A sharp blade required three factors: high-quality metal, an experienced smith, and a good sharpening stone. The Interior General sat on the steps of a remote City Guard armory with the latter in hand, slowly bringing his newly purchased one-sided sword to a razor edge.

Every so often, guardsmen passed him with puzzled expressions—after all, what self-respecting General sat around sharpening his own sword? Even one serving a King currently in hiding from powerful rebels needed not handle such low-level maintenance work. Menial tasks could easily be delegated to underlings, and almost half of the Interior General’s followers in the City and Royal Guards had fled the Capital alongside the Gold King.

The Interior General returned a halfhearted salute to the curious guardsmen and went back to his work, suppressing a smile. One day, they would learn: the best weapon was one crafted by its user’s hands. Although the Interior General lacked the smithing skill to forge a sword entirely from raw ore, honing a pre-made blade was his specialty.

The key to finding a good sharpening stone, like the key to many things, was finding the obvious in plain sight. For instance, today, the General had pried a cobblestone from the road. The age-flattened surface worked surprisingly well despite its humble origins, and the sword now had a smooth yet sharp edge. The General stropped the edge on his trousers to remove a slight burr. He then glanced around, searching for a way to test the blade.

A red leaf fluttered through the air, fallen from some tree in the midst of autumn. The General set his sharpening stone aside, tracking the leaf’s motion. In a single fluid motion, he stood and sliced. Two parts of the leaf drifted to the ground, perfectly halved.

Behind the General, someone screamed. He sheathed the sword quickly lest he further scare the townspeople.

“Don’t be afraid...” the words died on his tongue. Townspeople were indeed screaming and running—not away from the General, but toward him. They migrated along the streets from west to east, fleeing en masse from some unseen threat. A lieutenant in the local City Guard ran directly at the General, and he met the gasping fellow with confusion. “What’s going on?”

The lieutenant shook his head, doubling over while he caught his breath.

“Invasion,” the lieutenant gasped. He pointed a shaking finger toward the eastern side of town. “Cloud Army. Farms burning. We can’t fight that many soldiers!”

The fleeing citizens were clearly panicked, but many carried small children, livestock, or bundles of belongings that weighed them down. If the Cloud Army sent its cavalry in pursuit, the citizens would never run quickly enough to escape.

The General grabbed the lieutenant by the shoulders. “Find anyone who can hold a weapon. We have to hold off the enemy long enough for these people to warn the Gold King.”

Nodding rapidly, the lieutenant disappeared into the City Guard armory.

Next, the General spotted a messenger’s uniform among the crowd. He grabbed the lad’s arm. “Do you know where the Gold King’s base is?” When the messenger nodded, the General stuffed a pouch of coins into his grasp. “Tell him the Cloud Army attacked us. Tell him to expect refugees. Quickly, run there and warn the Royal Guard!”

The General entered the armory as well, quickly locating the corner where he had stashed all of his personal equipment. He strapped on black armor plates—a gift from an old friend, yet of higher quality than any other armor he had ever owned. He stuck two spare knives in his boots for good measure, taking a quiver of arrows and a bow from the weapons racks as he left. His black armor glinted like a beetle’s carapace under the morning light as he moved opposite the flow of fleeing citizens.

The battle-ready General sprinted toward the eastern watchtower of the town wall. The watchtower had a wooden spire rising ten feet above the brick-and-stone layout of the wall. From the top, the General saw a strange pile of rocks by the outer base of the watchtower. Those rocks definitely had not been present the last time the General was here—but now was no time for distractions. In the distance, refugees looked like a stream of tiny ants rushing from the outlying villages toward the haven of the town walls. The General squinted at the rising sun from the east, shielding his eyes from the light as he sought confirmation of the enemy’s identity.

As though spawned by the red glow of that terrible sunrise, the dark silhouettes of enemy soldiers and horses charged through villages and farmland, sparing nothing in their path. Fire trailed behind them, turning fields of wheat to ash. The enemy flag caught the wind for an instant and unfurled in its full glory, translucent before the morning light.

“Indeed, a cloud has passed over the sun,” the General said through a clenched jaw. The flag resembled that of the Sun King’s conquering army, yet the red-and-yellow logo of a burning sun had been replaced by a white cloud on a field of black. How fitting, for a Usurper as shameless as the Cloud. The metal claws of the General’s gauntlet dug into the watchtower railing, carving through weatherbeaten wood with the force of his rage.

A gleam of gold flashed in the distance. The Marshal of the West stood upon a hilltop, flame rising from his armored hands. A crimson cloak billowed out behind him, caught in a slow wind. In his grasp were an arrow and his signature longbow.

The Marshal set the arrow to the bowstring, whereupon the bow ignited in golden flame, and drew the bow to its fullest extent. Aiming for the sky, the Marshal paused for a moment. Light danced along the line of the arrow, shimmering with the unnatural vigor of naptha-fires. A piercing gaze singled out the General on the watchtower amid the chaos of fleeing citizens and frantic defense troops.

“You...” The Marshal’s mouth moved, but he was too far for the General to understand the words.

The golden bow flexed from a proud arc to nearly straight. The arrow shot into the air and vanished among the rays of the rising sun. Light streaked down to the wall below the watchtower, striking rocks that were not truly rocks. An explosion shattered the world. As the wall crumbled, gravity dragged the General inevitably downward. He crashed down amid rubble and lay still for a time, mustering the willpower to move his aching limbs.

The General coughed out lungfuls of smoke and dust, clawing deep furrows in the burnt ground as he pushed onto his hands and knees. His sheathed sword lay only a few paces away, still attached to the half of its belt that had torn off as the General plummeted from the watchtower. If he could reach it, he could get up and fight.

This town was the last line of defense between the Cloud Usurper and the Gold King’s fort; if the General failed to defend it, the Gold King would pay the price. However, he was but one mortal man against a sorcerer of legend; his Gold Army was a pitchfork-wielding mob of farmers and townsfolk, whereas the Marshal wielded the unparalleled might of the old Sun Army’s military command.

Footsteps approached, even and unhurried. The General rolled and kicked out blindly, but the blow deflected off armor plates as well-forged as his own. Sparks flashed in the smoky air. Metal claws closed around the General’s helmet, and blackened stone rushed toward his face.

The General saw stars, and then he saw nothing at all.

When the Interior General woke, he was flat on his back and devoid of armor. Somewhere in the distance, water dripped onto stone in a steady rhythm. Stone walls surrounded him on three sides, while the fourth had iron bars. The General recognized the scenery well enough, as he had sent countless troublemakers to these exact lodgings in his time. He was in the dungeons of the Capital.

The General turned over and found a hard dirt floor. His hands were chained together in front of him, while another chain led from the manacles to a buried bolt. Enough slack remained in the second chain that he could probably stand comfortably. The General rolled into a sitting position and came face-to-face with the Enemy’s metal greaves. The Enemy was a dark silhouette against the torchlight flooding in from a propped-open door. A corridor was visible just beyond.

“This armor you wore. It is not yours,” the Enemy noted. He held a metal plate in his hand: the black-painted breastplate from the General’s armor. Gloved fingers traced a circular weld mark where an iron patch had been affixed over a deep gash in the center of the breastplate.

The General glared at his Enemy. “What do you want? Going to offer me freedom, just like the old days? Go ahead. Try your games. This time, I will find a way out.”

“You already know it. Where is the Gold Grubber’s encampment?” the Enemy asked.

“The Gold King is safe from the likes of you.” The General spat a red spray across the Enemy’s metal-clad boots.

The Enemy flicked a coin-sized pebble at the General’s head. The General caught it before it hit his face. He hurled it back, but it missed and vanished between the bars of the prison.

The Enemy sighed and walked away, taking the armor plate with him.

“Which rock is the Gold Grubber hiding under?”

The Prisoner bared bloody teeth and laughed, and laughed, and laughed. When his breath ran thin, he sat upright with his head tilted back.

“I don’t answer to the Usurper.”

“Neither did your comrades.” The Enemy raised a hand that ignited like a torch. Firelight illuminated the darkest corners of the cell, revealing white on black: a field of ash and incomplete combustion products.

The Prisoner hunched away from the pile of charred human bones, but nothing could banish the reek of burnt flesh from his nostrils. Nothing could erase the sight of pale grins, of jaws gaping in silent despair.

The Enemy threw another pebble at the Prisoner’s head. It shot toward his eye at an alarming speed, but the Prisoner was still faster. He batted it away with manacled hands. The white stone clattered into the distance, vanishing among the bones in the corner.

The Enemy sighed.

“Tell me the location of the Gold Grubber and his cronies.”

“Cave,” the Shadow croaked. Never was there so sweet a taste as clean air. He drew it into starved lungs.

“Where?”

“Locals call it... Sparrow’s Foot. By the merger of the Three Rivers... tunnels, with a hidden entrance. The leftmost one widens to a cavern. Big enough to hold six... seven hundred. The King set up camp inside... just past the first fork,” the Shadow gasped between gulps of air.

“Sparrow’s Foot. To find any rebels hidden away in the caves, attackers would have to search a vast swamp. Many would take ill from the fumes. Clever.” The enemy’s voice was almost pleased. “And a lie. The Gold Grubber and his rebels were based in two fishing villages by Angler Falls, fifty miles upstream. Now, the rebels are hiding on the plateau above the waterfall.”

The Shadow’s eyes slid closed. Such knowledge was impossible, unless…

Unless.

The Enemy reached into a pocket, and the Shadow prepared to be attacked with another small white pebble. Instead, the Enemy proffered a jeweled signet ring. A carved citrine crystal set in gold glittered in the darkness: the royal seal of office. It belonged on the Gold King’s hand, yet it was not on the Gold King’s hand. Even unto the end, a King was not meant to release the seal save to his true Heir.

The ring made a cold divot in the Shadow’s fingers. He clutched it with stiff fingers, drawing a shaky breath.

“How…” his voice trembled.

The Enemy waited. The question that the Shadow had once refused to utter now fell from his bloodstained mouth.

“How could you?”

A scowl flashed across the Enemy’s face. He stepped away.

“The Gold King was your friend once. Do you remember?” the Shadow cried. The Enemy paused at the threshold, one hand on the door. Standing with great effort, the Shadow let outrage pour into his voice. “Back then, you said he would be a good king. You said he would be a better leader than the Cloud. How could you doom the one you once praised? How can you follow the Cloud Usurper now?”

The Enemy left him to fume in the darkness.

Footsteps approached. The Shadow had not seen his Enemy in days. Now, the words that echoed through his head took physical form.

“I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you,” he swore.

The Enemy leaned close.

“Prove it.” The words smelled of blackpowder and alchemy.

As the Enemy left the cell, a white pebble bounced off the side of the Shadow’s head. The Shadow flinched from the blow, raising his bound arms to protect his face. The pebble dropped to the ground with a tinkling sound.

Once the Enemy’s footsteps faded into the distance, fresh rage glittered in the Shadow’s eyes. He brought his heel down upon the rock, imagining it to be the Enemy’s fingers. Instead of making a painful dent in his foot, it partly crumbled into powder. Surprised, the Shadow looked at the pebble more closely. Perhaps it was not a mere rock, but a tool. A ray of hope cleared some of the blind rage.

“Careless old fool,” he whispered, holding the pebble between both hands like a precious gem. Laughter bubbled from his throat, ragged and tinged with madness. “Your loss... your loss.”

With utmost care, he ground the pellet into dust between his iron manacles and stone floor. He scooped the powder into a pile, pouring it into the locking mechanism of his bonds. The manacles were linked by a chain that permitted him a little motion. Crouching by the pile of dust, the Shadow dashed the cuffs on his wrists together, throwing a shower of sparks over the crumbled metal.

The powder caught instantly, blazing like a miniature sun. The Shadow shut his eyes and pressed the manacle chain into the glowing spot. Though his fingers blistered and steamed from the heat, he forced himself to hold steady until the chain snapped. Then, he collapsed to the side in a ball of shaking limbs.

“Plateau by Angler Falls,” the Shadow whispered to himself. “Angler Falls... plateau.”

When the evening meal was delivered, the Shadow stole the guard’s knife and stabbed fourteen times before realizing that the man’s struggles had ceased. With the citrine seal carefully tucked into his pocket, the Shadow fought his way out of the prison.

The Marshal found the Cloud Queen in the strategy room, watching over the Capital from a high window. Both hands were clasped behind her back, and her draping sleeves gave the impression of folded wings. A map of the Empire was spread upon the round table at the center of the room. Dark and light wood figures were arrayed in the troop formations of the Gold and Cloud Armies. At the apex of Angler River, a solid wall of pale wood encircled the dark cylinder marking the rebel encampment.

“Unfortunate news,” the Marshal reported. “The Gold Grubber’s top General escaped from the prison in the early hours of the morning. Soldiers have searched a hundred miles along the country roads, but they found nothing.”

The Cloud Queen turned around.

“Misfortune is the concern of lesser individuals. This is as I anticipated. The Interior General is adept at moving unseen. If he has escaped, he will soon rejoin with the other rebels.” The Cloud Queen took a dark infantry figurine from the side of the table and placed it on the map, midway between the prison and the siege at Angler Falls. “Does he have the royal seal with him?”

“Indeed. The Prisoner stole the royal seal when he escaped,” the Marshal said. His gaze was level, his voice flat.

“Excellent. Send word to the forces at Angler Falls: pause the siege, but let no rebel escape the caves. When the Interior General arrives, he shall join his comrades unharmed.” The Cloud Queen walked back to the window, clasping both hands behind her back again. Cast half in light and half shadow, she looked upon the world with timeless serenity. “Why take by force what can easily be given?”

Two weeks after a certain Prisoner escaped the Capital, a messenger came alone to the court of the Cloud Queen. The messenger offered the citrine seal of the Crown, along with a plea that hostilities cease to prevent further loss of life and resources on both sides. The Cloud Queen accepted this surrender with grace. As a further gesture of her profound magnanimity, the Cloud Army did not execute every last one of the Gold King’s supporters on sight.