Bright hot flames erupted from his mouth as he roared like a lion in a dragon's body. Let all of Sundale hear his victorious cry. Who had outwitted and overpowered the precious Sundale guards? He had! Who had sent Half-Ear Tom to the Seven Hells? He had! The obsidian throne would become his new chair, the crown his hat. If anyone wished to take them from him, let them come and try!

Fiery, white-hot magic crackled through his veins. He spewed more fire as he basked in glory. This addictive, ecstatic feeling filling every fibre of his being was the perfect reward for the years he had wandered from place to place, always on the run, never finding a home, never bonding with anyone, and always being told what to do. It was like reliving one of those perfect days with Katla, catching rats until sunset, then spending the evening in the Antler, eating pie with Phoenix and Doe before falling asleep in a warm bed and waking up to the smell of bread and bacon. 

No, this was better than anything he had ever experienced. Better than a pat on the back or kind words. Better than a hot summer day. Better than any feast. He had heard tales of men experiencing such euphoria when laying with a woman. If they could sense but a fraction of what he felt, they would never give in to the charms of Lust again.

He felt liberated. No more lies, no more deceit; the cautious games of pretending—it was all over. Nothing and nobody stood in his way anymore. Here, atop the third highest tower of Sunstone Castle, he was invincible.

Unfortunately, the world around him wasn't. He stopped cheering. Down below, the windows of the lower corridor shattered as burning canopies toppled down, burying the stink of death. 

The earth rumbled, and moments later, the lower eastern tower crumbled, along with the remains of the officer he had incinerated.

Wincing, he clenched his bloodied fist. In the corner of his eye, the sea of fire stopped raging through the garden and slowly evaporated, filling the air with grey ash-filled smoke. He stared at the cut where his middle finger had been and bit through the pain. His magic had already scorched and sanitised the wound. The throbbing would be temporary, the tale of his triumph eternal. The Gods could have taken his entire hand in return for winning the war. A finger for a kingdom was nothing; he would do it all again.

The horns of the Silvermark army advancing from the north blared at long but regular intervals. Fox faced the city, his city, enshrouded in smoke. 

He conjured winds to clear the air.

A mistake. There were fires everywhere, and he had just fueled their rage: through collapsed walls surrounding the garden, into the dried-up moat, and across the roof, his flames had contaminated everything in their path. 

A large burning branch hit the main deck of a merchant ship; as if sprinting in a race, the element climbed the mast and devoured the sail. It wasn't the only impacted ship; the entire dock was ablaze.

He leapt towards the riverside and lowered the flames, but it wasn't enough. Whenever he quenched one fire, another flared up. The bridge crossing the River Faith crashed into the water. Those who survived were trapped between a steep shore and the cinders of a burning city.

The stream of people fleeing from the scene turned back to the gate where they collided with another stream running towards it. The same was happening at the gilded gate. Everywhere he looked, there were men and women screaming, children crying. 

Chaos ruled as Greenlander soldiers attempted to gather forces, their formations crushed by lack of proper direction and heedless riders storming through the crowd. Saddleless horses ran rampant across the market square, their carts abandoned. They reared and stumbled over corpses lying face down on the cobblestones.

This hadn't all been his doing, had it?

His gut churned, neither with remorse nor regret. In fact, he couldn't place the emotion. Could it be a twinge of sadness for the lives that were lost? 

No, their death wasn't his doing. He only slew those who happened to cross his path and those who had what he wanted, what he could do better. The people of Sundale didn't have to die; he would show that he was on their side.

In order to help, he had to rid himself of his iron shell. For years, his training had been focused on inflicting as much damage as possible. He needed the full capacity of his magic to begin to restore the city.

After seeking shelter in the shadow of the highest tower, he jerked the vambrace off his right arm, then removed the pauldron. Scratches, dents, and a few holes covered the iron. He touched the sharp edges of the holes, checked the tear on his shirt, then dropped the armour. The plates clattered against the tiles before plunging down into the ashen mist.

He clamped his hand around the left vambrace and tugged. His grip was sweaty and slippery.

There came a groan, and the harsh sound of a crossbow being drawn. Fox glanced up at the cross-pointed arrow protruding from the broken window a good ten feet from him. The bowman wore armour but no helmet. His face was covered in soot, and a mix of sweat and dirt had plastered his braids to his cheeks.

Fox breathed out a sigh. "You've seen what I'm capable of, yet still you point that thing at me. Why? It's over—I've won."

"You're just one man," he said without emotion. "You can be killed."

Fox raised his plate-free arm. "So can you. One well-aimed beam of fire, and, poof, you'll be waiting in line to have your soul weighted."

"I'm not afraid to die."

"Everyone's afraid to die," he said matter-of-the-factly.

"When I joined the army, I swore an oath to give my life in order to protect my King and country."

"Then I have good news for you. Your country belongs to me now."

"Killing His Majesty didn't make you King."

Fox growled. "No, conquering this place did."

"Being a conqueror doesn't make you our ruler. A King cares about the land and its people. All I have seen from you is pure, unbridled rage with the sole aim to kill and destroy. Next thing we know, you'll steal our gold to feed the bottomless pit that is Silvermark."

Fox lowered his arm. "It may not seem like it right now, but my aim is not to rule over ashes and ruins. Nor will today's deaths be in vain. I will repair the damage I caused. And when I'm done, Sundale and the rest of The Greenlands will prosper under my reign."

"And Silvermark?"

"King Storm and I will rule together. He from Moondale, and I here."

"You'll be his puppet."

"No, see it more as a union, a restoration of the bond we shared before Theo and Leo divided the continent in two and erected the twin cities. Together, we can create a Heavenly Hall for all."

The Lieutenant scoffed. "You're not doing a good job. You've reduced this city to one of the seven Pits of Hell."

"Heed the God of Patience!"

"Patience?" he spat.

"Send him a prayer—he'll answer."

"Pray... is that what l should tell my wife, exhausted from shushing our infant son, sick with worry that I, like so many today, will never come home, fretting whether it would be better for her and our three children to stay or escape this inferno?"

"Stay," Fox said. "The inferno is... temporary."

"Until you've fixed what you destroyed, I'll tell my girls to pray, right? Pray to sleep soundly at night, to not relive the nightmares of watching their friends getting trampled in front of their eyes. Pray, girls, but do not fear the man who tricked the nation for a room in the castle, who killed your father's comrades for his own gain and killed the King in his bed before setting Sundale ablaze." The man left a small pause. "Is that your advice, Your Majesty?"

"Yes," Fox said through gritted teeth.

He stared at the man who started right back, his gaze tense. Fox pushed his thumb into the hole where his middle finger had been. Though the Puddingbrain deserved to be incinerated on the spot, he wasn't going to resort to that. He wanted to reason with the man, show him that he was more than a brute who killed to get what he wanted.

The sky darkened with a speed that could only be manipulated with magic of the highest order. In fact, he only knew of one person who could and would wield such powers, but she couldn't be here; she never left Moondale. It had to be a gift from the Gods.

Large drops of rain plunged through the dust and ashes; they quickened to a steady stream. The earth and stones sizzled with relief, and the smoke that formed represented hope instead of destruction.

"Magic," Fox said. He left out that it wasn't his doing. "Even the Gods recognise it's a tool to be wielded for either good or evil. I did what I had to do. As of now, I don't intend to harm anyone anymore. Not the Queen, nor Lady Alana if she ever decides to return to her mother. I wish the people who are fleeing would stop running—there is no need. There will be enough work for everyone, enough housing, enough wealth."

"And Lord Sebastian? He's the rightful heir."

"He's not here, is he?" Fox shrugged. "Call it a fatal flaw in Half-Ear's plan. Sure, my half-brother can gather the armada and attempt to reclaim this city, but, this time, I have the upper hand. If he chooses war and death, I will give it to him, but I won't fight him if he doesn't fight me. He can abdicate his rights, for him and all his offspring for a thousand years, and live out his days in the Suhrian desert with his Scorian wife. I won't hunt him down."

"What makes you think I believe a word you're saying?"

"You're still breathing, aren't you? Neither have you fired that arrow. There is no point. Even if you did shoot me, thinking it would make any difference, you know you have a better chance of returning to your wife and children if you let me live. You would be dust and bones before I fall to my death. And now, as the silver army nears the gate, I'm giving you the opportunity to drop your weapon and walk away."

"Why?"

Fox forced a smile. Finally, he understood why people groaned when he bombarded them with questions. "Because I have what I wanted, and any drop of blood that will be spilt after this is a life wasted. You wish to return home and embrace your family. Do so, and know that if the sons and daughters of this country show an apt for controlling the elements, their lives won't change. I won't tear them from their mother, lock them in chains of iron and toss them in a dark room, nor make a public or private spectacle of their beheading. I've heard enough children crying for the rest of my life. No more—the war ends today, and I won't start again unless provoked. The choice is yours."

The Lieutenant opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but didn't say anything, as if he reconsidered his words at the last moment. There came a clunk and a clang, the unloading of the crossbow, the arrow hitting the ground.

"If there are officers, healers, cooks, and other servants left in the castle, take them with you. The Queen stays," he said sternly. "Leave the castle, you and the others, hands up in the air, weaponless, and stripped off your armour. Spread the word that a new dawn has come, that I strive for peace and wish to cooperate with the Lords of the east, the south, the north, and the west. I will be no usurper. I will be your King."

The man nodded. "And who will look after you?"

"Hal... King Thomas had his staff. I will have mine."

"Very well," he said, his voice laced with uncertainty. "Good luck, Your Majesty."

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

"No, not Lieutenant—not anymore. To you, I am Bart."

Bart. The same guard he had replaced not too long ago; the final step to gain access to the King's chamber. Somehow, it was strangely fitting to meet the same man again. Relieve him of his duties at the end of Half-Ear's reign, and once more at the start of his own. As if the Gods had wanted it to happen so.

Fox beckoned Bart to leave. The former Lieutenant stepped backwards, still facing him; whether out of courtesy or fear—Fox didn't care. Then, the last of his sticky braids disappeared from view.

The rain still patterned against his armour, the noise reminding him to rid himself of his armour. One by one, he flung the part to the ground. Though the top-notch Greenlander metal had saved his life on multiple occasions during the battle, an enormous weight dropped off his shoulders.

Halfway through removing the kneepiece, shouts of turmoil and strife rose up from the city. Expecting the Silvermark army in the city, Fox stepped out of the tower's shadow. Instantly, a hailstorm of arrows sizzled off their bows. Blasters fired.

He dove. Before he hit the hard, slant rooftop, he felt something grazing his left shin. 

Bam! A direct hit smashed into the sole of his right boot, luckily still protected by the iron sabaton, but the pain was still substantial; as though somebody had kicked his foot.

There was no chance he could look at the damages now. Sliding down, he rolled over and imagined a coil of fire. From his hand erupted a beam of fiery light that twisted around the tower.

Inches away from plummeting hundreds of feet down, he swung himself to safety. He was unable to catch a breath yet. Mid-flight, the rope dissolved into a thousand embers. He flinched as he landed on his wounded foot. He lost his balance, and for a few heartbeats, he was sliding again.

His amulet, worthless while he had been encased in armour, grew hot, as he pinned his arms against his sides. The wind that burst from his fingers, propelled him forwards. He grabbed a centuries-old statue of a naked, winged boy, and crawled towards the tower with the fury of Wrath scorned. The urge to retaliate built up, but he snorted the sinful God off his back. 

He was counting on Bart to stop his former comrades; the soldiers of Sundale weren't aware yet that the war was over. Soon, they would see sense and choose peace as well. If he attacked the people on the square, he wouldn't practise what he preached. He was done murdering.

The horn of Silvermark blared, and with it; the attacks stopped. Fox hauled himself up a relatively flat part of the roof where he sat down. The backside of his left greaves had been torn into two; his pants had been cut as well, but there was barely any blood. His right foot worried him more. All of a sudden, his boot felt too tight, so he tried yanking off the sabaton. To no avail; the bullet had gone through the iron and through the thick leather sole.

Fox banged his fist against the lead tiles. The Greenlanders used iron bullets in their blasters; his magic would be useless. The wound began to sting and burn, and as much as he pulled, the round miniature missile wouldn't budge. The continuous pouring rain made it hard to see, as well.

He would have to endure.

Flashes of light lit up the foggy sky; first, blue in colour, then brown, though he spotted hints of red and green too. The Greenlanders responded with an explosion of white. Shots were fired. Swords clashed like distant but looming thunder.

Lying low, his head as close to the roof as possible, Fox crept higher on the roof and peered over the edge.

The whining aches of his cut and bruises faded into the background. With open mouth, he watched the silver army trotting through the gilded gate. Another short-lived skirmish followed; there were too many civilians running in the streets for the scattered forces of the great Sundale legion to do anything but fire warnings and retreat. They were but spasms of the beheaded worm.

A handful of green uniformed men stormed out of the castle, with a dozen of other civilians in their wake. Fox focused on their shouting; they announced the death of the King and declared Sunstone Castle fallen.

"Surrender or die—we stand no chance! The silver army stands at our gate."

No, Bart, they had already breached the gate.

The cavalry of the silver army was sliding through the city like a knife through butter. There were still a few Greenlanders with pudding in their brain, who chose death over capitulation. Any attempt to revolt against the new regime was quickly thwarted; a simple beam of green fire shut up the protestors. Forever.

The rest of the city sank to their knees, dropping any weapon they were still holding, which gave Fox a bitter aftertaste. He had done all the hard work, but they weren't kneeling to him.

He climbed out of his hiding spot, and skidded down on his bottom, sparing his foot. He weaved around the occasional statue, which broke his speed enough to make the drop towards the square.

He landed in front of the main stairs, all weight on his left leg, yet still digging his nails into his skin. If he had grimaced, he wished nobody had seen it. There was little hope, as half the crowd had their eyes on him.

"Sixteen years ago, I was born out of a passionate affair between my mother and the Lord of Laneby. I am Fox, second son of Prince Brandon. Greenlander blood runs in my veins..." A grey banner depicting a silver arrow appeared on the other side of the square. "But it was in Moondale that I finally found acceptance. I am a magician, and I claim this castle, this city, this country, on the basis of my royal heritage, in my name, and that of King Storm, Prince of Ice and ruler of Silvermark. As of today, you bow to me, and my friends." He gesticulated at the approaching riders.

The crowd split as the Silvermarkers neared.

They weren't exactly his friends. Fox recognised a few members from the Mage Council, though their names escaped him. He hadn't attended a council meeting in years. Storm had been clever; there were Scorians, Jade Islanders, and Greenlanders among the magicians. People who had fled their homes years ago, and were finally able to show themselves south of the Horseshoe Mountains without risking their lives.

The rain turned to a drizzle, then stopped altogether. 

The bannermen slowed, and so did the riders behind them. Two by two, they parted ways, one group going east, the other west, as if to create a passage.

A tall black stallion walked towards the castle, carrying a veiled woman. Why she hid her face, Fox couldn't tell. Her colourful robe, part blue and brown, with one red and one white sleeve, betrayed her identity. He should have known; there was only one person in the world who would so openly manipulate the weather: Grandmaster Hawk.

Not wanting anyone to see his reaction, he crossed his arms behind his back where he fidgeted with his fingers. What in the Seven Hells was she doing here? She hardly ever left her musky room, her thick books and scrolls, let alone venture further than the gates of Moondale.

He ground his teeth. This was his territory now. He would welcome her as a guest, but if she came to meddle and expect him to dance to her tunes, he wouldn't hesitate to kick her back across the Horseshoe Mountains. She may be his Grandmaster, but he was King.

King Fox.