Seneschal Armael wondered when everything went wrong.

  The course of the last few decades had hardly gone swimmingly, of course, but his work at sabotaging House Elathion had at least made steady progress.

  The House lost its primary Heiress, its First Lady, and much of its assets in the span of a decade. A tenth of their retinue were converted to turncoats, and the quality of their household knights had diminished as Armael ensured their most promising candidates met fatal ‘accidents’ while out on patrols or missions.

  House Elathion had been on the brink of collapse, struck by countless misfortunes at every turn with nought but room to breathe. The indefatigable Lord had been pushed to the verge of a breakdown.

  Armael’s lifelong task of weakening the noble family’s power to ensure a smooth transition of territory into the Duskcrown’s hand had been right at the cusp of fruition.

  The rewards of his arduous labour, promised by his masters, had been so close: wealth, power, even immortality! It would have made all his suffering worthwhile, wasting his talent on such a pointless existence!

  And now… Now!

  It was all in ruin because of a single boy!

  Ever since the thrice-damned mutant showed up, nothing had gone right!

  It was endurable at first. The failed kidnapping of Dulcina Elathion was a bitter blow, but one that could be recovered from. With how worn House Elathion’s security was, it was only a matter of time before more opportunities to secure the Heiress arose.

  The slaying of Gunther Stormcaller was much more difficult to stomach. The mad brigand captain had been invaluable in acquiring ‘viable human subjects’ for their laboratories in the west, and was the property of the Duskcrown besides. His death under Armael’s jurisdiction had consequences, but the situation had nonetheless still been under his control.

  Then the port blew up.

  There was no salvaging the operation after that. Not only was the Caustic Oil reservoir — the entire reason for the Duskcrown’s interest in House Elathion — destroyed, but the Hellgate was also miraculously sealed off and its Ruby Core recovered, leaving the crippled noble family well on the path to recovery.

  Armael's entire life's effort just evaporated over the course of a single day.

  His superiors had been furious — as if he were the one to be blamed! It was that accursed mutant!

  But somehow, that had not been the worst of it. No, even after all the trouble he caused, the boy still had one last torment to deliver upon Armael’s head.

  The encoded documents. The boy had cracked the code.

  A cypher unsolved by even the most gifted of enigma-breakers of the Imperial Administration — a code whose creation dated back millennia when the Empires of the Elderkin traded missives and engaged in secret wars…

  And it was immediately cracked with a single glance by the mutant child.

  Armael had nearly lost his mind when the boy just casually translated the details of the documents — details that could very easily damn the entirety of the Duskcrowns’ operations within the entire North.

  His superiors had most certainly lost theirs when he informed them of the situation.

  Armael had already scrambled to hide the most incriminating papers in his office, but there was no way he could have secured them all without immediately raising suspicion. Destruction of the documents was not viable, either; the signatures and curse-binding pacts within them were too valuable to discard.

  It was only a matter of time before House Elathion revealed the decoded papers: illegal trade manuscripts, reports of successful sabotage, the kidnapping of noble scions, heretical research files…

  The entirety of the North — Nobles, Church, and Imperial forces — would fall on the Duskcrowns’ heads.

  Thankfully, not all was lost. The Duskcrowns, for all their arrogance, were once part of the Aurelian Royal Family — a separatist faction, yes, but one that boasted competence and wealth, along with bloodlines to ancient Saints nonetheless.

  Their fury would only be appeased with fire and blood.

  The kill order was issued. In light of the document decoding, nothing less was warranted, for the secrets of the Duskcrowns were not for outsiders to reveal.

  A force was sent to destroy House Elathion and to consume its newfound wealth. The noble family was ordered to be captured in chains to serve as penance for their insult against the true rulers of Thalmyra.

  Armael had been ecstatic when he received the order, especially when he previewed the main force sent to lay low House Elathion: a Sapphire-Core Chosen with a grudge against Lord Draevan, and the infamous pair of feared Desert Minstrels. The twins were the prized weapon of the Duskcrowns — formidable half-bloods of unknown origin whose songs could lay low even the most experienced of Jewelled Chosens.

  Their reputation inspired terror even in allies. Combined with their exotic beauty, their leash was one highly sought-after within the faction and its partners.

  For Armael, it was a sign that his masters had not forsaken him yet. The catastrophic failure of his mission meant his true rewards were denied to him, but revenge against House Elathion was a compensation Armael would gladly swallow, particularly where it concerned their arrogant Heiress and that forsaken mutant child.

  So how… How?!

  How in the world did those twin minstrels break free from their collars?!

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  This was an absolute disaster! Not only had all the assassins sent to capture Lady Dulcina failed despite Armael’s deliberate sabotage of the castle’s defences and its knights, but Lord Maelric Halsworn — in spite of all his grandiose claims of ‘superiority’ — had died in his duel against Lord Draevan as well!

  Incompetent fools! Every last one of them! And now, their incompetence was going to get him killed!

  There would be no doubt in House Elathion’s eyes now that Armael was a traitor. He was the only one who could have deactivated the castle’s magical barriers and scheduled the patrols such that House Elathion’s best knights were outside the castle at the time of attack.

  The only reason he was still alive was because everyone else was too exhausted to catch him. But that would only give him minutes to escape, at best.

  Before he could flee, however, he would need something: a bribe to appease his superiority. The operation had gone wrong in ways Armael could have never imagined. The losses suffered in this botched assault were disastrous in scope. Armael would be lucky if his superiors merely settled for lopping off his head.

  Escaping the castle with nothing in hand was not an option.

  And so it was that the panting Seneschal found himself standing before Lord Draevan’s personal study. The runic magic on its lock was nothing short of unbreakable, but Armael was not without means.

  Even if they were unpleasant to use.

  “[Fae Touch]”, he hissed. The unstable mana in him, kept hidden away for so long, finally came flooding forth.

  ‘Armael’ disguise came apart as otherworldly magic poured from his fingers and tore the door’s protection to shreds.

  Where before the [Skinchanger’s Glamour] Arte cloaked him in the appearance of an old and powerless man, now a twisted-looking, half-human abomination stood. Naked and genderless, it had two malformed insect wings on its back, skin grey and wrinkly like a corpse, a bloated torso, and horrendously thin arms that ended in claws.

  The gifts of the Duskcrowns were not always beautiful, though they were undoubtedly useful. The Wyrd magic of the Fae Folk was as potent as it was incomprehensible. That ‘Armael’ was able to remain undetected for so long despite being constantly in the presence of a Spahhire-Core Chosen like Lord Draevan was proof of that.

  He only wished that the Elderblood had not warped his appearance so horrendously. Alas, his role was not to look pretty, merely to function as a tool.

  The door fell apart under the assault of Elderkin magic. The creature once named ‘Armael’ rushed in on awkward legs, looking for its prize as its hands were guided by the whimsical whispering of the Wyrd.

  It found it soon — an ornate lockbox, hidden behind a secret compartment of a cabinet.

  “It brings me some relief to see you like this.”

  ‘Armael’ whirled around at the sudden voice, casting rainbow fire from its shimmering claws.

  The magic dissipated in the air before it could hit Lord Draevan, who stood impassively by the doorway. Beside him, one of the twins stood by his side, playing her lute and protecting the man with her magic.

  “T-t-traitor,” the creature spat, voice wet and hissing as its chittering maw struggled to produce words. It pointed a shaking finger at the minstrel. “T-those gifts… are not yours to use as you please!”

  “I have no loyalty to your masters. These gifts are mine alone, and never theirs to grant,” the minstrel hummed. Though her voice was quiet and sweet, her eyes beckoned painful deaths. “You, on the other hand, could not say the same. What a wretched thing they made of you: a human in a Skinchanger’s flesh. Your body is falling apart as we speak.”

  “I h-have been made greater. This form… is t-t-emporary!” the creature shrieked. The effort caused it to double over, retching. Its pudgy stomach expanded before it vomited a pink-glowing fluid all over the carpet. The smell of fresh flowers and rotten flesh filled the room.

  Lord Draevan exhaled tiredly. “You are not Armael. You are a creature who consumed his body and mind before taking his place. A Skinchanger… To think the Duskcrown would dare temper even with Fae blood and flesh. How long ago did you kill my Seneschal and infiltrate my castle? A year? Two?”

  The creature laughed. “Years? I have been in your midsts for decades. I knew you through the old man’s flesh when you returned to take over the House. How fortunate it is that you have not seen him in years, and that you only held fond memories of the Seneschal from your childhood days to remember him by. It was easy enough to play the role once I assimilated Armael’s flesh.”

  Lord Draevan was silent. After a moment, he stepped aside.

  The boy, Eri, limped into the room, supported by his matron.

  The creature shuddered violently.

  “You… YOU! You ruined everything!” it shrieked.

  “You ruined yourself when you allowed your superiors to do this to you,” Eri said, almost sympathetically. “Do you even remember your true name? Or did you have that away as well, to bind the Fae blood to your human flesh?”

  “A paltry trade for power,” it hissed.

  Eri shook his head. “The Fae never trades fairly. The First Race of the Elderkin is not a thing that could be bargained with. You damned yourself more thoroughly than even Demons when you gave the Wyrd your name.”

  “You could never understand me… My ambition guides me to ascension! Humanity is weak. Human strength is weak! I do not need my old flesh; I can take the skin of whoever I want!”

  Eri frowned. A hint of genuine anger appeared in his eyes. “Only a fool would say that. You know nothing of a human’s strength.”

  “You will never hurt anyone again, you sickening thing,” Dulcina said, appearing from behind her father. “We will take you apart and extract every last secret from your head before we burn you alive.”

  “It is over. Put down the box and surrender,” Lord Draevan ordered. “If you cooperate, we might be inclined to show you leniency. Are you not a victim in this? Look at yourself: your masters have betrayed you.”

  “I am an asset to them!” the creature denied.

  “You are dying,” Eri bluntly interjected. “The Wyrd magic that disguises you was also the only thing holding your body together. It’s clear they never meant for you to live once your role was completed. Whatever fae modification they made was never meant to turn you into a half-blood. It just made you a monster.”

  “N-no… No! They will not. I am loyal! I am competent! I did everything right!” it screamed, even as its skin started to wax and peel. “Decades of my life wasted here! I will be rewarded!”

  “It’s over! Your assassination attempt has failed! Surrender!” Draevan commanded.

  “Nothing is over! Not while I have this!” The creature cradled the ornate strongbox in its claws. “The whispers have guided me here. They tell me whatever is in here will save me! I am the Wyrd’s favoured child; they will not abandon me!”

  “Put that box down,” Dulcina warned. She took an urgent step forward, but Elen held her back.

  “You are making a mistake. I really won’t open it,” Eri backed off a little. Lord Draevan did the same.

  The creature laughed hysterically. “I will not die here. I refuse to die here! You think me a fool you have cornered, but the true foolishness lies in you! You are already too late!”

  There was a surge of power. Before anyone could react, a tear in the shadows opened up around behind the unfinished fae creature.

  There was no time to dodge, no room to manoeuvre in that cramped doorway. Draevan’s group were too surprised and too fatigued to act.

  A black arrow flew from the darkness and struck Eri dead in the chest.

  It was a perfect shot; the arrow shaft protruded right over his heart.

  “Sorry, kid. Nothing personal,” Cedric said with a grimace. The assassin grabbed the fae creature right as Lord Draevan unleashed a thunderbolt. The shadows swallowed them whole before the spell even finished.

  An eyeblink later, the two were gone.