Something dark was brewing in the heart of Uskar. It had always been a hard place, rife with rebellion and uprisings, all-but-requiring a distasteful excess of brutality to keep in line.

But this felt different. Like an old ghost come home to ruin. Chaos.

Thaddeus, the king’s spymaster, felt like he hadn’t slept in years. His job was easier once, he mused. He was a natural at it. And yes, the other races constantly had to be kept in check and never stopped bristling against their chains, but at least everything followed a logical degree of sense. Order.

Not anymore.

It started with the King’s obsession with an enemy too absurd to consider as anything other than fictitious, spawned out of a tale told by his brother Luther and supported by letters supposedly sent from Prince Cairn. The letters' authenticity had been verified, rather exhaustively so, but Thaddeus was still not convinced.

It felt like a maneuver, but for the life of him he couldn’t ascertain what they were playing at. An attempt to usurp the throne was possible, but Thaddeus doubted it. For one thing, it was too trite, too basic for the moves being made. Furthermore, Cairn simply wasn’t the type. Not yet, at least. He wasn’t the clichéd sort of young noble that lusted after his father’s power. Rather, he was the clichéd young noble who resented nobility in general, considering himself above it all. Likely thanks to the endless toddling of the queen. But something was clearly off.

After all, the idea was ridiculous. The concept of an Arch-Mage powerful enough to master every element was not a new or unique idea. It was a go-to monster-under-the-bed for every legend too lazy to craft a convincing antagonist. And the fact that they had doubled down with the implications of mixed elven blood on top of all that? That this arch-mage, on top of all her elemental magic, also had access to the elves boundlessly powerful mysticism?

It was too terrible to be true.

Thaddeus sipped his spiked tea, waiting for the psychoactive brew to take effect. Idlemoss had something of a reputation as it was both addictive and built resistance quickly. For those with a modicum of self-control, however, it was a boon. The instant recall and enhanced mental acuity more than paid for the hangover.

Thaddeus gripped his chair as the effects took place and the room began to roll.

King Gil was not the type to bring idle theories to, unless he fancied them. Confirmable facts were all he took notice of. Still, he allowed the prince to stay in the Enclave as if being the ward of an enemy was a rite of passage. Even the Queen could not ply his ear. When Thaddeus expanded his network within the Enclave, he was shocked to find that Prince Cairn had done exactly as he had written. The infernals were actually teaching him magic. He wasn’t being held in a prison, but presided strangely domestically in a small two-bedroom home with an infernal family of no significance.

For the first time, Prince Cairn interested him. Nobles were almost always all talk. It was only when their lofty ideals were challenged that the crumbled. Only, Prince Cairn hadn’t. By all reports, he seemed happy there. Thaddeus tried to imagine King Gil himself living like a commoner amongst the inferiors, and the idle fantasy amused him greatly.

There were some shiftings in council power, but Councilor Ralakos, one of Cairn’s steadfast supporters, remained in favor.

Then, one by one, his spy network within the Enclave disappeared. There was nothing. No evidence of their disappearances. No rumors. Not a single errant whisper of what could have happened to any of them. The infernal’s spy network was amateurish, so Thaddeus doubted this was the result of anything they’d done. More likely it was a third party, but why?

Then it got worse.

Two major problems happened at once. First, reports of the Arch-Mage came from the place he least expected. Teragor, his once home. She had tired of Uskar, apparently, and was trying her hand at subjugating Orcs. Orcs were fiercely strong—and, in his experience, equally territorial. This made them tribal in nature. Many powers in Teragor, recognizing the orcs for their strength, attempted something similar and failed. Which made the accounts claiming she was actually making progress all the more terrifying.

The second concern was that Prince Cairn once again began to send letters.

His suspicion of the veracity of these letters returned in full force. They were authenticated, and confirmed as before, but something had changed. Cairn claimed to be suspending his efforts at the Enclave for the time being, needing some vaguely hinted at knowledge from the Elves.

The King tired of Cairn’s newfound independence, and mobilized his army to intercept. Only, they never found him. A year passed. Letters came, slowly, following the logical route from the Underground Enclave to the Golden City of Fylren Themar. Only no one they interrogated at the various cities the letters were sourced from had any memory of a boy, traveling with a group of infernals or on his own. And as a rule, someone always saw something. The King grew more angry than usual, as he began to realize what Thaddeus had always suspected. They were being duped.

And something had happened to Prince Cairn.

The King was convinced his son was alive, and thus believed he would likely make rest at Haldorei. The Golden City was far more historically hostile to humans than the Enclave was, so it made sense that Cairn might stop somewhere nearby and garner support before he placed himself in the lion’s den.

Thaddeus himself finally tracked down the source of misinformation at Elanaserin. He had no evidence that the city would be next, rather he was going off his instinct to assume the worst. Looking for an infernal rather than a human. The higher elven population in Haldorei would be intimidating to an infernal, more difficult to stay invisible. Elanaserin was equidistant to the Golden city, but smaller and far more mixed.

There was only one post in Elanaserin, so it was only a matter of time. On the third day of the stakeout, Thaddeus spotted a man wearing a shroud and gloves, and ordered his men to take him captive, happy to see the end in sight.

That was three weeks ago. Three long weeks in the Whitefall dungeon. And somehow, the infernal still hadn’t broken. To be fair, the interrogator couldn’t risk an accidental death, so he had to be… gentler… than usual. But it was still an impressive record.

Most annoying of all, was that this was all a pointless distraction. A far greater threat was coming. The end of the world. Ragnarök. Thaddeus scratched at the butterfly tattoo on his arm bitterly, until the skin beneath it turned an irritated red. Thus far, the Metamorphosis initiative had been a bitter disappointment. The reformed group had been making headway, but not nearly quickly enough, meetings consistently plagued by in-fighting and petty arguments over morality.

We were supposed to be above it all. That was the point.

And now he was tied up tracking down a prince who was probably dead at the behest of a King who was a never-ending disappointment.

His door creaked open. Thaddeus didn’t move. If it was the gray guild, they wouldn’t have made a sound. That left only one possibility.

“You’ve come up short, I take it?” Thaddeus asked.

An imposing outlining stood in the doorway motionless, until it finally inclined its head.

“He will not break,” Jion’s low voice rumbled. “Push any harder, and I will kill him. But he may speak before he dies.”

Thaddeus hesitated. He found torture distasteful, as a rule—there were better ways to get information and leverage—but it was useful from time to time.

“Not worth the risk.” Thaddeus shook his head.

“The rats have proved effective before.”

Thaddeus raised an eyebrow, shifting to face the man. “He’ll die screaming, either “I don’t know” or something equally unintelligible on the off-chance he does confess. Then it will be both our heads.”

“Dianlock via” Jion spat. The spymaster was rusty on his ancient Divorak, but not so much that he missed the meaning.

Thaddeus rolled his eyes, muttering to himself. “Doesn’t matter if you’ve been to thousands of normal brothels. Screw one infernal and you’re a horn-fucker forever. Spiteful bastard.” He recalled the eventful night he had the brilliant idea to goad Jion into taking a walk on the wild side.

Suffice it to say, it had not gone well.

“Let me try the rats.” Jion insisted.

Thaddeus rubbed his temple with his hands. He was half-tempted to let Jion try, if only to be done with all this. King Gil would kill them both, and he would no longer have to worry about distant cataclysms or errant princes.

But no. He had survived far too long for that.

“Bring the infernal to me. And get a cook from the kitchens.”

/////

The dining room was lit with the warm yellow glow of countless candles. It was ambient, though not too bright for the comfort of his guest. There was a knock and the guards escorted the man in. The infernal could walk, which pleased Thaddeus. His interrogator had shown restraint. The infernal’s face was largely ruined, but properly bandaged to avoid infection. He was a red runt of a man. But his small stature hid a slim physique that allowed him to move quickly and quietly. Likely why he’d been chosen.

One rebellious eye took Thaddeus in as the infernal was made to sit in a cushioned chair. It closed as the man reveled in the comfort of simple padding, an involuntary sigh escaping his lips.

“Another dog of the Tyrant, sent to bark at me?” The man asked.

“Not quite.” Thaddeus strode across the long table, standing well within the man’s personal space. As Thaddeus’s hand came up to waist-level, the man flinched away, leaning as far away as the seating would allow, grimacing in anticipation.

“Easy.” Thaddeus whispered. He reached beside him slowly and lifted a pristine purple silk napkin, tucking it gently into the man’s besotted collar. “You are my guest, and I will treat you as such.”

“What is this?” The infernal looked offended.

“Simple hospitality. And my sincerest regrets for your treatment.”

The infernal’s frown deepened. “I’m no fool. This is just another form of torture. You replace cruelty with kindness. And I go back into the hole either way.”

Thaddeus appeared to ponder the sentiment. “It makes sense that you would think that. Even if I told the truth, that I have no intention of sending you back to the dungeon, you have very little reason to believe me.”

The infernal’s body sagged. “Then what is the point?” He asked tiredly.

“Hospitality.” Thaddeus repeated. He reached back on the table and struck the bell, removing a chair from the head of the table and placing it perpendicular to the infernal, both of them sharing the corner with the infernal at the head.

A servant emerged from the kitchen, pouring them both a glass of fine wine. The infernal held it to his lips, suspicious, then drank greedily, draining the rest. As if realizing a great error, he stared at Thaddeus in horror.

Thaddeus chuckled. “Relax my friend, relax. There are less convoluted ways to kill you.” Then he tipped his wine glass, savoring the bitter red.

And if you’re well-trained, this is where you start pumping me for information.

Right on cue, the infernal opened his mouth to speak. His jaw clicked painfully, and he paused, holding it with his good hand, before he forced the words out. “What was that thing?”

“What thing?”

“The… inquisitor. I’ve never seen a human like him.” The infernal shuddered.

“Ah yes. Jion. He’s an associate of mine, from Teragor.”

Thaddeus watched with amusement as the infernal stiffened. “Fuck me.”

“Not really my type, though good luck convincing Jion otherwise.”

“You’re him. The Snake of Uskar.” The infernal was shaking.

“Always hated that moniker. It carries a connotation of dishonesty, and I mostly keep my word. I’m just a patriot. Much like you.” Thaddeus tipped his wine glass to the infernal.

“We are not the same.” The infernal said.

“True enough, from a hematological standpoint. I carry a pure blood, untainted by demons. You are not so fortunate. But that was simply how you were born. It does little to inform who you are.”

The infernal’s brow furrowed. “I have heard many humans say otherwise.”

“Well,” Thaddeus shrugged, “Many people are small-minded. Yours and mine.” He reached over and rang the bell.

Multiple servants entered, carrying two golden platters. The scent of steamed vegetables and sizzling meat pervaded the air. Thaddeus watched as the infernal salivated, then wiped his mouth and looked away, his gaze slowly returning as the platter was placed in front of him. His eye slowly panned to the knife.

Thaddeus leaned in conspiratorially. “Have you ever had Shinomo steak?”

“No,” The infernal said. Then he seemed to decide if he was to die, he would not die hungry. He picked up the fork with his good hand, the sharpened knife with his bad one. Almost immediately, he dropped the knife.

“Ah, how insensitive of me.” Thaddeus used his fork to hold the meat still, methodically cutting it into bite sized pieces. “We import them. They are fed well for livestock, practically spoiled, but they do not have easy lives. See the snowflake marbling? That isn’t always there. They have to be raised in the high mountains. Something about the thinness of the air and the frigid temperature keeps their flesh from toughening in the sun. And the result? Well, you can judge it for yourself.”

The infernal took a bite, and his eyes widened. “It… melts.”

“Like snow in spring.” Thaddeus smiled. “They can’t possibly know how pointless it all is. Their end destination is a butcher’s block. Yet, they stubbornly strive to keep going, enduring the cold, for hope that their life will mean something.”

“A difficult life,” The infernal said. He went back to eyeing the knife.

“The life of a patriot, in many ways. Your life and mine.” Thaddeus returned to his steak, watching the infernal through the reflection of his wineglass. All throughout his meal, he waited, content to sit in the silence.

“My struggle is not pointless,” The infernal finally said. He’d eaten a few more bites and placed the fork down. The knife was held tightly in his hand.

“It is, and it isn’t.” Thaddeus held his gaze. “The crown prince is missing. An infernal was found impersonating him, leading a trail away from the Enclave. There is only one path from here. Everything else is a matter of degrees.”

This was almost true. King Gil had shown a surprising amount of restraint of late, but if Cairn was no longer of this world, Thaddeus knew how quickly that restraint would devolve into blood. So did the infernal.

“Then I have no reason to hold back?” The infernal asked, dangerously.

Thaddeus felt a thrill. There was an almost carnal rush that came with placing himself in a position so perilous. Had he calculated correctly? Estimated the situation appropriately? The next few moments would tell.

“That depends,” Thaddeus answered, then dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “For a moment, I’ll put myself in your place. An exercise in empathy. If I—“ He held his hand to his chest, then out towards the infernal, palm up. “—a patriot, like you, found myself in the hands of a superior force that intended to strike at my people over a perceived slight, what would I do?” He drummed his fingers on the table. “I could, of course, take any weapon I could find and attempt to do as much damage as possible before they put me down. But I’m not much of a fighter.”

“Shame,” The infernal said.

“Indeed. And it would feel like a betrayal to give them any information at all.” Thaddeus squinted. “But… if I felt like they didn’t have the whole story. That correcting their assumptions might lessen the reprisal? It would become as straightforward as asking myself a simple question.” Thaddeus stood and leaned in, placing his chin directly over the infernal’s knife. “What’s more important? My people, or my pride?”

The infernal held his gaze. Thaddeus watched the man’s arm tense, and finally go slack. He looked down at the half-eaten steak.

“Is there more?” The infernal asked.

“There’s always more.”

/////

It made sense now, why the letters were always authenticated. Cairn had written them. They were still filled with falsehoods, but he’d had the foresight to leave the infernals a contingency in the case of his death. The infernal admitted he reported directly to Guemon, a high council member, who had sent the order to disperse them.

This would lead to another war. Inevitable as it was pointless. Thaddeus scowled as he exited the dining room.

“How was your dinner?” Jion mocked as Thaddeus closed the door behind him.

“Productive.” Thaddeus said, his tone brusque.

“And where are you going?”

“To tell the King his son is dead.”