The Shadow’s swordsmanship exceeded that of his old Master, but even this advantage helped only for a moment. When the Madman could not win with steel, he unleashed wings of light and fire across the world—fire with no equal in sight, and light that the Shadow had never learned to counter. The world burned around the Shadow, yet he could do nothing but shield his own head. His eyes stung from smoke exposure, and his lungs ached for fresh air with each breath.

The Shadow lost sight of the enemy. He turned in a slow circle, sword held before him. All was afire. Orange clawed toward the sky, and the roaring of the inferno drowned any sound of footsteps. From the vastness of the burning expanse, a round object flew toward the Shadow’s head. He instinctively knocked it away with his sword. Too late, he recognized the grenade. Light and noise shattered the world.

When the Shadow returned to his senses, his weapon was a pile of twisted metal on the ground. Bright steel, bestowed upon him by the most reputable Weapons Dealer in the land, was melted and distorted beyond repair. The Shadow crawled toward it on unsteady hands and knees, choked by the unbearable heat of the wildfire raging around him. Shrapnel had sliced his arms and face, though not severely. Of more immediate concern, a gash on his left flank throbbed with every labored breath. Blood soaked through his clothes and dripped to the ground. He wondered why he had ever accepted this fool’s quest to confront the wayward Master of Flame.

Orange veils shifted, and the Madman himself appeared as though conjured from the essence of fire. Air shimmered with heat haze around a head haloed in auburn and smoke. The Madman’s brow was creased in a mask of infinite sorrow. At his waist hung a cheap-looking steel sword with a sheath covered in innumerable stains.

“O, for a worthy opponent! Alas, you are not the one.” The Madman’s voice was the crackle of wet stones dropped into a campfire: sharp, volatile, and on the verge of breaking. Within those words, the Shadow read a question, one that he could indeed answer. He met the Madman’s unnatural vermillion gaze, fearless as only resignation could permit before such an immensely overpowered executioner.

“The Marshal of the East is dead. You struck him down.”

The Shadow expected retaliation: a roar of rage, a red-hot sword to the gut, wings of pure energy and light unfurling to banish every trace of wispy silver cloud from the sky. He did not expect the Madman to smile sadly.

“So I did. We were bound by oath.” Flames poured from the Madman’s gauntlet, striking the elegant arch of the longbow slung across his back. Gold leapt along the lines of the black metal, drawing a streak of diagonal light across the Madman’s torso. The Shadow braced for a bolt of fire to impale his weakened body, but the Madman only patted out the flames on his cloak. The bowstring extinguished again into wisps of smoke.

“Why have you followed me, young Shadow? It is unlike you to seek death so brazenly.”

The Shadow drew an ancient square of parchment from his cloak, wincing as the motion tugged at the wound across his side. Scalded hands left red prints on the parchment. He did not say, “Slaying the erstwhile Marshal of the West would have brought me wealth and fame beyond compare.” Nor did he say, “The people cry for someone to stop your rampage, and I am the only one left with the training to match your sword.” Both were true enough, although swordplay had not helped in the least against the drifter’s fire. The Shadow pressed one hand against the gash in his side. He offered the expired bounty poster with the other.

“The Sun King’s Successor... bids you return.”

The Madman skimmed past the list of crimes, the sketch of a generic face with flames in place of hair, and the impressive sum of gold that the treasury had once offered for his head. He traced the wax impression of the royal seal with pensive fingers: a horizon, a circle. Familiar symbols whose meaning had since passed from the world.

Long seconds drifted by. The Shadow swayed with exhaustion, but he refused to collapse. If any trace of the Madman’s former self remained, the Shadow knew that he would admire willpower more than he despised weakness.

As the Madman contemplated the partly melted seal, the hint of a smile faded into a careful blankness. At last, he said, “I am bound by oath.” He produced a metal canteen from his belt and splashed a white, foamy fluid on the nearest flames.

The inferno thrashed and hissed, but all fire must quail before its Master’s command. The heat retreated. No life remained within sight, save for the drifting Madman and the dark Hunter. Their crimson and midnight cloaks, respectively stained with soot and blood, were the only splashes of color between the ashen field and silver sky. The Madman extended a hand, and the Shadow took it. He wanted to live.

In the high towers of the palace, a Gold King sat upon the Sun Throne; in the city below, a Madman walked the streets of the Capital. Whispers of awe and terror heralded the Madman’s return throughout the city, and all who crossed his path fell to their knees before the return of a legend. Not far behind him followed a Shadow, but nobody paid the grubby fellow in soot-stained grey rags much mind.

The palace had been repaired in the long years since the Madman’s departure, but the fundamental architecture remained the same, and the old foundations of steel and stone still lingered. Due to the impressive speed of the rumor mill, the Madman gained entrance to the palace without trouble. The older palace guards recognized him by sight, and the newer ones by reputation; doors opened and soldiers saluted at his passing.

The Madman opened the throne room doors himself, noting that the elaborately carved oak had been replaced with black wrought iron. Gasps and whispers from the assembled court officials greeted him. Inside, he divested himself of sword and bow, pressing the weapons into the care of a very surprised aide.

A new King sat upon the throne, perched in the Sun King’s old spot like a child amid ancient splendor. The throne itself had been rebuilt from black marble, but the architect had made it half a foot too low; the sunbeam from the high windows barely skimmed the tips of the new King’s curls. Garish robes of gold thread matched the sunshine in his hair and the shimmer of his impossibly wide eyes. The Gold King clutched the arm-rests tightly, and his usual smile grew more brittle by the moment as the Madman approached.

“Welcome back, Marshal of the West,” the Gold King said in a voice that wavered like wheat in the wind. “What brings you to these parts?”

The Madman continued to walk toward the throne.

“Guards, seize the intruder,” said the Chancellor. Only the slightly higher pitch of her level voice hinted at any disturbance.

Elite guards rushed in from the edges of the throne room. Several hesitated, recognizing the Madman, but others thrust spears and swords at him. The Madman caught the first spear by the shaft and spun it, smashing the wooden end into a nearby head. The surprised guard crumpled to the ground. When the remaining guards attacked, the Madman disabled each one with similar ease. Not a drop of blood spilled within the court.

At last, the Madman faced the Gold King and the Chancellor with a spear in hand. One well-aimed throw could bring the kingdom to its knees. The Gold King paled considerably, shrinking back into his throne as though the carved marble might provide some shelter. The Chancellor, already pale of complexion, only raised her chin by the slightest fraction. As per usual, the utter serenity of her face betrayed nothing.

The spear dropped to the ground. There, in the center of the Gold King’s court, surrounded by groaning guards and facing a rather perturbed Chancellor, the Madman sank into graceful obeisance.

“I vow eternal service to the Legacy of the Sun,” the Madman swore, raising his hands in salute. When he lifted his head from the deep bow, ember-bright eyes slid to the left of the throne, where stood a Chancellor in robes of dove-white. “I shall follow your commands unto the end of my power.”

The Gold King’s jaw dropped open. After several seconds passed with no other response, the Chancellor stepped forward on his behalf.

“The Crown accepts your oath,” the Chancellor said. “Perform meritorious service for the Crown, and you shall share in the wealth of the new order.”

The Marshal’s brow furrowed, and his mouth curled with offense. However, he lowered his head once more.

“The Legacy is indeed generous,” the Marshal said to the floor-stones.

A hesitant footstep sounded from the entrance to the throne room. The Shadow appeared at the door. Though exhausted and visibly limping, a spark of triumph glittered in his dark eyes.

The Gold King, who had until recently been staring at the newly reinstated Marshal with a mixture of horror and disbelief, finally regained his senses. He stood from the throne, spreading his arms, and his broad yellow sleeves swept outward like wings.

“Welcome home, my old friend,” the Gold King said to the Shadow. “You have done well this day. As payment for your great service to the Crown, we bestow upon you ten thousand gold. From this day forth, you shall be named General of the Interior, defender of the homeland and all who share in its bounty.”

The new Interior General dropped to his knees at the far end of the throne room. He raised his hands in a grateful salute, and then he collapsed entirely.