Chapter 72

  Now all alone I remain (part 3)

  Quaabiil Boqor Dagaa Lyahan was born amidst war.

  It was not uncommon. Many, in the old Bahaal Geesi, were born in such circumstances. From a young age, Quaabiil was trained for combat, while his older brother Haabiil was trained for command.

  Two brothers, one was the muscle, the other the mind. Together, they were perfect. Together, they were more than two.

  Now, Quaabiil was alone. For the hero of the Battle of the Screaming Ditches, for the first Nevayuu who had wielded the sword of Malazhar, goddess of battle, and fought in the arid lands of Qualisandir, subduing the ghouls and the skinless, the world was a dangerous place.

  He had learned that in their small garden, they had been lucky. The wyrms of the sandlands did not crawl under their feet, and the storm dragons did not unleash their might over their heads.

  The trolls of the triarchy, the Minotaurs of the Wise Kingdom, the golems of the Commonwealth... All this was far from them, for the moment. Known dangers, but from which a certain distance could still be maintained.

  "But for how long?" His brother always wondered. "For how long can we continue to be divided like this? The various tribes of Bahaal Geesi continue to be divided, devoured by stupid feuds and centuries-old grudges, while from one day to the next we risk being invaded and conquered by strangers. We have repelled Qualisandir, but what is a small kingdom in the grand scheme of things? What are we, if not a small player on the bigger chessboard?"

  The obsession was born from need. What Haabiil needed was protection, a safe place for his son and his people. An ideal that Quaabiil could share. An ideal worth fighting, and dying, for.

  'What did we do all this for?'

  Wasn't he supposed to protect? And instead, they had found themselves invading. Because, in a world full of dangers, there were also those who were destined to submit, to suffer. It was the natural law, the only great lesson inscribed in the fabric of existence.

  There were the strong, and there were the weak. That was simple to understand, both for the more analytical Haabiil and for the brute Quaabiil.

  And so, why shouldn't they take what they could? Why shouldn't they expand, taking what was rightfully theirs, by the law of strength?

  "Archnoble Calamandrei is right. We will drive the humans out of their territories. We will use them as slaves to sell to the south, and as delicacies to appease our enemies. We will forge a single, great state composed of all the tribes of Bahaal Geesi, in which every king and queen will be under the authority of a single, great leader. The Negus will pass from a brief elected office to something more."

  'And that something you wanted to be, brother.'

  How had he failed to notice? Had brotherly love clouded his judgment? Or perhaps because, deep down, Quaabiil shared what his older brother was planning.

  Humans were weak. They had always been weak. The perfect prey from which to gain every advantage. It wasn't about malice. They also hunted weaker beings, so why did they expect the opposite from those who could do with them what they wanted?

  Was it hypocrisy that moved their minds?

  'Am I a hypocrite too?'

  Then why...? Why? 'Why can't I kill this man?'

  Quaabiil wondered about the warrior in front of him. So imposing, he could be mistaken for a giant. The wounds Malazhar had left on his chest didn't cause pain, but they widened that grin that made him seem even more like a demon.

  The axe he wielded made the earth tremble with every swing. So black it looked forged in the night itself, even bigger than that opponent who held him back. The white nevayuu had been called invincible for too many years, and at that moment he realized he could taste it for the first time.

  Defeat.

  "Move, man," he grew taller, holding his breath, while the other mocked him with his silence. "We know what you're hiding from us. The weapons of this kingdom's founder. The rainbow dragon hid its treasure here."

  A river of different emotions flowed as Quaabiil relived the last few years. The angel descended from heaven, perhaps to indulge unheard prayers, and the defeat at Gelone. The return home. His brother's growing madness. And that woman who had led him astray, completely white. A saint of the Triarchy, simply devoid of color.

  The albinism of the two brothers had been seen as a sign of a miracle in the old and valiant nevayuu tribe. 'A white lion is a rarity, two are a sign.'

  Now, Quaabiil watched as the whole world became undone in white, pure and immaculate, free of sin. White was his fur, which the companions he loved had called as beautiful as snow. White was the sky, once cloaked in darkness, now clear and free of ugliness. White was the saint, who had made promises and kept them. White was the terror that was slaughtering his companions, his soldiers, while he couldn't even advance against a single opponent. White was the hair of the man who was blocking him.

  White was his brother, or at least he had been in the past. The last time they had seen each other, Quaabiil had considered him nothing more than a memory of what he had been... It was said that those born under the same star also shared a soul. Haabiil had given up his, and so what did that make of Quaabiil's?

  King of Honor, they called him.

  'But honor is dead.'

  The opponent returned to the attack, remaining silent. Indeed, every one of his blows was the way he communicated with the nevayuu.

  A rapid exchange of hits, with Quaabiil first parrying with Farelef's sacred shield, then slashing with the tip of Malazhar; a conversation made of brief moments, a back-and-forth that didn't even leave room for breath.

  'Who are you?'

  'I am Quaabiil.'

  'Your technique is exceptional!'

  'Yours is as well!'

  'I'd like to challenge you again!'

  'I wish I had never met you.'

  'If I die today, I will be satisfied.'

  'If I die today, I will take my regrets with me.'

  They continued like this, in a dance that admitted no brakes, until Quaabiil moved away to catch his breath, apparently without wounds, unlike the other, who let the blood from the superficial blows the nevayuu had managed to inflict gush onto his half-naked chest, heedless of how little by little his body began to color with red, and the white of the hair on his chest took on that crimson shade.

  During his too-long life, Quaabiil had been made familiar with various fighting styles. Having become the champion of Bahaal Geesi, he had clashed with sharpshooters who used the sky to maintain distance before shooting their arrows. Shamans who confused with strange rituals and invoked powers of forgotten natures. Simple fighters who preferred physical strength above everything else.

  In the wars of the Draconic Kingdom, the search had continued. The experts that humans called adventurers had numerous special abilities, all worthy of attention, of being studied: minstrels who used music to instill courage and power, summoners of angelic fleets to thin out the main lines from a distance, enchanters, and illusionists.

  And then, the exceptional individuals called heroes. One of them had just stood before Quaabiil, with his golden, shimmering armor and his cape fluttering in the wind, challenging him to a duel, demanding satisfaction for a wrong the nevayuu couldn't even remember. Had he died? Thrown far away, wounded, in some ditch on the battlefield.

  Then there was that man who had warned him to retreat, to escape. How could one escape when the goal was so close? How could one escape, even when the warning was well-founded?

  When all was lost, you could only continue to believe in yourself.

  A glimpse of wind, the terror unfolding its intense malignancy ever farther away, ever closer.

  Quaabiil closed his eyes for just an instant, and his opponent was on him again, swinging the axe back and forth, preventing him from catching the breath escaping his body. When their weapons met, there was a shock that sent a whirlwind of curses into the air, a dust cloud lifted by their clash engulfing them in a mist of filth.

  The tip of Malazhar's blade bent, disfigured in the wake of that demonic axe's momentum. A shower of sparks blazed across a stretch of road, covering the view with a bright orange gleam. Quaabiil thought back to his nephew. Zewedu would be a wise king, much wiser than they had been.

  That brief glimpse of the future indicated to the nevayuu that everything was closing in on him and, already tasting that peace, he was on the verge of giving up everything and letting the dark embrace take him, finally.

  You could let yourself get lost in despair until you hit rock bottom. Of death, he had no fear. What he feared was what came before.

  What were the last moments, if not the final farewell? The time to take stock and balance what had been accomplished. The boasted feats, the cultivated affections—none of this mattered. The last song of the legend of the white lion was an echo of failure.

  Quaabiil raised his shield. 'Not yet...' Those words carried a deep and different meaning, depending on how they were spoken. 'Not yet…' And the world was full again of reasons; reasons to live, reasons to resist.

  The axe stopped before the collision; the man had blocked his own blow, savoring something indefinable, the taste of which still clung to his blood-soaked mouth.

  "Not yet," he said, pulling back. "Strike me," and he pointed to his heart, as if to have the last word on that duel, a master of his own destiny to the very end.

  Quaabiil hesitated. Why do all that?

  'I disappointed him,' he had disappointed many in his life. Disappointment was a mirror of existence. Making others proud was just an illusion. The more he tried to make his brother proud, the more Haabiil sank into disappointment with him.

  'We are destined to disappoint those we love and to be disappointed by those we love.'

  The white nevayuu certainly did not love that man, and that man certainly did not love the nevayuu in return. So, where did that emotion come from?

  If that man intended to die that way, so be it.

  For Quaabiil, honor was nothing more than an embellishment, a costume to look good in when you could afford it. When your people suffered, the only rule was survival.

  Morality was just what others wanted it to be. Where there was a rule, there was also the best way to break it, just as he would break that man's heart.

  Malazhar struck the path, but did not reach its destination. The man had blocked the metal with his free hand before it could pierce him, heedless of the cuts that such a risky move caused him.

  The blood gushing from his forehead soaked his face. Was he old? It was difficult to distinguish those monkeys, so much alike.

  "I don't know your name."

  A duel demanded an introduction.

  The challenger, scathing, laughed in his face.

  "Now you show interest in me? Until now, your essence was focused elsewhere..."

  It was true. Quaabiil was too caught up in what was happening around him to concentrate on the current fight. He knew that, at that juncture, even the two of them were nothing more than insignificant elements. Whatever monster the humans had summoned to fight on their side, his presence there wouldn't make a difference.

  'Why are we fighting, then?'

  What did that man want from him? If it had simply been a desire to see his enemy crushed, it would have been enough to lead him where the chaos had awakened, letting him be overwhelmed along with the others.

  Again, the man did not answer. His narrowed eyes transmitted the pain he carried.

  When they resumed fighting, their movements became less graceful. Quaabiil went on the defensive, trying to ward off the fury of the axe's sweeps, which had become even blacker. He pressed his legs hard into the ground, trying to maintain his position, exploiting every hesitation to aim for an exposed part.

  A lunge that grazed the shoulder blade, a stealthy slash that hit the chest.

  After a couple of minutes, the opponent was reduced to a sieve. All the superficial wounds, insufficient on their own to cause a serious problem, had accumulated to such an extent as to torment that mass of muscles, as vital fluid gushed from every hollow.

  It should have ended there, with no possibility of reaction.

  "Now we're getting somewhere. Are you having fun?"

  Fun? Fighting was fun. Inflicting the goddess's whim was fun, and yet Quaabiil wasn't enjoying this duel.

  'When did I get lost?'

  In youth, one expected to find the meaning of life in death. A contradiction that unfolded its fierce brutality in a simple axiom: war is life.

  "It's over. You still have time to surrender. Let me pass, let me find the Founder Dragon's treasure, and I will end this battle myself."

  "Do you really think you can beat her with some foolish weapon? If it were that simple, I would have tried ages ago."

  Something strange. The man continued to stand with magnificence, although everything should have suggested the opposite. He projected, if possible, an even fiercer aura of vigor, a pressure that put every muscle of Quaabiil under fearful stress.

  Until now, the nevayuu had only focused on that distant presence, which was suffocating him and, may the Goddess forgive him, terrifying him to the point of shock, forcing the nevayuu to remain conscious by appealing to every remnant of willpower.

  'Is it raining? No, it's sweat wetting my face...'

  His mistake was believing that there was only one monster. In a flash of ecstasy, the nameless warrior was no longer a simple man, but a true demon, arriving from unknown abysses to inflict his torment.

  The umpteenth exchange of blows erupted after a roar; the ferocity of the violence had reached its zenith.

  Quaabiil tried to turn the tide of the clash to his advantage. The open space was ideal for such a large axe, and the range of the attacks increased with the relentless fury of the nameless one. Parrying became more and more exhausting, every rumble of that gigantic weapon a thunder that descended upon the earth.

  Malazhar, as a long sword, followed the same philosophy. The long space of that field favored it, but it had another secret at its disposal...

  'A barbarian... No... A berserker...'

  Rage was the key... All the damage inflicted on the man was fuel for his strength which, despite the wounds, was powered by that inner explosion uncaring of all self-preservation. Until he could manage to break the assault and counterattack with equal intensity, Quaabiil would be forced onto the defensive, trying to keep the pace with steps that became faster and faster, with blows that grew heavier and heavier.

  The man's gaze was completely lost in the battle. His progress in that clash was punctuated by a rhythm heard only by him. Where power surged, technique became cruder. Everything had a price... The initial precision was indeed replaced by an unpleasant surge, but it was not exploited to the fullest. Trading power for skill could prove to be a fatal mistake if the opponent knew how to exploit it.

  The nevayuu played along with that farce and slowly changed the direction of the fight. Fhalazar, the shield, the last relic of his clan, began to bend. The splendid aqua-green craftsmanship saw its luster marred, as if the deep black of the giant axe was trying to consume everything, even the glow that had heartened Quaabiil's soul.

  When the wind howled, it was a sign that something profoundly unnatural and different was pouring out onto the fabric of the world. The change foreshadowed by that distant noise could not be the object of attention, because this time, having reached the boundary of the fortress corners, Quaabiil found himself with his proverbial back against the wall, devoid of the necessary space to retreat.

  The nameless man smiled, or the grin that furrowed his face seemed to express a devilish idea of contentment, as that monstrously large axe was raised with one arm, every muscle of that human behemoth contracting for an effort that was too easy for the size of the weapon: the momentum achieved obscured the sun, and only that demon-man covered the nevayuu's vision.

  He threw Malazhar away, a few steps distant, so that he could hold the shield with both hands, planting his feet on the ground as hard as possible to maintain his position.

  Quaabiil activated Fhalazar's ability, which allowed the shield to widen twice a day, and with it increase its density to the extreme limit, surpassing even adamantite in quality. While one of his last thoughts went to the Goddess, so that she would be his inspiration, and to his family, who still remained alive and close...

  He forced himself to stay eyes open, while the first impact forced him to crouch down...

  'What tremendous strength...' Fhalazar had held up, but the same could not be said for Quaabiil. Everything rumbled, as if a choir of bells had performed in his eardrums and, what was worse, a second blow would soon follow, inducing him to burrow even further into the walls that were pushing him to face that now formless creature.

  "『Guard,『Greater Guard』."

  Activating a martial art, not at full strength, was a gamble. Activating two, at the same time, was asking your body to cross an entire lake of boiling lava, immersing yourself in the vapors of a volcano about to boil over.

  "『Damage Absorption』."

  Using a third one... What could it be called but folly? Damage Absorption converted vital force into protective energy that enveloped the chosen weapon, at the cost of one's stamina and vigor... A gamble: to strip oneself of essence to counteract what would otherwise have been a fatal blow, well aware that, in any case, he would come out weakened.

  The second clash... The impact was even more powerful, and Quaabiil rolled onto the ground, ending up in a corner. Fhalazar had already been chipped, but what was more surprising was that his opponent's weapon continued to shine with that pitch-black luster that made even the darkest shadows pale.

  With no chance to recover, the third assault was about to be unleashed on him.

  Quaabiil dematerialized, transported by the magic of Malazhar. The divine sword returned to his hands, while the nameless man had only empty air as the target for his fury.

  The sacred sword had a gift once a bond was established, and Quaabiil was aware of how to exploit it at the opportune moment. Perhaps a more lucid opponent would have noticed that throwing it away had not been a move dictated by recklessness, but a precise plan, which now fully materialized with the sight of the man's exposed back.

  "『Water Stream』."

  Malazhar's flexibility reached the extreme limit, regaining its harder consistency only when it was about to penetrate the nameless man's defense. Enveloped in a marine blue, the longsword had moved in the confined space, bending in on itself, crawling like a serpent, dazzling the moment it returned to its maximum brilliance, ready to cut the opponent in two.

  Even if he didn't manage to slice him in two, Quaabiil was sure that, still distracted by his senseless wrath, the nameless man would not have time to realize what was happening behind him.

  Or, at least, that's how it should have gone.

  'Even today, I failed...'

  When the metal came into contact with the skin, the sword failed to penetrate the defenses, as the man's arm had intercepted it with a formidable parry, performed without even needing to turn around, simply letting the forearm guard clash with Malazhar.

  What were those guards made of? An unknown material, whose precious energy exuded from the perfect craftsmanship; a work of art made for the battlefield, whose wearer proudly flaunted that masterpiece crafted for war.

  Unfair. This is what the nevayuu thought as, venting all his frustration, he tried in vain to break that unwavering wall.

  'Even if our skill is on the same level, his equipment is in a whole other league...'

  Then, as those thoughts made him falter, Quaabiil heard the sound of a calm and composed voice.

  "A special ability that allows you to transport yourself with your weapon... First-rate defensive and offensive martial arts... Yes, you are exactly what I was looking for..."

  Had the berserk state come to an end? No, that aura of diabolical anger had not been subjugated to the will of calmness. It was simply that the purest form of that uncontrolled outrage was an iron logic of its user.

  "I've fought berserkers in the past. Barbarians who fueled their strength with rage, in exchange for reason. Where did your madness go?" Quaabiil asked, aware that the answer would not align with his hopes.

  The nameless man let out a deep breath, regained his distance, and returned to gripping his mammoth axe with both hands, lifting it with a precise movement. "I abandoned the path of fury a long time ago. Now, I fight with the calm of a warrior in the throes of supreme ecstasy, keeping myself intact. Like the monks, I am a placid lake placed in the service of the Gods."

  The weapon's descent to the ground was heralded by a dull rumble: a simple drop touching a flat surface, producing a subdued noise. But when contact occurred, and the earth beneath them tore into a hundred and one pieces, it was not a simple preamble, an exercise in style.

  'So he's not just a barbarian... This warrior has reached heights never touched before...'

  The nevayuu was permeated with bitterness in understanding how that man would remain nameless; a simple one among many, like Quaabiil himself, in that era where greater beings made even their legendary feats pale in comparison.

  Their mediocrity was even more devastating, now that the world was holding its last breath, while the architect of all evil dispensed his madness just a few steps away, soon erasing even their memory from that conflict, leaving only a brief death as the sole indelible sign of their presence in that place.

  The telluric fractures forced the nevayuu to leap, as high as he could. If the opponent intended to take the fight into the air, he would meet his match. In Bahaal Geesi, more than one tribe specialized in aerial combat, and it was imperative to be able to counter gliding attacks.

  But when Quaabiil brushed the clouds, there was no one to share the now-cleared sky with. Looking around, searching for a possible trap in his falling, the nameless man was late in his arrival, but what was rotating toward him was not mere flesh.

  He only noticed at the last minute that the gigantic axe had been used as a projectile, and that in that position it was impossible to dodge. Without the shield, Quaabiil was forced to suddenly raise Malazhar to prevent the blade from skewering him on the spot, but the pressure was too strong, and he was thrown back along with his sword, which fell a few steps from him, until he landed ungracefully onto a raised area caused by the earthquake.

  The nameless man was already waiting for him. Unarmed, he enveloped him in a tremendous grip, squeezing with such violence that the nevayuu could feel every internal organ being compressed and contorted, while the armor that had protected him until then pressed inward.

  In front, only the empty horizon. To free himself, Quaabiil headbutted backward, feeling the back of his head impact the stranger's nose. The result was to make the grip even tighter.

  The more he continued to headbutt, the more the vise twisted, cutting off his breath. After about ten blows, something finally gave, and that very breath that was now abandoning him returned, with difficulty, to ensure the white lion's ragged respiration.

  They found themselves facing each other, gasping and dirty, with their weapons far away, undecided on how to proceed. Should he try to sprint and retrieve Malazhar, to face an unarmed opponent? Or would it be better to continue in a test of endurance, where only the most resilient body would hold up?

  It was a simple question, for once. But the initiative had already been taken by the man who had lunged at Quaabiil again, giving him little room to react. One of his powerful arms grabbed his face, and with a quick move for his size, he tackled him, sending both of them rolling into the mud and the remains of corpses.

  At that point, it was not just a simple fight, but something more primordial. Heedless of everything else, they punched each other, as if it were nothing more than a vulgar brawl, while they grappled to the point that the white fur became crimson not just with blood, from Quaabiil and the nameless man.

  When the first punch landed, memories blurred into mayhem. Knuckles bouncing off his face clouded the world, and the sight of Quaabiil's parents, in their last moment, became vivid. Before being devoured, their appearance was so peaceful. The blood on his lips mingled with that ancient taste of flesh, that of his father's and mother's limbs, consumed to make him an adult.

  When it was the nevayuu's turn, his arm rising, making a broken movement to reach the nameless man's chin, it was the turn of Zewedu's birth. There was a time when he and his brother had loved the same female, but she had made a choice... A wiser choice. What had Haabiil felt when she died? Now Quaabiil couldn't even focus on her name.

  Another punch, another journey into the past. The woman completely covered in white who promised power to a powerful one too absorbed in his fears, ready to surrender the present for a future he considered uncertain.

  Rivulets of viscera clamoring to rise after another impact. His brother transformed into that... Into that thing, and he unable to free him from his obsession, from his madness.

  'Haabiil, where have you gone?' Where did the inseparable ones go? Why had he written madness as the last word in his story?

  "Human, what is your name?" He managed to utter, in the middle of that turmoil.

  "Tenth Seat... Yours doesn't matter..."

  'Quaabiil, my name is Quaabiil...'

  Did a dead warrior need a name?

  'Quaabiil, my name is Quaabiil...!' That cry remained buried in his heart.

  A final plea, taking the form of resistance. He blocked the barrage of punches before his senses abandoned him forever. His hands intertwined with those of Tenth Seat. Their palms, sweaty from the effort, swollen from fatigue and exhaustion, touched and for once, they were not so different.

  Mirroring one another in their eyes, when they had reached the limit of their bodies, and their souls could only emit a tortured gasp suffocated in the silence that descended upon them, they could have one last conversation.

  'Yield...' they seemed to want to say to each other, with neither one prevailing.

  Quaabiil made a final effort, managing to lift Tenth Seat just enough so that, sitting on that fractured world, both could see into the other's eyes and see what lay behind.

  What the man saw was impossible to know. What Quaabiil saw was, behind the resentment and resistance, masked by hatred and contempt, a glimmer of happiness, a final gasp of amusement.

  Almost as if that encounter was what he had always desired.

  The nevayuu opened his jaws wide and attempted a final assault. The man's exposed skin was vulnerable to his bite. He gritted his teeth as he grazed the flesh, beginning to feel the fibers moving inside.

  Just then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed one last smile. The man began to shine, with one last sign of mockery, uttering what he had been waiting for from the start: "I tricked you."

  Quaabiil's fangs met not skin and muscle, not ligaments and membranes, but only something hard and impenetrable, which chipped his mouth. His teeth did not sink in, but shattered on the metal that had become Tenth Seat's body, crumbling into hundreds of pieces.

  His mouth filled with pain, and the only reason the white lion did not perform a concert of despair was solely because Tenth Seat had already grabbed him by the throat, squeezing him with the clear intent to suffocate him.

  "You demi-humans rely too much on your natural gifts..." Gasping, exhausted from the effort, but satisfied with the result, the man closed both hands around Quaabiil's neck, already savoring the victory. "Your instincts are stronger than any rationality... You weren't the first to try and take advantage of a deliberately exposed part of my body… Will you be the last, I wonder?"

  The darkness began to become constant. Quaabiil, after trying to resist for a few seconds, decided to give up, to stop...

  He had always known... There was no dragon's treasure... There was no way to save his brother and nephew... He had gathered the last survivors of Bahaal Geesi only to lead them to defeat... Their condemnation was sealed when they decided to listen to the white woman... No, even before that, when they chose humans as a stepping stone for their ascent...

  The weak always found a way to prevail over the strong.

  As the last remnants of thought left him, it was as if his brother Haabiil called out to him one last time.

  "Wake up, Quaabiil. Your time has not yet come."

  That call was so vivid, it seemed real.

  "Wake up, brother!"

  The grip had loosened, and light began to shine again on the white lion's eyelids.

  Tenth Seat had left him and stood up to face the new arrival.

  Quaabiil struggled back to his feet, putting his weight on the leg that hurt the least to at least regain a semblance of dignity.

  "Brother?"

  "I have come to your aid, brother."

  For a moment, Haabiil appeared to him as he had always seen him. Shining, with white and immaculate fur. They called him the white lion, but for Quaabiil, there had never been a more beautiful mane than that of his beloved older sibling. The scent of summer was still so fresh and penetrating that he was on the verge of tears.

  "Nevayuu, is this the result of your work?" Tenth Seat tried to remain impassive, standing tall enough to block the sun, which, with its warm rays, was penetrating the clouds. The tone was resolute, the fatigue unknown. The accumulated wounds and the little vitality left were just an illusion. "A pact with the undead? To become an abomination only to still meet defeat?"

  When did noon arrive?

  'Isn't this what I wanted?'

  The man who now had a name had been pierced by numerous magical arrows, the last flicker of life torn from him by the being his brother had become.

  Quaabiil struggled to superimpose the image of Haabiil with the creature that was now smiling at him. That effort was in vain... Because the brother he adored so much was just a forgotten shadow, and the putrefied and corrupted being was something different altogether.

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  'No... That's how you've always been, brother.'

  Haabiil, with the white coat, now Haabiil, with ivory bones. Haabiil, with the quick mind, now Haabiil, whose mind was exposed to the light for all to admire. Haabiil, with the wise gaze, was now Haabiil, whose eyes were doors to the abyss while it was madness flickering in them.

  The undead state took everything away, hiding the ephemeral soul in an inaccessible depth.

  "You should have been dead... You sold us out for power," Quaabiil accused him. When? When had they stopped loving each other?

  His brother amusedly opened the book given to him by the white lady, echoing what was once a crystalline laugh. "I sold myself for you… My people love me. I will guide you all to tomorrow."

  'Of your people, no one remains.'

  Tenth Seat scraped the rivulets of blood running all over his body with one hand. The more he cleaned, the dirtier he became. How was he still standing? Yet his tone was not a whisper, but a true anthem, directed at a sky he believed was listening.

  "Monster, you sold your soul only to end up in hell faster. A relic of a soon-to-be-forgotten past."

  Yet, there were only the two nevayuu listening to him. The human warrior who had previously tried to stop Quaabiil had moved away and was observing them from a safe distance.

  Haabiil recited a second magic formula, and a golden spear was hurled toward the man's heart.

  Before being pierced, Tenth Seat whistled. Having reached the end of his life, his back shone like the most dazzling dawn the white lion had ever admired.

  "Brother, what have you done?"

  That last sound recalled something.

  Quaabiil saw Haabiil for the last time, now monstrous and corrupt, a shadow of the brother he once would have followed to the ends of the earth, before his body was shattered, his essence torn away, and his remains scattered to the wind.

  'We would have made our world great!'

  These were the words he used to repeat to him when youth still flowed within them. Now, Quaabiil thought, he realized that their world had always been great, as long as they could stay together.

  Zewedu, the dear and valiant Zewedu, rushed over from afar. Or perhaps he had been there the whole time. Accompanied by the valiant and loyal Ashiramn, that prince had already become king, despite the circumstances.

  Could the son hate the father?

  'The Goddess graces us with her presence.'

  The signs of the combat still exacted their toll on the nevayuu, who struggled to remain in a posture of dignity, worthy of the death that had appeared.

  Finally, he could put a face to the cataclysm.

  More minute than Quaabiil would have ever expected, that girl wielded the scythe crystallized from the night, lit by the white of her complexity, shining with the sadness that permeated her irises of two different colors.

  She was not Death, nor a goddess. She was nothing.

  Just a human girl—or perhaps an elf, judging by the pointed ears?—who had defeated them.

  "Tenth Seat..." That pale girl approached the man and gently stroked his cheek; the warmth of an embrace. "The strongest man..."

  But the man could never hear those words: his eyes had already closed, never to open again.

  "Samson..."

  Then, after saying her last goodbyes, the girl focused on him. At that point, Quaabiil didn't even have the ability to stand up... When he felt her approaching, he simply took stock of what his life had been. The result was disheartening...

  Zewedu tried to yell something, but even his clamor and pleas remained unheard, as the woman had already decided.

  "Any last words?"

  Quaabiil felt the blade so close to his chest that his heart pounded. The last gift would be an end similar to that of his last opponent. More than he deserved.

  Raising his head, the defeated white lion took one last look at the girl.

  Quaabiil's world had always been enveloped in white. White was the color of his fur, just as white was his brother's. White was the sky, in those final moments. White was the woman who now claimed his life.

  "Protect my nephew... And, if it's not too much, please remember me..."

  His consciousness faded away, just as his last request found an answer.

  "I don't even know who you are..."

  Even his death was colorless.

  After making sure the Tenth Seat was in acceptable condition, despite his cadaverous state, Antilene gave one last warning to the young Zewedu, who was desperately trying to gather what remained of his family.

  His father, that hideous lich-demihuman, had almost completely dissolved, leaving only confusing dust and debris after being obliterated. The half-elf had taken no half-measures; after a full day spent fighting, she felt the fatigue weighing on her psyche, and although her body remained nimble, the realization that she had made that field, teeming with clamor and invocations, a tomb, a ground for vultures, left her somewhat bewildered.

  "Let it go, young prince... Your father rests in peace now. As does your uncle."

  The young prince—or king? or Negus? What was his role now that there was almost no one left to govern?—continued to plunge his hands into the ground, collecting bones that crumbled at the mere touch, managing to grasp only dust now devoid of magic.

  And then, suddenly, the realization: 'I've killed his father.'

  "You got what you wanted, elf. Now leave me to my grief..." His bodyguard placed a hand on his shoulder, vainly trying to make him find consolation where there was none.

  "Only for a short time. I demand that you gather what remains of your people and lead them away from this kingdom as soon as possible." An order that allowed no retort.

  Antilene was on the verge of killing them both, then she understood that throwing the remaining demihumans into chaos, without a guide they could use to their advantage, would be detrimental for the future, and she gave up that intention of mercy.

  'I killed his father. It's natural that he hates me...'

  They called her the slaughterer of kings, but perhaps murderer of progenitors would have been most correct. The former could be counted on her fingers, the latter, however...

  Decem Hougan's voice was deeper that day, and his satisfaction with his daughter's accomplished work made Antilene shudder. It was as if he was watching her, in that hard-won moment of quiet, and expressing his perverse paternal love to the half-elf.

  'All that is in creation is yours, daughter. Heir.'

  Antilene made those whispers cease by imposing self-control, chasing away what left her perplexed, a small desire, that of crying for her own parents.

  Instead, her tears, unshed, only conceived, were for Samson... The Tenth Seat had died as he had lived: with his head held high, his back straight, and his wounds constituting a boast, not shame.

  The strongest man.

  'Stupid,' Antilene thought, stroking his chest, trying to clean what she could. 'If you had called me earlier, I would have rushed to your aid and you wouldn't be in this condition now. But, I guess, fighting at my side wouldn't have been what you wanted…'

  One of the Night Liches had managed to escape, teleporting before Antilene had even finished with their leader... The rest of the undead had fallen easily, but their total number had required more of her than she had anticipated.

  In any case, it would have changed little. If Samson had wanted to fight alongside her, he would have done so from the start, instead of imploring the half-elf to leave him alone. That man gave honorable death more weight than Antilene could even vaguely conceive... For those who had achieved everything, the last moments were the final feat that could be controlled, to which a meaning could be given.

  Was it worth it?

  "They will resurrect him once he's home, don't worry..."

  When Infinite Magic tried to comfort her, Antilene did not know what to say. The woman with the long blue hair maintained her distance, still trembling with terror and reverence, almost as if every word she addressed to her was a supplication whispered in the darkness.

  Floating lazily, the enchantress kept her gaze lowered, avoiding exposing herself more than necessary.

  'After all this, she's still afraid of me...'

  Sighing, Antilene wasted no more time. "Guard his body... Keep him intact..." She noticed that the rest of the Black Scripture had finally caught up with her.

  "Tenth Seat..." Holy Sword was almost about to try and heal him, before a nod from the half-elf made him desist, to avoid wasting mana unnecessarily.

  "When we return home, it will be up to him to decide whether to accept the call again, or to rest..."

  In the Theocracy, you couldn't choose how to live. At least, could you choose how to die?

  Given his long service, Samson would be entitled to a long rest, to enjoy what he had earned after a long life of sacrifice.

  "I can't believe even he was defeated..." Windstride tried to process that information which, despite her seemingly air of nonchalance, disturbed the half-elf in an unusual way. What Antilene read, in lines made of sad expressions and eyes swollen with sadness, was a fractured hope: 'If he had to die, I wanted to be the architect of his defeat.'

  Before those turbid thoughts took her to unexplored places, Antilene returned to the most urgent matter.

  "The remaining undead?"

  "Routed... After you eliminated the Night Liches and most of their chosen guard, it was easy to rout what remained of their forces..."

  Even though the matter was far from resolved, the half-elf allowed herself a consideration of relief.

  "Although one of them managed to escape... The bastard who targeted me... Krunui something..."

  Clementine's anger was understandable, and it was partly Antilene's fault too. "Alone, he's not a problem... For me, at least. Now, however, I want to return to the queen. I promise you'll have your revenge, Windstride."

  The remaining Night Liches had targeted Draudillon, and every passing second put her more and more in danger. Even though she had full confidence in her, Antilene was governed by an impatient desire to make sure she was okay.

  "Yeah, yeah..." The Ninth Seat scoffed. "That's a promise, right?"

  Smiling tiredly at Clementine, the half-elf said the last farewell to her companion. For how long could they continue to pretend?

  "Wait..." Before she could rush towards the fortress, Antilene was stopped by a man, one of the last survivors of the Draconic Kingdom's vanguard. His olive complexion indicated his belonging to the southern regions.

  "Who are you?" She asked.

  The man performed a Theocracy military gesture to identify himself. He was breathless and exhausted, but relatively in good condition. "Gazef Stronoff, captain of a small unit under the Cardinals, deployed in the Draconic Kingdom for the last years. Personal friend of Queen Draudillon Oriculus... You are the new Queen of the Elves, aren't you? We met during the Emperor's ball."

  He was clearly intimidated, yet he tried to remain calm, looking straight into her eyes, without looking away.

  "Do you want to go to her?"

  "I just want to make sure she's okay... That at least she can be saved..." There was something strange about that man. Antilene's judgment cataloged him as the kind of soldier who valued his life only in proportion to his work, to what he managed to keep safe, with self-destructive tendencies that never managed to be defused.

  "Come with me..." Antilene offered him her hand. The man, Gazef, grabbed it hesitantly, scrutinizing her carefully. Even though he remained silent, his was an attempt to focus on her, as if he had met her somewhere else before. "Is something wrong?"

  "Your face... You look like someone I know..."

  "If you remember, you'll let me know."

  Without getting lost in further chatter, the half-elf lifted him without much delicacy and headed toward the apex of Biblo Fortress, covered by a small azure cloud, which prevented a complete overview of the situation. A couple of dashes and jumps, and they were already at their destination point.

  Antilene released her grip on Gazef, who remained stunned by what was happening.

  "What's going on here?"

  The surprise was shared by the half-elf. Obviously, as she had expected, the Liches had cast their darkness over that peak, engulfing the tower in their gloom. But darkness could be dispelled, and light could be born from that narrowness.

  The air, decadent and putrid, was barely breathable. The stench of rot and decomposition permeated everything, a spicy and cursed smell like its masters.

  But, in that alcove of despair, something was shining in a semi-hidden corner. Antilene, squinting and struggling in that darkness, took six steps forward.

  The voices that greeted her were first those of the lords of the night. Hooded and stationed in the shadows they commanded, bringers of disasters who knew nothing but ruin.

  "The half-elf is already here."

  "Our lordship is waiting."

  Then, with the change of view, with that ray of hope coming from afar, their composition acquired the demonic and abyssal features they were proud of: the robes soaked with arcane knowledge fluttered with the ominous wind they invoked.

  Every fear of life found its counterpart in one of those beings: old age which had the forms of a chipped and ruined skeleton, tall and unadorned, a woman that anyone would have desired, because everyone would meet her, one day.

  Faceless decay, a shadow that nested in every conscience, bringing back the remembrance of its rule: what touches the highest heaven will also touch the deepest earth. King of decline and degradation, his darkness shone like the sunset that illuminated everything.

  Gluttony, the vice of non-satiety, a mouth gaping from the neck to the joints, the rest of the body a shapeless mass of illogical geometries, assembled to give that infinite stomach the semblance of coherence, but which could only be fed with the knowledge it craved.

  And with them other creatures just as obscene, just as damned, clamoring to grasp what they had come for: the last descendant of the Gods, and the last descendant of the Dragons.

  Their blasphemous chorus united in a single voice, which had five different nuances, each with its own timbre, its own personality, but which flowed from the same source, the source of the Five Fingers.

  "Today, fragment of the Six, witness my triumph."

  "I won't let you take the queen."

  "Take away? As if we were a thief, like your kind? No, this is not a game. I don't claim something as mine only for my arrogance. Mine is an invitation... An invitation for the one who should be my sister."

  A complicated family, Antilene thought. But perhaps that was the point, every family had its own absurdities.

  "Draudillon Oriculus is not your sister."

  "Anyone who practices ancestral magic is part of my species. The word, in this case, flows thicker than blood."

  It was useless to try to reason with those who had long abandoned reason. Gazef Stronoff, who had remained off to the side next to Antilene, bewildered and unable to do much, except clutch his sword with conviction, tried to make sense of what was happening around him.

  The half-elf did not elaborate on explanations. "If you are loyal to your queen, protect her."

  But before the man could launch an attack, that light which was shining crouched down grew in intensity, revealing those who had taken refuge in its embrace.

  And Antilene saw them, one after the other. Optics, Astrologer, Dale, Aderbaal. Every one of them left unconscious.

  Only one person remained lucid.

  "Get out of my house."

  Draudillon spoke, and the world listened to her command. Even Antilene, in that moment, was almost ready to comply with that request, as if it had been uttered with the words of the law, and the queen's will was supreme over all others.

  From Simurgh, however, the amulet she wore around her neck, a tremor made the half-elf waver, almost an instant lost in the aftermath of the command, as if the world itself was protecting her.

  "Sister..." The Five Fingers spoke with the clacking tongue of gluttony. "Sister..." They spoke with the voice of the lord of decay. "We speak for you..." They spoke with the voice of the oldest whore of every age. "We are here for you."

  And when their voice became one, so the power they sought to unleash unfolded in a single river of magic.

  How things proceeded, Antilene only managed to put it together after the events had already transpired, so fast and unexpected had the events been.

  What struck her, right from the beginning, was Draudillon's reaction.

  "No!" Her categorical expression left no room for further replies. The woman rose up, and her appearance oscillated between various forms, almost as if she were a wheel on which existence was represented on a whole. The innocence of childhood coexisted with the wisdom of old age; a thought of a thousand and more facets painted her mirage, leaving only an indistinct form visible to the eyes. Indistinct and draconic.

  So sure was the queen in her conviction that even the half-elf left her free to protect, in her solitude, what was dear to her. It was, after all, the same rule that applied to Antilene.

  Moved by the call of their mistress, the remaining Night Liches formed a circle and drew on all their power to sculpt reality. The miracle called magic manifested in its most concrete beauty under the aegis of their movements, and the magical formulas they recited were what preceded the manifestation of their desires; the words, flaming, that transmuted into reality, and which gave form and color to their intentions.

  The whirlwind that began to blow, strong and ruthless in a way that only the most terrible hurricanes knew how to be, was, as absurd as it was, gentle... A touch that, in its delicacy, brought comfort and allowed its spirals to reflect a neglected, lost breath.

  "You will stop, now!"

  If the Liches' magic was the future, was what ought to be, Draudillon's drew on a different order of magnitude. Wild, impossible to harness into categories, it was not the consequence of a command, but a simple reality that the queen read with attention and diligence, a student of a subject that only she could call herself an expert in.

  Devoid of imposition, it was something already written. She merely traced the lines on the page, setting in order a nature that was already perfect in itself.

  But the Night Liches did not heed that final warning. Like the night from which they took their name, they continued to cleave their ethos and thought into the darkness. And so, that no longer became a simple clash of magic. There were no fireballs falling on armies, or lightning bolts hurled through the air.

  The plane of that battle shifted to a higher level. It was a struggle of philosophy they debated, arguing their supremacy with their convictions.

  Tier magic, the magic that changed the future. And ancestral magic, which drew its mystery from the past. Almost a clash of antitheses, an infinite speculation that could not be completed until one school managed to prevail over the other, annihilating it not only in practice, but uprooting it, tearing out its foundations.

  Antilene knew... She knew that this was, in reality, a simple representation, on a smaller scale, of what had already happened five hundred years ago.

  'History repeats itself.'

  The Eight Greed Kings had already proven the supremacy of the new over the old. Draudillon's was the last desperate cry of a dying culture, unable to put a definitive end to its existence.

  Antilene could have ended it there, destroying the Night Liches while they were busy in that struggle with no certain outcome. While their magic hurled itself against the queen's barrier, causing vacuums and folds in the fabric of reality, the half-elf could have put an end to that madness in the time it took to close her eyes.

  She did not. What she did, instead, was to grab poor Stronoff, who couldn't stand up, and the other members of Draudillon's group, who remained firm in her conviction.

  For a brief instant, their eyes met, and they communicated what both women were reflecting on. Draudillon wanted to be Antilene, capable of protecting with her own might alone. Antilene wanted to be Draudillon, to rely on others to move forward.

  They merged into one another, until the half-elf, unconsciously, severed that bond established on an incomprehensible trust.

  Perhaps, from the beginning, all that was wanted was just that: mutual understanding, something that could be called more than simple knowledge.

  'These are the consequences of my actions.'

  Antilene's sins poured onto Draudillon; the latter, now reassured in the knowledge that the others were safe, could launch her offensive with no more weights holding her back.

  "Move!"

  Raising her arm, that sea of souls passing through her cried out in agony, seized by spasms and gasps of despair. How many of them had been devoured? How many stories, how many hopes and dreams had been erased from the pages, just to prolong their legends? Antilene had made all this possible. If the Dragon could give its command, it was certainly not because its magic was intrinsically better.

  'What Draudillon reaps is what I sowed.'

  It was only the sacrifice offered that was greater.

  The Liches represented centuries of arcane knowledge, life and non-life dedicated to their art. Draudillon did not have all that time, and so she had in turn consumed that of the victims the half-elf had procured for her. Decades accumulated upon decades. And what were centuries, compared to millennia?

  Draudillon's face was a mask of a hundred fragments: each of them an expression of beings that would no longer be there, enkindling in effulgent radiance. The last crying laments ran down the woman's cheeks, now flesh of man, now flesh of zoastia, of nevayuu, of creature, now simple essence.

  The darkness was thrown away, into the distance. As if history had been rewritten, the Night Liches were hurled into the far away land, toward a barely visible horizon.

  Their danger had not ceased.

  From the plain to which they had been banished, new masses of undead awoke, and the horrors and unholy experiments of Bahaal Geesi gathered at the desperate, hate-filled cry emanating from their masters.

  A tide of bones and flesh, rising like a tsunami of obscenity: chimeras assembled from the liches' mad research, sunk to the depths of the most brazen depravity, demiurges of an unnatural genesis, attempting to unite what the Gods had infused with breath with what they had discarded.

  That dark army approached, ready to overwhelm the fortress, heralded by the deafening sound of their blasphemous canticles. Antilene made to move, alone.

  Not alone.

  Draudillon stopped her before she could descend to the battlefield again, sensing the half-elf's intent in the mere shifting of the dense, heavy air.

  "This is up to me..."

  Antilene did not contradict the queen, who pointed her arms toward what was approaching. For once, the guardian was the one being protected.

  'Do I also appear like that, when seen from behind?'

  Draudillon traced signs with her hands, almost as if she were dancing in her floating, in ecstasy for a song that only she could hear. The light that enveloped her, blinding, also painted her figure as lonely in the asunder sky...

  "Bichtav."

  Antilene remembered something Rufus had told her about a long time ago. About the strongest Dragon, the Platinum Dragon Lord, and its most powerful spell.

  The ultimate attack that dispersed all evil, the signature move of the Son of the Dragon Emperor.

  The roar that captured the environment in its clamor was the first step of that enchantment. Then, like a leaf falling from a tree to announce the arrival of autumn, it descended from the clouds of paradise, staining the virgin earth with its immaculate white.

  So gentle was the initial act that the brutality of the second phase had already replaced its memory in the half-elf's mind. Dust and remains lifted along with the screams of the undead, consumed by that dazzling dawn that shook the lands, that shook everything, in a column of radiant light, heralding dusk.

  The shockwaves that followed exploded into fiery eruptions, rattling the land into colorful flames outlining crystals of purity, reminiscent of the purest snow, tantamount to a dying sun.

  A captivating spectacle, so excessive and continuous that Antilene remained still, staring at its consequences in a mystical trance, lost in that explosion beset by a woman's love for her people, far beyond what was logical, far beyond the pale.

  'Not even I would be capable of such miracles.' The pendant around her neck reacted to that display of omnipotence, lulled by the morbid shrieks of those under the yoke of that unleashed fury. 'Today, Fouche is not the protagonist.'

  The awareness of having been surpassed crept into her mind and, to her great satisfaction, despite the note of bitterness that tickled her throat, there was something more intense that soothed her.

  A long-awaited relief in seeing the last remnants of magic, the scorching particles of power scattering into flakes all different from each other, in a play of light and shadow with the last remains of the Night Liches and their followers.

  When everything ended, the lands knew a peace that had been torn from them for a long time. The passage of the undead had been completely erased, with the expectation that it would never be repeated.

  "You did good."

  Antilene caught Draudillon before she could collapse onto the ground, now completely devoid of all energy. The queen kept her eyes closed, and was so serene that her sleep could be described as undisturbed.

  Finally, a penetrating, not at all unpleasant, silence gently descended all around the two of them.

  Some hours passed before everything could start flowing back to normality.

  All the frightened survivors were gathered in an open area. A few dozen scattered, wounded and confused, but still alive. More than many could ask for.

  "Right, take the body of the Strongest Human to the Theocracy... Raymond will arrange the resurrection ritual..."

  Antilene had gathered the Black Scripture in a room on the western side, away from the rest of the crowd. Aderbaal had already informed the nearby cities of the triumph, and soon healers, relatives, storytellers, and simple onlookers would flock to say, on that memorable day, 'I was there.'

  "You're not coming with us, Lady Fouche?" Asked Rinaldo... The paladin was the most shaken of them all. After they had placed Samson's body with the utmost care in a small coffin to preserve it, he hadn't left his side for a moment.

  There was something to consider in the fact that they always carried the necessary equipment to preserve a corpse, aware that Surshana always walked by their side, but Antilene didn't get lost in useless digressions.

  The Tenth Seat looked so peaceful and undisturbed, confined in that personal tomb, that he gave the impression of being about to wake up at any moment.

  "I'll join you in a few days. I want to make sure there are no complications, at least in the short term."

  "The prince of Bahaal Geesi is gathering the few remnants of the various tribes and seems ready to retreat," explained Astrologer, her gaze fixed on an indefinite horizon. "The demihumans will keep their promises; they also saw what happened here today."

  Antilene didn't fear Zewedu and his people. They would learn to fear the Dragon Queen after that demonstration. But that fear, perhaps not today, perhaps not tomorrow, could be forgotten. When and if that happened, would the half-elf still be there?

  "Better safe than sorry. Don't mind my apprehension..." The truth was that a grave sense of guilt afflicted her. Not only did the avoidable death of the Tenth Seat fall entirely on her hands, but Draudillon had also fallen into a deep sleep, solely because of her plan.

  As a strategist, she had failed on all fronts. That imperfection, which made her feel more human, heartened and discouraged her at the same time, in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

  "Humpf, no need to worry..." Windstride, as was her custom, spoke with the mouth of truth. "We'll see each other again soon, so you can settle your debt."

  Antilene smiled cautiously at her, precisely to make it clear that there would be no misunderstandings between them. "Then, see you soon..."

  "Take care, Lady Fouche..." Infinite Magic was the first to bow, before the others followed. When she activated the teleportation spell, it was as if no one had ever been with them.

  Antilene remained staring into the void in front of her before stretching her muscles: she also needed rest, just to finally close her eyelids and grant herself a few moments of respite. First, however, she wanted to take one last round to ensure that everything was proceeding smoothly.

  Outside her door, stood the Gazef Stronoff she had met earlier, rigid as a statue.

  "The queen is fine; she just needs rest. Not many healers are left, but I have arranged for all the clerics and priests in my unit to be at her complete disposal... We are working to recover every fallen person, so that at least the families have something to bury, one last rite to officiate..."

  "Stronoff, I am neither your queen nor your commander. You don't have to answer to me for anything. You are an envoy of the Theocracy and temporarily under the jurisdiction of the Draconic Kingdom. I am a simple foreigner. For now, let's just call each other companions."

  "Ah, my apologies."

  It was easy to understand. To make sense of the jumble of disorder and confusion that was going through him, the man was harnessing his disorientation in a circle made of orders and hierarchies to follow.

  "It's alright. Let's just try not to get trapped in our roles..."

  Walking together through those corridors left them both feeling disoriented.

  "I'll keep that in mind."

  Stronoff was staring intently at her, even though he tried not to show it. Noticing it, Antilene didn't know what to make of the matter.

  "Why are you staring at me?"

  The half-elf had known various kinds of gazes: those filled with fear, naturally. Those full of curiosity, inspecting her like something to be studied. Admiration, which was felt for those placed on a higher plane. Hatred, envy... Those were never lacking.

  Gazef, however, was completely different. His genuineness was transparent, and it was impossible to think there was anything beyond the frankness and embarrassment in that big, strong man, yet so polite.

  "My apologies... Your face reminds me of a friend I haven't seen in a long time."

  "An elf?"

  "Yes, a preceptor I met in the south. He was the one who pushed me to seek another path. Ah, I don't want to annoy you with stories from another time."

  "That would be hard, don't worry. If I've guessed correctly, I think you'll meet him again sooner than you imagine." Antilene's stomach rumbled, right in that fateful moment, from hunger. She hadn't actually eaten anything since the whole war was settled. "Now I'm the one who has to apologize... How tactless."

  Gazef barely suppressed a laugh, in a clumsy attempt not to make her feel uncomfortable. "No, on the contrary, it's comforting. You are also human, after all."

  "I am not the monster many paint me to be," the half-elf retorted, heading towards one of the fortress kitchens.

  "No one is," Stronoff said.

  "Yes, sometimes we are worse." Antilene entered, searching for a piece of cheese or toasted bread. Even fruit would be fine.

  "Stronoff!" Sitting at a table intently swallowing bunches of grapes, another man with frizzy blue hair recognized Gazef as soon as he crossed the threshold.

  "Unglaus... Are you still here?"

  The man, Unglaus, had a curved sword that Antilene identified as a particularly esteemed heirloom in the Theocracy, which he clutched with his free hand, heedless of any good table etiquette.

  "I have nowhere else to go. Fighting all day makes you hungry... Wait a minute... She... Is the Elf Queen!"

  "Brain, be discreet."

  Such advice was fated to remain unheard. The man rushed over to Antilene while she was busy ransacking the sparsely stocked pantries in search of anything.

  "I admired you fighting out there. I have never laid eyes on such a marvelous scene. The most worthy compliments would not do justice to your art."

  He launched into a long panegyric about the elegance of her form and posture, the effeminate nature of her blows, and the way of the sword. Antilene immediately sized him up, being well accustomed to those of his race.

  'A combat maniac...'

  "That's... um... an honor...?"

  Far from being at ease, and while trying to pass an apple into her hand, the half-elf felt awkward being overwhelmed by that cascade of admiration and compliments.

  "That's enough, Unglaus... Our friend needs rest."

  Stronoff pushed his friend away before his excitement could flood the whole room. The swordsman, not at all annoyed, began to apologize.

  "I'd love to have a practice duel with you, just to gauge the difference."

  It was the first time someone had asked Antilene to be beaten up. Amused, and also a little weirded out by that particular request, she didn't know what to do.

  "Yes, sure... If the opportunity arises..."

  'What am I even saying?'

  "It's a promise then... I can't believe it." Brain was overcome with that contentment that only children could express. It was almost as if Antilene had given him the toy he had faithfully observed in a shop window for months.

  "Now let's go, Unglaus. We have work to do, and we can't afford to disturb Lady Fouche any longer."

  "You always know how to kill the fun, Stronoff."

  Yet, from the way they addressed each other, those two shared a camaraderie that was difficult to explain. It was the kind of friendship that only took root when you placed your life in the other's hands.

  "It was a pleasure," they said in unison before taking their leave.

  "You too."

  Antilene watched them walk away, unable to name that pang that gripped her heart.

  At the queen's bedside, the atmosphere was as relaxed as Draudillon herself. Her slow breathing, loud but uncomplicated, cheered the two who were keeping watch over her. Antilene held one of her hands tightly, anxiously waiting for her to wake up.

  'I'm the one who reduced her to this state,' the half-elf repeated to herself, listening to the regular beat of her pulse.

  "It's my fault," the other person said, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his expression twisted into a grimace of self-disgust. "If I had done my duty, if I had been able to repel the undead, Her Majesty Oriculus wouldn't have been forced to use that cursed power. And now she pays the price for my incompetence."

  Antilene looked up to meet the man's crimson mop of hair covering his face, concealed from all who might admire it by the immense shame he felt. Optics, who mocked others less than he mocked himself, had cast away his indifference, only to be devoured by remorse.

  "No... Everything went according to my plans. If you're looking for someone to blame, take it out on me." Now the bards would have something to sing about the queen who had revolutionized the world, and her sacrifice to protect her people. In a way, she had been made immortal.

  'How much time do you have left? Thirty, forty years?'

  Antilene returned to observing Draudillon, now almost completely devoid of any residual magical energy. The enchantment that altered her features had vanished, and that wrinkled woman was more authentic and lovely than she had ever been before, graceful in her candid authenticity.

  Optics must have shared that feeling, because he approached her and lingered in the air as if to caress her forehead, before regretting it and avoiding any contact. Even his eyes, on the verge of tears, were red.

  "While Cerabrate was defending this kingdom, I was thinking about getting rich."

  "You were thinking about protecting those who had been forgotten."

  "It wasn't enough."

  "When is it ever?"

  A small reaction. Draudillon's palm squeezed Antilene's, barely noticeably. She was listening to them, as she was waking up.

  "Cerabrate is in one of the adjacent rooms, still not recovered from his wounds. It would be so simple..."

  Now there was something well-defined in the anger that shone through Optics's words. The worker was looking for someone to blame, and in his heart, he had already become the judge and executioner of the culprit.

  Revenge, which was a dish best served cold, had been spiced with years of resentment. That icy breath still stung the half-elf's throat, and she felt compelled to warn the man.

  "I have no idea what your history with the adventurer is, but don't think..."

  "Will you stop me?" He interrupted her before she could finish the sentence.

  The restless frenzy of his youth was the only reason the half-elf forgave that rudeness. "That is not my intention. I, for one, know how satisfying revenge is. If you want to kill a man because you believe it is right, I certainly won't stop you."

  "But...?"

  He immediately grasped that there was more to it. Logical, otherwise the conversation wouldn't have happened in the first place.

  "But don't think that indulgence is absolution. Seek revenge if you want to right a wrong, be it presumed or truthful, after all each of us has our own moral code we want to fulfill. However, you should be warned: this will not erase faults you never had in the first place. The forgiveness you seek is not found in an act that comes from the outside, but only from your own soul. If we want to be saved, we must first give ourselves this chance."

  "Did the same hold true for you?"

  Draudillon's grip tightened.

  "Perhaps... When I killed the bastard, I had never felt such happiness like that before. I would repeat that killing dozens of hundreds of times, and in my dreams he dies again and again. But he... But they, continue to torment me. I can kill any man, but not even I can eliminate memories. From this point of view, they both defeated me."

  In saying it aloud, there was a kind of acceptance that crept into her, bringing Antilene to a different realization.

  Before she could reply, a faint voice murmured a small thought, close to their conversation.

  "Cerabrate was a hero."

  Queen Draudillon slowly opened her eyelids, gradually regaining consciousness. Coughing and gasping, she managed to sit up enough to leave her state of repose, although her complexion was still haggard and her breathing labored.

  "How do you feel?" Antilene asked her.

  "Like I've been pierced from head to toe with a thousand needles. There's no part of me that isn't contorted in pain. My mind is still clouded, and my vision can't focus clearly. Other than that, I'm fine..."

  The half-elf placed a hand on her forehead to check her temperature. Upon initial contact, although a bit warm, there wasn't much to worry about.

  "You were magnificent," she complimented her.

  "I never would have succeeded without you. In fact, I don't think I'll be able to succeed again without you. If they try to threaten my home again..." She moved a lock of her auburn hair, if only to bolster her courage.

  "It won't happen, I promise you. The bards will sing of the dragon until the end of time."

  "In stories, dragons are challenged by heroes."

  'I know,' Antilene wondered what Rufus would have said. 'Your mistakes are dictated by trust and generosity. That's why they are so insidious.' The master would have reprimanded her for her haste. Or rather, for something else that had driven her to act that way.

  "I thought I would make you like me..."

  Perhaps Antilene had seen clay to be molded in that frightened woman, just as Rufus had seen something when she had appeared, a centenarian child in the presence of an immortal being.

  'Didn't you tell me this, master? We try to mold others in our own image, even if they are already like us.'

  And what was left of the queen after the half-elf's passage? Difficult to establish with certainty.

  "Invincible?"

  No, Antilene wasn't invincible, even if Draudillon believed her to be. On that point, they had both been the same from the beginning.

  "A guardian... A monster..."

  But the truth was, she wanted to make her something much simpler: a friend. And in this, she had failed.

  Draudillon smiled tenderly at her, as if she had guessed her thoughts. Then, a great absurdity, she was the one to console Antilene, stroking her cheeks. "No, you wanted to make me like you. Someone who protects, even if they do it alone."

  Antilene took her hand and squeezed it tightly, in that comforting gesture. Now she could understand why she was so fond of her. The sweetness of Draudillon's face was a mirror into the past: and there the half-elf saw once again the love of dear Nazaire.

  Maybe body and soul were consumed, but the love that was transmitted never truly ceased; the more intense it was, the more it found new forms, and new hosts to interpret it.

  "I don't mean to disturb you, Your Majesty, but you should rest. Both of you."

  Draudillon paid no mind to the worker's advice. "I need to hear how my people are doing. How many survivors there are. How the reconstruction efforts are proceeding." For such personalities, there was no better medicine than immersing themselves in work.

  "Your people are well... After the moments of mourning, there will be moments of joy. News of the definitive victory will soon spread to every city, and feasts and celebrations will be held throughout the kingdom. Be serene; after years of worries and sleepless nights, you can finally enjoy a minimum of longed-for relaxation."

  Optics spoke with the authority of someone who knew no compromise. Draudillon, who initially scoffed and tried to protest her invalid condition, allowed herself to be easily convinced when the worker brought her a morning snack with a glass of wine, despite the early hour.

  "I used to drink to drown my problems in alcohol. Now, I do it to celebrate. And, tell me Optics, what nice things will there be for us who remain in this chilly fortress?"

  "General Aderbaal mentioned some festivities to give the survivors a chance to relax. After recent events, it's completely natural."

  "Yes... I suppose so... Remind me to thank Aderbaal. Is there anything else?"

  Optics massaged his chin, trying to remember. "That famous bard, who had disappeared from circulation, will also cheer us with her song tonight."

  "The Queen of Plots?"

  Draudillon, visibly excited, let out a squeal of happiness.

  "Yes, her. Apparently, she was in the vicinity. And wished to sing for you, your majesty."

  Antilene, the only one unaware of what they were talking about, couldn't contain her curiosity. "Is she some sort of famous bard?" When she thought of such art, nothing could be compared to the performances of Divine Chant. But, considering everything, it had been a long time since she had allowed herself a moment of leisure.

  "Yes, her songs are exceptional, but it's not just that," the queen explained, ecstatic. "The last time I listened to her, it was like taking a dive into the past. Oh, you'll understand once you see her perform."

  'There's nothing in my past I want to relive.' To not spoil that merry mood, Antilene smiled faintly, pretending to share Draudillon's excitement. "Then, when will we have the honor of hearing from her?"

  "There will be a first performance tonight," Optics said. "I don't know anything else."

  "That will be fine. Lady Fouche, I hope that the Draconic Kingdom for the first time gives you something that allows you to keep a beautiful memory of us."

  "I am sure it will be so."

  It was getting late, and Antilene was walking on the walls of Biblo fortress. Below her, there wasn't the euphoria one might expect after a great victory. Many had lost much, and the pain of the losses and the inflicted traumas wouldn't simply disappear.

  However, there was a desire to start over, to let the wounds scar. Friends gathered in the streets, without giving in to excesses or revelry. They shared a beer, or a story of how they managed to survive. They remembered those who didn't make it. They shared their deeds with the bards, who would rework and recount them in every corner, every tavern.

  They warmed themselves around a fireplace, to escape the night's chill. Those who had a family that had already reached them got lost in the hugs and tears of those who made it. Others made arrangements with priests for funeral services, exorcising death and passing in the way they deemed most appropriate.

  There was a pleasant, calm, and tranquil festive atmosphere, which foreshadowed a future based on cooperation.

  'Or maybe I'm just incurably optimistic tonight...'

  Antilene's battle wasn't over yet. Far from it. With the moon as her only company on that starry night, the half-elf was already looking forward to a legendary sleep before setting out again.

  She would return to Evasha first, to finally give up the crown she had never desired. She had been an absent queen, and her siblings would govern the forest better than she ever could. Then, she would stay a few days in the Theocracy, share the latest happenings with Rufus, and prepare for her expedition to the floating city.

  'The capital of the Eight...' Her grandfather had helped found it. What would she find within?

  Already fantasizing about wonders and horrors, the moonlight illuminating her face, she soon realized she wasn't alone.

  "It's a magnificent evening, isn't it?"

  Every one of Antilene's senses went haywire, causing the half-elf to move her hand towards her infinite pouch to quickly draw Charon's Guidance. Yet, the person in front of her was a simple human, so ordinary-looking that she could be mistaken for a simple background element, invisible.

  The only significant thing she carried was a small, out-of-tune mandolin, worn out by time.

  "Who are you?"

  "Oh, can you recognize me now?" Before, she had blonde hair, now inevitably turned black and long. Her scarlet eyes reflected various colors in their irises, almost as if she had several rainbows flowing through them.

  "You, are you that bard Draudillon was talking about earlier?"

  "Am I only that? Look closely at me."

  Antilene forced herself to do so, and the more she did, the more her heart skipped a beat. "You... You can't be her... You can't be my mother."

  Faine did something she had never done towards her, and smiled. Precisely because of this, she couldn't be her mother, but only a grotesque image, generated by an illusion or transformation spell. In other circumstances, Antilene would have punished that disrespect with the only method she knew.

  There was something preventing her from doing so, however. The realization that any wrong move could lead to her defeat, as the creature in front of her was something incredible.

  Her equal.

  "No, you're right. I'm not your mother. I'm just what you want to see. Nothing more..."

  Her enigma wasn't unravelling, becoming increasingly intricate as the time passed. Antilene wondered if she had been catapulted into an illusion, or if someone was playing with her mind. But she perceived no mental attack, nor did the world around her show signs of upheaval.

  Yet, that creature kept disfiguring and changing. After being Faine, it became a man with a long, gray beard, the perfect, stereotypical image of the sage. His robe was woven with a thousand different shades, each fluctuating on the fabric, in motion.

  "What do you want from me?" A direct question, straight to the point of the matter.

  "I desire nothing from you, except to converse," its voice mutated with the change of its form. It was the voice of a man, and the voice of a woman. It was the voice of a beast, and the voice of mankind. It was deep, melodious. Guttural, acidic. Full of remorse. Full of curiosity. Insatiable. Imperceptible. And, above all, it was the voice of Draudillon Oriculus, marked by fatigue and time. "I just wanted to thank the one who saved my great-granddaughter."

  Beta readers: HackSlashBash, Whostolemytea?, PervySageChuck

  Samson's character sheet

  Hello, Sib here.

  Just a few words.

  First, this chapter concludes the Draconic Kingdom arc and the second act of this story, I hope you appreciated it.

  What is next? The final act and the end of Overlord of the New World. It leaves me astonished to think we have reached this point. I want to thank everyone who gave this story a read, talked about it with friends or shared it.

  The story will go on a short break. I need some time to finish the third act's planning, work on some characters that will appear and the lore I'm planning for the flying city and the 8 Greed Kings. And, well, I just need a short pause.

  My intention is to start again once the new year comes, but it's not impossible I will get everything done even earlier.

  In the meanwhile, I don't plan to stop writing. There will be short side-stories published every now and then, to better delve into parts of the new world left behind for the 'economy' of this story (Philipp's ballad? Calca and the Custodio's sisters adventure at court? More on the Draconic Kingdom and the beastmen? Things like that). Recently I've also written some fanfics for the Makeine fandom: if you like romcom and my writing, you could give it a try, I guess? Of course the style and tone is to the opposite end of the spectrum compared to Overlord's. If you're curious, just check my AO3 account.

  Thank you for everything, and see you next time!