Fox lay in bed, fully clad, even his boots on. Slowly, the sunset coloured the ceiling crimson. No pigeons cooed. No larks or robins sang their merry song. Though the wind was still, there was a storm brewing.

Twice Fox shot up from the comfort of the pillows. Twice he stopped. The soft clicks of a maid's heels were of little concern to him. The second pair of feet followed too closely, too risky. He wouldn't want to deal with a tattletale or the ill-timed bloodbath that would follow.

No, he had to wait; play the game on his terms.

The ticking of the clock filled the room, the larger hand jerking forward with each passing minute. God of Patience in the Heavenly Halls. Why was He testing him? 

The Gods had brought him thus far. To attack tonight was his divine right. A few sins for a lifetime of virtues—that was the deal. He would be a great King, a just King, praised and adored. Written about for ages to come; until the end of time, they would hear of the bastard prince who single-handedly snatched his kingdom from the foul, magic-hating hands of Half-Ear Tom.

Fox stared in the mirror, his hair as red as the fire that coursed through his veins. He hadn't felt this powerful since Northmore. This would be easier; he was already inside the castle. One last game of deception, then he would show the Greenlanders his true face.

His jaw locked; he unclenched his teeth. The first rays of moonlight seeped in through the window. Then it came, the rhythmic stomping of iron toe boots, now still but a thud. The steadfast march grew louder and louder. The beginning of his last performance, the grand finale.

Fox opened his mouth and yelled, "Help!" He held his breath as the guard's lance clunked to the floor. "Gods, please, help!"

Unsurprisingly, the Greenlander officer took the bait. Noisily, clinging and jingling, he rushed towards Fox's chamber.

A big, bulky man, clad from top to toe in iron armour, thundered through the door. "What?"

"Close the door—quickly," Fox said.

"What is it?"

Fox pointed at his closet. "There."

The man's breathing sounded heavy through the holes in his helmet. He turned towards the southern wall, revealing a minuscule gap between his helmet and the pauldron. A vulnerable spot right at the neck.

"I don't see anything," he grunted.

"But it's right there."

He darted a look over his shoulder. How Fox wished he could read the bewilderment from the guard's features, unsure whether Fox was a madman or in distress, only to realise too late that he was neither.

Fox rose from the bed, still pointing. "Look at it. Just look."

"There's nothing there."

"It is. Don't you see?" Fox shuffled closer, his lengthening shadow appearing as a slender figure on the wood. "He's coming," he whispered.

"Who?"

"Death."

The guard froze in confusion, not for long but long enough for Fox to grab the lance and tug. The man tightened his grip. "What in the Seven Pits of Hell!"

Fox slammed his hand against the guard's neck, bright flames sizzled and smoked against the iron. The man groaned loudly, losing his balance, which allowed Fox to seize the lance once more.

As the guard lunged forward, Fox whacked the long iron stick wherever he could hit his opponent. Cursed Greenlander weapon; he wished he had his sword instead of this heavy, clumsy abomination.

The man set his hands on the lance and pulled. Fox was no match for the giant, not based on physical strength at least. He would show him the real meaning of his name.

He set his foot between the guard's legs, then let go of the lance. Like an iron turtle about to be toppled over, the man faltered. He didn't fall. Before he could swing the lance, a strand of deep green cloth peeped through the plate protecting his shoulder.

Fox shot another flame; in the bellowing chaos that followed, he snatched the lance free. He dropped the worthless weapon and kicked it back, under the bed.

When he looked up, a powerful force smacked against his cheek. He banged his head against the frame of his bed. He was falling; his ears rang. Goddess of Kindness—why this pain?

Disoriented, he blinked. Where was he? His nails scratched the wood. On the floor.

A wall of iron pounced him, one hundred fifty pounds of fortified muscles blocked all air from his lungs. A gauntlet squeezed his throat shut.

"Mag—" the guard attempted to shout.

Fox struggled one arm free and his hand against the holes in the helmet where the man's mouth was, muffling the noise. Hot, raging air pressed against his palm. A few inched higher, through a thin opening, Fox saw a pair of dark eyes staring at him.

"You won't get away with this, you rat." The guard tightened his grip on Fox's windpipe.

"I... I..." Fox jammed his fingertips into the opening. This old Lieutenant won't stand between him and his throne. He needed to die. Green smoke belched from Fox's hand.

The man's grip loosened as he screamed out in pain. Fox freed his other hand and blocked the breathing vents, suppressing both noise and air.

The giant iron turtle trashed and flailed, trying to roll and attempting to escape Fox's lethal grasp.

Behind him, the clock ticked ten times, twenty, twenty-one. Then all movement ceased. The body fell limp, half onto Fox.

Fox rose.

"I got away," he said, clutching his aching cheek. "I always get away."

Moments later, Fox was strolling through the corridors, clad in the dead man's armour. He had foreseen winning but not the stink that lingered in the helmet, nor the constant rattling of the plates. How anyone could properly see or move was a riddle. No wonder the guard had been easy to kill. The iron was heavy and uncomfortable, and couldn't block all magic either. Foolish Greenlanders—to think they could outsmart magicians.

Up on the spiralling staircase, another guard passed him. "Evening."

"'vening," Fox said, mimicking the giant's deep voice.

"I heard some stumbling in the guest quarters. Was that you?"

Fox spoke the line he had rehearsed, "Yeah, there was a rat — I took care of it."

"So far from the kitchens?" The man sighed. "They're getting more brutal by the day. When I pass by the stables, Master Dicky will say, 'C'istophe', a'e you he'e again? Wanna become a stableboy? I can't take that joke anymore."

Fox grunted. Didn't this guard have other duties than standing here, talking?

"Though I doubt he'll recognise me in this full armour. I swear I can't even tell who you are anymore—voices get distorted so heavily in this thing. Jack? Eli? No, Ricky."

"Jack," Fox blurted out.

"I knew it—always go for the first guess. Are you heading upstairs?"

"Yeah."

"Relieve Bart from his duty. He's been listening to Her Majesty crying since dawn."

"Sure." Luck was on his side.

The other guard seemingly cocked his head. "Is everything alright?"

"I'm exhausted," Fox said the first thing that sprung to mind. He hadn't expected that question.

"Yeah, man, me too. What was the Queen thinking, sending half of the staff home? We need more men inside, not less."

Fox shrugged. His bones clonked against the pauldron plate.

"Well, let me not keep you up. And think of fine maidens when you're up there—shuts out the weeping, eventually." The man guffawed.

Fox didn't laugh; the pitch of a man's laughter was hard to imitate. 

He continued up the stairs, then took the first corridor right. Torches lit up the otherwise already dark corridor. He walked up to the man erected beside one of the doors; he stood so still he resembled a statue.

"You can go," Fox mumbled.

"Who said so?"

"Chris," He assumed the guards called each other by their short name. "You've been standing here far too long."

"It's my duty—I'm not complaining."

"Soon the Captain will. Go." Fox gesticulated.

Fox watched Bart stagger away, his limbs stiff from playing a statue all day. Pathetic. Was this the cream of the army crop, trained for years in patrols, tested physically and mentally? Booksmart and battlesmart.

Fox stood still, waiting once again, examining his surroundings, learning the ebb and flow of life in this part of the palace. He couldn't tell if the Queen was crying or not; his breathing echoed too loudly in his helmet. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. He peered around, examining the well-lit corridor, the paintings and the spaces between the doors. The chambers in the royal quarter must be huge.

Part of him wished he could latch onto King Thomas's dreams, to see and hear what he was thinking in the final moments of his life. He refrained from doing so. Keeping Half-Ear trapped in a magical sleep was already difficult enough, nor would he be able to recharge his magical energy in this iron cage. He needed his strength in case the operation turned into a bloodbath, after all.

A guard passed. He counted his heartbeat until the next person passed by. Five hundred twenty-three. Then five hundred nine, then four hundred and eighty.

He counted to a hundred ninety. The, lance in arm, he entered the King's chamber. 

King Thomas, pale-faced and sickly, a shell of a man lay sluggish beneath satin sheets. The left side of the bed looked like it hadn't been slept in. The Queen, seated in a chair by Half-Ear's side, a thick book on her lap, shot him a glance.

"Lieutenant?" she asked coldly yet surprised. 

Her tear-stained eyes glistened in the flickering candlelight. Through the window, the full moon appeared large in the sky.

"Don't stare like an oaf. State your business," she said fiercely.

"I have a message."

"Well then, give it to me."

Fox placed the lance against the wall, then removed his right gauntlet. The iron glove plummeted to the floor.

"Lieutenant, manners," the Queen scoffed.

If she was insulted now, she would soon be shocked. Pretending to pick up the gauntlet, he turned his back to her.

"Lieutenant, what is the meaning of this?"

Faint blue sparkles shot up from his hand as he forced the stale air in the room together. The bubble of impenetrable air started as a doorstopper and now slowly crept across the ceiling.

Behind him, the Queen's desperation grew with each word. "Lieutenant, what... that's... that's... you're... Guards! Magician! Guards!"

"Shout all your want, Your Majesty. They won't hear you." 

She had leapt up, making herself big, her wide dress a curtain of maroon protecting her husband. "Whoever you are. You won't make it past me."

"I slew a patrol at the foot of the Horseshoe Mountains," Fox took a step closer, fumbling at the left gauntlet. "I killed the General and four Lieutenants in Northmore. I incinerated your Pigeon Master. Now, one of your guards lies dead on a carpet by my bed." Clang. Both his hands were free now. "What makes you think you can stop me, Queen Crystal? It's over."

"Then show yourself before you kill me."

Fox lifted the helmet off his head.

"You..." A look of defeat etched into the lines of her face. "You're the boy... you're Harry."

"Actually, most people call me Fox."

"Fox..." She froze. "Sacred Dragon... you had us all fooled. Tom was right. I shouldn't have fought so hard to get you killed. Perhaps..."

"Ha! You think that would have helped him succeed. It wasn't for the lack of trying. I don't know what he shared with you, but I stopped counting years ago; an attempt on my life was a given, always running from one place to another, never settling anywhere." He glanced up. The sound barrier was holding nicely. "I can't wait to call this place home."

"It never will," she said. "Killing my husband won't make you King. Sebas—"

"Seb is courting a Scorian Princess on the other side of the world. By the time he hears of what I've done, I've redecorated this place. And I have you to thank for it, Your Majesty. Getting rid of half of the staff. People are fleeing the city—they know it's a lost cause. I killed your husband's spirit days ago. He's but a bag of blood of bones. It would be merciful to let him go."

"Never! For as long as he breathes, he's King, and I'm his Queen!"

Seemingly out of nowhere, she drew a sword and charged at Fox. He stepped sideways. The blade scraped against the iron. Awkwardly, she raised the weapon. 

He cupped his hands around her, pushing the weapon away from his face.

"You can't beat me."

She gritted her teeth. "I can try. I'm not afraid to die."

"Nor should you be. I gave your brother my word that no harm would befall you. He's very fond of his little sister. He hopes to settle the differences your marriage has caused."

"Curse Storm to a foreverwinter. I married Tom for Ice's sake."

"And now I kill him for Silvermark."

Fox shot a beam of hot air towards the Queen. She fell backwards against a glass-doored cabinet, head first. Knocked out.

He picked up the sword. The blade was balanced and light, but not very sharp, resembling more a ceremonial piece than an actual weapon. It wouldn't have killed him even if the Queen had the necessary skills.

Dropping the weapon where he stood, he faced King Thomas. 

The desire to peek into his brain was too strong. Fox gave in to his temptation but soon regretted it. Half-Ear's thoughts were a web of whispers and faceless shadows. He was a weakling, thirsty, tired, and afraid. Not worth being toyed with.

Fox broke the link, and instantly a weight lifted off his shoulders. Invigorated, he conjured a bright green flame in his hand.

As Queen Crystal moaned in the background, the King's eyes fluttered open. An empty stare.

"Thank you for your service, Your Majesty," Fox said. He aimed at the man's neck. "Now you can burn forever."

"No!" The Queen was scrambling up. "Stay away from him! Guards! Guards!"

Not wasting any time, Fox released his magic. A small bolt of fire hit Half-Ear in the throat; the flames spread quickly. The muffled gurgling noises followed soon after, black blood bubbling from his lips. He would choke before the lethal flames reached his bloodstream and poisoned his heart.

"You, monster!" Queen Crystal screamed.

Fox turned on his heel, just in time to create a shield of air, blocking the hysterical woman's long nails from scratching his face open.

"Stop it! No!" She threw herself at him. "I'm begging you. It's not worth it. You'll never be King, Fox! Never!"

The shaking stopped and with it the gurgling. Fox clenched his fist, quenching the flame eating away at the Half-Ear's face.

"It's done. The King is dead," he hissed. "Long live the King."

"No! No!" The Queen screeched.

Gods, she was annoying. If he hadn't promised King Storm to keep her alive, he would have sent her to the Seven Hells along with her husband. He glanced down. The iron in her rings had clawed holes in his defence.

The door. Cracks as high as the ceiling slowly popped his bubble.

Male voices shouted. Pounding feet; a stampede of officers gathering forces, unknowing that they were already too late. Iron clang against iron. A series of clicks; blasters were loaded.

He wouldn't take them down here, not where he could be cornered. Besides, this was his castle now. Burning down the royal quarters wouldn't be his first act as ruler. He needed open ground, a place where his fire could rage until the fools kneeled to their new King. He would make them.

Breaking free from the sobbing Queen, he focused on an ornate wooden chair standing forlorn in a corner. He stretched his arm.

The chair flew through the room and slammed against the window. Glass shattered in all directions, slicing through the air. Fox ducked just in time.

He felt the Queen tugging at his boots; he kicked her back.

Broken glass crunched as he sprinted towards the moonlight. He stepped onto the sill, his face away from the window, then jabbed his elbow against a sharp-looking shard sticking out dangerously.

The Queen was crawling towards him, the streams of crimson dripping down her forehead, complimenting her dress. The door swung open.

Fox didn't stay to watch the iron turtles barging in. He jumped. No graceful flutter, but a fall at dazzling speed.

Bang! Bang! 

He twisted at the air, manipulating his descent.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

One bullet whizzed past his head, the second bounced off his armour. Where the third one went, he didn't know. He responded with a veil of fire; then, as his feet touched the ground, a mist of smoke that wasn't as powerful as he had hoped but would have to do.

Finally, as he dashed towards the shelter of the trees, the banging of the blasters ceased.

"Where did he go?" He heard from the open window.

"Where do you think?" sneered a second voice. "Get down, lads. Grab every man you find—don't let him get away!"

"But what if it's a trap?"

"He's one man. What's the worst he can do?"

How dare they still underestimate him?

Imagining himself sitting on the throne, he recharged his magic. Tense, rousing sparks, starting in the tips of his fingers, flowed through his body and reached his toes. He raised one arm, his focus on the earth obeying his will.

The ground rumbled.

A choir of cracking and snapping unearthed the thick, spidery roots of a nearby birch tree. Sweat erupted from every pore as Fox pulled at an invisible rope. The wood groaned, protesting, at first resisting to bow for its new master; then, at last, the tree came crashing down with magnificent glory.

He engulfed the branches in red-hot fire, born from Wrath. The Greenlander officers would kneel, or he would slay them. That would teach them.

He tore down a second tree, a majestic oak tree that landed on the birch. Instantly, the burning timber tainted the fresh leaves.

Bang!

A bullet struck him in the breastplate.

The impact jerked him backwards. As he fingered the region of the dent—not a hole—shadows appeared behind the smoke of the crackling fire. They were here.

Twelve men. No, twice as much. 

Click-clack, bang!

This time, the bullet grazed past him, touching the vambrace.

"Sure, empty your blasters," Fox said. He glanced up, the moonlight revealing the arrowslits in the castle walls. "I can go all night, thanks to this pristine armour your general had forged. But, my dear men, my Queen, why fight? Why risk your lives? I have won. King Thomas is standing in front of the Gods, his soul being weighed. You have a choice, join him... or join me."

"We shall avenge him," shouted a hoarse voice. "For Sebastian, long may he reign!" 

"For Sebastian!" shouted more men.

The clicking of the blasters foreboded a hailstorm of bullets. 

Fox shot up his wall of flames, then sprawled flat on his stomach as the rain of iron soared over him.

"Did we get him?"

"The smoke is too heavy," shouted someone from above.

"He's down! Charge, men, charge! Straight through the fire and the flames! Charge!"

"The Greenlands, unite!"

Fox pushed himself up and shot up into the sky. As by instinct, he wrapped himself in a bubble of air. The air coloured around him, but not for long. As he charged through, the iron burst the barrier. From blessing to curse.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

A jab of pain twisted his finger backwards and popped. Fox cried out, avoiding the other bullets, and shot flames into the arrowslits. He didn't care if they were manned or not. The officers had chosen opposition; they deserved to die.

The ache throbbed, pulsing out wet, dripping liquid. Fueled by renewed rage, Fox flung green beams of fire to wherever he saw movement.

Men yelped as they fell. Unfortunately, the bullets didn't stop.

Suddenly exhausted, Fox landed atop the slanted roof of the highest tower. Blood gushed from the place his left middle finger had been. His hand was numb and tormenting him at the same time.

Down in the garden, the Greenlander officers were mostly looking at each other as the fire spread. The iron would keep the flames at bay for a little while, then they would slowly boil in their armour if the fire didn't get to their skin first.

One of the iron turtles pointed his finger towards the sky, towards Fox. A stream of green light hit the man before he had the chance to shout.

Fox breathed in. Click. Gods, give me a moment to gather my strengths.

He aimed his fire towards the noise, a lower tower with metal glistening through the shaft. 

The bang didn't come. A horn blew in the distance, not the brass blaring of the Greenlander army. No, another tune, lower and more hollow.

He squinted. On the plains marched a large caravan, their banners depicting a silver arrow in a sea of grey. 

Reinforcements. For him.

Recharged by the news, he expanded the wall of fire. Rows of Greenlander officers sunk to their knees, never to rise again.

He got them kneeling after all.