In the dust he slumbers and wreaks,

Havoc knows of which we speak,

Likator, kingdom of earth,

Dwarves emerge of stone, an ancient birth,

Walls of steel, a brittle girth,

Ye who smile, smile in mirth,

Still steady stays the triggerhand,

When the dust settles, he still stands.

- Ode to Jacquess, the Stone Hero

High Warlord Razein Wyvern never liked fighting.

Perhaps it was contrary, for his ancestor, the Warlord Jacquess, had been the embodiment of the word.

Jacquess, the Stone Hero.

Likator mainly stayed out of things like wars, just like Jacquess’ neutrality. Even at the signing of the controversial Argent Treaty, even when the Evangelinese-Resilian Crimson War had started over the Crimson Plains, even when the Elevyarians fought in the Steppes, Likator had remained what it was. Impassive, unmoving, unflinching. The Walls that surrounded the capital of Tella had never fallen, not even once.

Of course, it was partially because of the fact that Likator provided verna and tellar metal, rare as they were, to both sides, and the kingdom prospered in conflict. It was irony, that.

Razein continued walking.

A long time, it had been, since Razein was swaddled in the blankets of his nursemaids - a long time, it had been, since Razein was brought up on the whispers of glory and ruin, of promises of gold and kingdom. A long time, it had been, Razein mused in his head, since he had discovered the whispers false and the promises never kept.

There were two types of people: whisperers and promisers. Whisperers liked to pull strings from behind the scenes, to plant a seed and watch it slowly sprout, strangling the nearby trees and poisoning the land. They were the sort harder to deal with, the manipulators. You would have to prove to them that their whispers were heard, and that they would need to be silent, or else.

It wasn’t as if promisers were any less dangerous - they were stubborn, easy to manipulate, but there was a brink you had to push them to, a line you had to cross for them to take you seriously. You needed to have their throat in your hands before the promisers would promise, again, that they would never again betray you.

“Chief Wyvern.” Lady Annamarie Frost smiled.

A whisperer.

The Earthfall Council had its fair share of complexity, but Lady Frost was - oh, she was the most tangled thread of them all. The Duchy of Frost, a name that stood out for all its elemental leaning. You’d think that it belonged to a noble of Resilia rather than a long lineage of earth mages, Razein thought to himself. And said earth mages were talented, almost unusually so, and the territory of Frost and its capital, Lareyv, had an abundance of diamonds.

“Lady Frost,” Razein acknowledged with a turn of his head as he halted, just for a pause.

The lady was beautiful, in the way that glass shards were when they pricked you, and in the way that droplets of blood resembled the pretty beads of a necklace. Sharp cheekbones, and dark eyes, the dangerous, panther-like way that his wife liked to envy.

They met each other’s eyes, and Razein liked to think he was very good at conveying messages, for all the years his experience had cost. The Wraith-made are planning an uprising, his spies had hissed. He tilted his head, a small warning in his glance. A flicker of understanding, and Razein turned his gaze back like he’d never moved.

Understanding. She knew what was coming. And she would face it.

Razein internally tutted. My sister taught you better than that.

The warlord knew that Annamarie and Renata fancied each other, just enough, but if the Wraith-made lady wanted to declare war on her lover’s brother, then that was on her. Perhaps Razein had considered using Renata, just a bit, but then the opportunity came to use the Wyve archduchy for a better purpose.

And so the chief continued on his walk, flanked by a handful of High Mages, the verna walls - a cross between brick and glass - solid yet fragile, making up the Residence. Likatorites were never one for pomp and splendour, and nor had their naming skills fared any better. The “Wraith-made” had been a nickname bestowed by foreign diplomats - who were, obviously, not Evangelinese. Razein, himself, blamed the Elevyarians - their nobles spoke all flowery, but the chief had to give their wordplay to them.

The Wraiths, the troop of elite Mages that served only the Wyvern warlordship. Because of the Frosts’ many mages that entered the Wraiths’ ranks, there the moniker had sprung. And the spies had reported many details, the last operation a success as they had found an in.

But then came the spies from the other kingdoms, and the rooting out of the Frosts had been put on hold. Razein almost chuckled, smiling at how it was not he that his ancestor smiled upon, but the opposition. God, to think I prayed to you, he said internally, as he headed towards the throne room.

First, he... “had a party to crash,” like the young said.

Razein considered flinging open the two decorative verna slabs that served as doors to the Council, but opted for a show of power instead. The power of theatre was one had forgotten for quite a while, the chief murmured, as he gestured for his guards to part. His robes really were quite convenient, Razein thought, as he lifted his leg and flooded the bubbling sensation to his outstretched limb. [Earth Shifting], he commanded, as he crashed his leg in the two doors. They crumpled in, easily, as the high warlord entered, dramatically.

The look on the Council’s faces was worth it, and also part of Razein’s plan. Today was all about upsetting - quelling the upsets by upsetting things himself. Tip the balance, see which way the scales would lean. The Lady Frost followed behind him, as the chief took his seat on the throne in this center.

The Wraiths - a larger number, now with sharpened looks to make them look menacing - filed out, each guard behind a Council member’s throne. A threat, as Razein smiled placidly.

He blinked.

“You’re still in your seats,” he remarked, as the nobles suddenly clambered to their feet. Some of the smarter ones were slower, an anticipating look on their faces as they bowed, their heads higher than usual. Probably, that Annamarie wanted to pull off something today. Oh, well. As Razein stayed in his chair, the secretary stumbled forward with a list of scrolls.

“First order of business today, Your Chiefliness,” she said awkwardly, “would be the reading aloud of the petitions.”

Chiefliness. It was enough being called High Warlord, but the chief title was one Razein liked more. He preferred the sound of it, but chiefliness was weaker.

Yet, ignoring his immature thoughts that came and went, Razein reached forward and snatched the uppermost scroll. The nobles’ triumphant smiles meant that Razein had picked the right one, which also probably meant the secretary was bribed, and so the Chief read. As predicted.

The wording was careful, yet each of them a blade that embedded himself in his heart and his throne. At least, the words would’ve been, if the warlord hadn’t planned beforehand. His eyes glittered from behind the paper, as he observed their reactions. The better ones wouldn’t have shown their hands this early, and so Razein looked at their hands, instead. A twitch of the finger, that was all he needed.

And he saw. Many twitches.

“Who backed this petition?” Razein asked, his voice calm and his face hidden behind the paper as his eyes darted to his right-hand High Mage. The signal was ready.

Raised hands.

Annamarie was one of them, her face rigid as ever. All of them were powerful Mages, all of them put up a good fight. None of them were metal practitioners, though. Razein had checked. So the High Warlord blinked. Twice.

The ringing of gunshots, the sound of tellar metal bullets, as everyone but the raised hands were dead. Blood splatters on the floor, as their bodies along with the secretary’s crumpled in their seats.

And so the raised hands never faltered, although many of their eyes flickered in surprise.

“Those who didn’t back the petition are accused of neglecting their duty as Likatorite nobles, and are thereby executed by law,” Razein said lazily. “The petition is approved, and Annamarie Frost is now appointed as the successor to the Archduchy of Wyve. Her current position as Duchess of Frost will be passed down to her son, and she will be third in line to the Likatorite throne.”

And so Razein fished the cold gun out of his pockets and pointed the mouth at his stomach. Gunshots were much louder than they seemed, a fact he had realized a long time ago. Off went the trigger, and a bullet embedded himself in his stomach. Razein’s insides were on fire, and it was painful, but Razein would never hesitate. No, he could never hesitate.

His hands were a bit shaky, but still he pointed the mouth next at Annamarie’s head, and watched as the whisperer’s smile vanished. It was barely a second later, when she made a move, that she fell to the ground with a bang.

The warlord signaled again, and the Wraiths by the remaining nobles’ seats drew their guns and shot the remaining nobles in the heads as fast as a blink. A couple of single-elemental mages, recruited as Wraiths for this very moment. The third signal, as they shot themselves in the heart. Expensable bodies fell to the ground.

The Wraiths left shot themselves non-fatally, as was planned.

The first nobles were executed for dereliction of duty. Then a few Wraiths in the pay of them rebelled, shooting the other nobles and managing to injure the Chief. A cleansing, before the storm.

He could move, finally uninterrupted.

Screams, as he heard people rush to the clamor.

More for himself than the Wraiths left as an audience, Razein smiled.

High Warlord Razein Wyvern never liked fighting.

Because why would you fight, when you could kill?

----

Duke Ivan de Nox was a maker of many things.

The country knew him as the Kingmaker, the one who had helped the now-Tsarina Ekaterina Mikhailova of House Sommerling rise to the General’s Throne. The bards sang of him as the Pathmaker, one who had sacrificed more than just an arm and a leg for the kingdom. But Ivan de Nox liked to think of himself as a custodian. A very well-paid custodian, with a lot of money and very little time to spare.

“Duke Ivan,” the aide’s aide called, “the Resilian messenger has arrived.”

‘Messenger.’ A better term for spy.

The situation was a turbulent one. Tentative, precarious, and so very fragile that a single tip of the scale would cause the entire continent to fall into chaos. Anarchy, they had said, in the East. But humans liked order, and there came the solution of “Guilds,” the Evangelinese spies and envoys had informed the Duke. It was challenging, reviewing and keeping track of the political climates of each and every kingdom, and perhaps a bitter part of Ivan liked to blame Ekaterina’s carelessness for these things.

But then Ivan was reminded of their military campaigns against the Sanguines back in the day, and then thirty-year-old almost shivered. It was hard to forget that his closest friend and partner had a blade that had tasted the lives of more than a thousand men, and even harder to navigate her through the snares of diplomacy while keeping that in mind.

The Guilds were supposedly ranked, and the most powerful Guild, by the name of Cavalierre, was equal to a large portion of the Crimson Guard. Evangeline’s cities at Resilia’s frontier had faced an increasing amount of rebel skirmishes, but the large Rebel group camped in the Elevyarian side of the Woods was practically a ticking bomb.

The spies had assured Ivan that the Rebels had no Guild affiliations, but there would be more. If Ivan was right - and he usually was, on these things - there would be more of them, supporters, and war would break out in Resilia and sink its teeth in the Anisan continent.

“Bring him in,” Ivan said, his fist tightening on the quill.

He was signing documents, casualty reports and trade authorizations like he spent most of his time doing as the spy slunk in the office accompanied by Ivan’s assistant. Dark-haired, fair-skinned like most of the Resilians, with an angular, almost triangular-shaped head.

“Report.”

Ivan’s command left his lips as he continued stamping the papers.

“Three hundred civilians. Double-elemental leader, three others of similar level.”

Ivan felt irritation creep into his head. He batted it away, evening his emotions again as his glance never strayed from the papers. Evangelinese interference in a Resilian-Elevyarian matter? Especially with that invitation for war with the Likatorites against the others?

This wasn’t a diplomatic incident, this was more than that. Evangeline could not afford to go to war, and Ivan would take any excuse he could get to prevent it. But with Likator, their sole supplier of the extremely rare tellar metal that Evangeline, especially, used for their fire-resistant Mage weapons? Having too many questions, and not enough answers, were a recipe for disaster.

This was more than an issue.

This was an obstacle, and Ivan the Pathmaker did not like it.

“The area in the Woods where the camp is has been set on fire.”

That would have caused Ivan’s neck to snap right up, if he hadn’t been in front of others.

“Cause?”

He met the spy’s eyes. The spy looked very bland, but then again all spies had to look very bland. A fire. Ivan was never one for coarse words, but if Ekaterina was here she certainly would’ve answered the conveyed message with a crude, “fucking shit.”

“It seems that there’s a rogue from that minor town who wanted to take actions into their own hands,” the spy replied. “We stationed some spies in the Woods, and we saw a figure set the camp on fire and flee the scene.”

“And you did not interfere?”

The man hesitated. “No, we did not.”

Good.

This was almost too good.

A scapegoat.

“Leave us,” Ivan ordered, and after the spy had left the room, whispered to his assistant, “Call the General and tell her it’s important. Code Blue. Handle it discreetly.”

A scapegoat.

Good.

Almost too good.

The duke went back to his work, ignoring the assistant’s departure and thinking, furiously. No, not furiously. He had to look at it objectively, with no influence or priority but Evangeline’s interest in mind. The High Warlord of Likator couldn’t have predicted this - no one could have. But Ivan had the feeling that the old dwarf-descended codger had known, in one way or another. They were playing into Razein’s hands. But how? The rogue was likely not hired by Likator, from the looks of it, if they got caught.

But what if they meant to be caught? What if Razein had provided Evangeline with an excuse to back out with the resolution of the situation, to swoop in and... Do what? They couldn’t take over Resilia alone, no- They want Evangeline to stay neutral. They have something up their sleeves.

Not them, Ivan hastily reminded himself, Razein. It was the High Warlord acting alone, it always had been. But how was the Archduke Wyve involved in all this, unless...Razein sent his sister out on purpose. She was in the way.

In the way of the ace up his sleeve.

The invitation under the guise of war was under another guise, one Ivan needed to pinpoint.

And so, the Kingmaker continued.

Duke Ivan de Nox was a maker of many things.

But a maker of war he would never be.

----

Sonestra Whittington never liked being adored.

Adoration was a burden on the pallid sorceress’ shoulders that she never liked. People called it magic, but Sonestra had never liked the term. Her master had used a different term of sorcery, and Sonestra agreed. Magic was too simplistic a term for the system that ran through the entire continent. And so the Ice Enchantress continued closing her eyes, shifting through the darkness to sense the magic in her own system, as she heard a muffled grunt.

Her eyes flung open, snapping herself out of her trance as she immediately reached for the source. “Ava? Captain?”

Carnage’s Guild Captain opened his eyes. “Nestra?”

Sonestra blinked, and looked at her lover’s weary face.

You will die, Ace.

----

{There you are}.

{You did well, [Player Novarra Ultra]}.

Novarra could breathe again. But…

“You meant for this to fucking happen, you shitty asshat?” she hissed, her heartbeat still pounding as her hands, streaked with blood, clenched into fists. Stay calm. They did say that- Novarra’s head span, and she tried to stay rational- If you go off that cliff again, you might not come back, whispered the voice. Stay rational. Stay adaptable. Stay hidden. Stay alive. To stay alive, you had to think. It was okay to be in shock, but it wasn’t okay to stay in shock when you were in the midst of a problem.

“You said that there was something...in the other Authority Tiers…” she said, slowly as her heart still pounded. The pieces slowly clicked together as the remnants of smoke lingering on her body cleared. “You knew.” The System knew. You did well, they had said. As if they had been expecting it. “You know the future. I’m meant to be here.”

As the reality hit her like another fucking jumbo yacht - which Novarra had never really liked, by the way, cars were much shinier - she blinked.

“Oh, fuck, I’m a Chosen One, aren’t I?” she muttered.

{The System}-

“I know you’re a sentient being. Shove off the formalities.” Buying her time to think, recalibrate. Facts. Stay rational. Stay adaptable. Screw the staying hidden, now - Novarra had set fire to an entire Rebel camp just because she couldn’t control the voices and they came back. Stay alive. To stay alive, you had to know. What did Novarra know? She knew that her former knowledge was useless, because this was another timeline, another plane of existence. Of all the people that existed, she had been one of the people picked.

Why?

“Are you allowed to tell me why I was chosen?” Even though most of the smoke had dissipated, the lingering acrid scent still clung to Novarra’s clothes. Screaming. Sword in hand. Blood. There was no time for crying, wailing, judging herself. Keep moving. Keep thinking. Keep adapting.

She had never liked mental gymnastics, even if it’d been hammered into her as an impulse.

{No}.

“Do you know what I’m supposed to do after this? No, let me rephrase that question-” Wait. She wasn’t in the System’s space, but their voice was echoing in her head. Something had changed. Novarra paused. “Were you behind this? Wait, no.” The System had hid this from her, although not directly lied - why couldn’t they just navigate around their question. “I’m a paranoid, mentally unstable mess right now, so I would appreciate if you could tell me what the fuck is going on.”

{Your conclusions can be proved neither true nor false}, replied the System, carefully. {But I cannot interfere with the world unless part of a programmed response}.

“You’re informing me, not answering my question,” Novarra said. “Did you, or one of your superiors, or anyone associated with you, interfere with this incident?”

{I have no knowledge of any interference with your mental state}.

You have ‘no knowledge.’ Memory could’ve been wiped. You could’ve known your memory could’ve been wiped. You used the phrase ‘your mental state,’ not the events leading up to it.

“I have no interest in playing this dance of words with you,” said Novarra, “it takes two to tango, and one cannot accept a dance partner’s hand without knowing who’s on their dance card.” She, shakily, slipped on the familiar cold mask. “Is your time limited with me?”

{I will stay until you tell me to go}.

“Good. Allow me a period of exactly one hundred and twenty seconds to collect my thoughts.”

{I shall}.

Novarra was placing herself in a tight spot, if she was viewing this objectively in the perspective of a negotiator, by phrasing it as “allow.” But her current situation wasn’t important, not yet, as her thoughts ran like the wind.

I set fire to a Rebels camp.

I killed more than a hundred potential innocents.

I do not know whether any leaders or lieutenants have been killed.

I know that likely the other kingdoms will catch wind of this.

Think objectively.

Novarra sighed, as she felt the familiar ticking of the clock. Identify the problem. Pretend it’s happening to someone else, contain it. It’s just a test question.

You have set fire to a Rebels camp in Country B’s soil, killing potentially hundreds of innocents. These Rebels are against the forces of power in Country A. You do not know whether any leaders or lieutenants have been killed, and you do not know whether they have enough magic to stop a wildfire. Reinforcements are arriving. What are your priorities and available options?

[Option 1: Find a way to deal with the fire]

Condition: Stop the wildfire in an efficient, cost-effective manner.

The option to hide your own tracks and evidence Exposing your power - if you use it - to the arriving reinforcements Being subject to further inquiry from allies

[Option 2: Wait until the fire goes out]

Condition: The fire does not bring harm to the town or yourself, which is unlikely.

You are not associated with the fire (a tentative advantage, as you do not know who is watching)-

{The time of one hundred and twenty seconds has elapsed}.

I don’t know who’s watching.

Novarra smiled.

“My mother used to tell me,” she said, partially to the System, partially to herself, “that everyone is always watching, when you’re in a cage. I don’t know why I remember that, but…” Novarra lingered off, remembering her former world. “She said, when you’re blindfolded and stuck in a cage, the only way you can keep yourself sane, and sane in that sense means alive, I suppose…” She blinked. “She said,” Novarra repeated, “that when you’re blindfolded and stuck in a cage, the only way you can know that you’re not alone is by putting on a show.”

The System didn’t reply, as Novarra Kiye Ultra continued, smiling.

“Because when you’re blindfolded and stuck in a cage, you know that someone’s watching when you hear the sound of applause.”

Her grin grew wider, as she discarded the mask.

Silence.

It’s time to put on a show.

----