens. The Dwarven representative wanted them mining precious metals with teaspoons. The Druid Council's representative suggested transforming them into woodland creatures to "learn harmony with nature." The Human Kingdom's diplomat recommended military service at the Frozen Northern Border.
"Silence!" Sheila's voice cut through the din. The room quieted as she stood up. "These are children, not hardened criminals. It's clear they acted out of juvenile idiocy, not malice. This tribunal shall not deal in excessive punishment or archaic rituals. What we have here is a teaching opportunity."
The Grand Mediator cleared his throat. "Agreed. These are minors who have committed a serious but non-malicious offense. The punishment must be rehabilitative, not punitive. Therefore, I sentence these four troublemakers to three months at Camp Stick-Up-Your-Butt."
"Camp what?" Stan blurted.
"Camp Straighten-Arrow for Wayward Youths," the Mediator corrected, glaring at the snickering scribe. "Our premier rehabilitation facility for wayward youths of notable families. There, they will learn discipline, cooperation, and proper artifact-handling etiquette."
In the corner, the scribe was gleefully writing with his quill across parchment, looking over at Kyle with a grin. Kyle's mind raced with a sickening cocktail of anxiety and dread, already picturing the scandalized whispers echoing through the trees of the Elven forest: Crowned Prince Caught in Human Shenanigans! Royal Reputation in Tatters! He could almost hear the royal gossips tuning their lutes to compose ballads about his spectacular lapse in judgment, spreading creative and incorrect versions of events throughout Zaron.
Kyle's ears drooped visibly, his face ashen. He had been the reigning champion for the archery tournament and had trained hard for the summer solstice celebration. "Three months? With them? At... at delinquent camp?" He looked physically ill. "The summer solstice celebration is next month."
"Perhaps you should have considered that before participating in grand larceny," Sheila snapped, though her eyes betrayed a hint of concern.
"This is BULLSHIT! I am a WIZARD OF DESTINY! I don't need teen camp! I need someone to get this stupid knife off me!" Cartman exploded.
Kenny remained silent, his eyes downcast. When Stan glanced at him, he noticed the hooded boy's hands trembling slightly.
"What's wrong?" Stan whispered.
"My sister," Kenny mumbled. "Karen. She's still back in Sodosopa, alone. Place isn't exactly safe. I'm all she has."
Stan's stomach twisted with guilt. Unlike the others, he wasn't particularly worried about himself. Uncle Jimbo would probably laugh it off as 'boys being boys' after the initial disappointment, maybe even be a bit proud. Tegridy Valley might gossip, but it wouldn't be a national scandal. But seeing Kyle's humiliation and Kenny's genuine distress made him feel terrible.
"Your Majesty," Stan addressed Sheila directly. "Kenny has a younger sister who depends on him. Could arrangements be made for her care?"
Sheila's stern expression softened slightly. "The court will ensure the child is provided for during her brother's... rehabilitation."
Kenny nodded gratefully at Stan.
"Camp Straighten-Arrow departs at dawn," declared the Mediator, banging his gavel. "May the Seven Realms have mercy on your counselors."