The dusty roads of summer led him through the broadleaved forests, over hills and valleys to a lake where he tended to his wounds, washed blood off his clothes, and cleaned his sword. 

Refreshed and the heat of the high afternoon sun drying him, he trotted on to the hamlet of Old Pete's Soul before entering the relative shelter of the Great Thorn Wood, where he halted for the night.

While the mare feasted on wild rye leaves, Fox laid down on his saddle blanket and forced some hardtack down his throat. Now that the thrill of the kill was long over, his ribs were throbbing and stinging.

Above him, the moon was playing hide-and-seek with quick-travelling high clouds. A shiver ran down his back, and he groaned. Despite a warm breeze rustling through the trees, there was little comfort on the root-filled, cold ground.

He muttered a curse under his breath. He shouldn't have been here. Storm had provided enough gold to stay in an inn during the nights between the Horseshoe Mountains and Sundale. A single unfortunate cut, and now there were miles between him and a pouch full of coins, buried beneath the same boulder that had crushed the patrol.

Moping about it wouldn't bring him any further. He would have to endure. Let the land feed him, bathe him, and lull him to sleep. What were a few days of living as a vagabond if he could spend the rest of his life as King?

After a painful shift to his side, Fox closed his eyes and waited for sleep to take him and heal his wounds. What he would do for Katla appearing in his dreams, patting him on the shoulder or squeezing his neck. That content look in his brown eyes as the words "You did well, son," came out with that lispy accent of his.

Because he had done well. Eight against one.

He had been magnificent.

Neither dream nor sleep came. Mice and other rodents of the night scurried between the plants, squeaking as an owl hooted and flapped its wings. The hunt was on.

Screams echoed through the forest. Bones cracked. Lives were taken under a now blood-red moon.

Yet the owl was no sinner; animals killed because nature demanded survival. Him slaying the patrol had been even more righteous: a virtuous ending justified any act of Sin.

He drifted off until a cramp in his back shook him awake.

Unaware of how much time had passed, but tired of lying still and aching nonetheless, Fox stumbled up and limped towards the mare.

"Time to go."

The mare snorted in protest, but it was better to leave in the dead of night than in early morning light and risk that the warriors of Old Pete's Soul came chasing them out of their forest. Not that the men would be any match for him, but he had to refrain from leaving a trail of mangled corpses and magic.

For his own survival.

He clung to the trotting horse until the late morning brought him to Rosevale, a village of three dozen houses surrounded by fields of wheat, barley and corn. In front of the local inn, called the Petal Inn, he tugged at the reins.

A large sign by the door, handwritten in chalk, read:

Eggs, Bacon & Morning Ale - 4 coppers
Two slices of buttery bread & Morning Ale - 2 coppers
Morning Ale - 1 copper

His stomach grumbled. And so did his lips.

Moaning and pushing his ribs to a limit, he reached into his saddlebag and found two pieces of hardtack. Possibly the last.

After eating both, he jammed his foot into the mare's side and rode on, leaving the sorrow of missing out on a tasty breakfast in Rosevale. No moping, only enduring.

The afternoon saw Peltenbrough from a distance, and by evening, he was near the town of Cracksby. He slept a few hours at the back of a cornfield before continuing his journey. 

The distances between the villages and hamlets shortened. One turned into the other. Near identical copies of his childhood memories, though varying in size. There were more fields than trees, which meant a daily feast of grass and clovers for his horse but a lot of cursing on his behalf. 

Sure, he could steal some of the abundances of food growing in the fields without anyone noticing it was gone, but it was too early in summer for the crops to be edible. Let alone appetising.

Days turned to night and back to day.

He walked more than he rode, not only to spare the horse's strength but also his own. By day five, the ache in his muscles had mostly faded, now replaced by a permanent stomach ache. If not from hunger, then from the unripe fruits he ate when he couldn't find anything else. 

His penetrating scent had begun attracting flies and other flying vermin. No matter how many times per day he jumped into a stream, the annoying bugs kept finding him. He hated them more than hunger. If he were still in Silvermark, he would have incinerated them all!

Every village he passed, he briefly contemplated selling his sword for coin but refrained from doing so, reminding himself that he wasn't that desperate. Not yet. Not ever.

After riding for so long, Sundale had to be close, hadn't it?

He could almost feel the soft bed with the clean sheets where he could wrap himself into and be warm forever. A proper pillow to lay down his head and dream of gold and obsidian. And when he opened his eyes, the best food at the snap of his fingers. Getting fed marmalade finger sandwiches while bathing in hot, soap-scented water.

He entered a forest, the first in a long time. Pigeons, robins, and larks danced around the canopies or fought with squirrels over territory until they noticed the foreign rider disturbing their quibbles. He should have brought a blaster, or a bow and arrows. So much food, but no means to catch them. Why, oh, why were the Gods testing him—mocking him?

He didn't notice his riding companion abandoning the road until he found himself by a stream. The horse began to drink. Fox let go of the reigns and sat down on the bank, first staring into the river looking at but not seeing his mirror. 

God of sloth, he felt so weary, so thin. A weakling.

A splash of water hit his face.

The mare bared her teeth in mischief. Her snout was dripping.

Fox glared at the creature. "I could always eat you. Horse meat is supposed to taste like sweet venison, and I like venison."

She snorted.

Who was he kidding? He rubbed the water from his eyes. For one, his journey would be even slower on foot. And secondly, even a wayward horse for a companion was better than none.

"Is it bad that I forgot your name?" he said to her.

She didn't respond. Too busy sniffing a grass-like plant in the bank.

"Atilax told me, but I wasn't paying attention. I didn't think it was important, but I guess that it is. Sorry about that."

The mare turned back to him, chewing on something.

"You're a daughter of Gluttony for sure, like my old friend, Nick." He paused to see what she was eating. Long, broad green leaves. His stomach cramped in warning—Not for him. "Though he was Gluttony's son. I guess you got that. Or not. You're a horse. In any case, you won't have the same fate as he does. You're annoying, but you're useful."

She whipped her tail back and forth as she continued eating.

No talking then. 

Fox played with his fingers, then studied his nails. There was dirt everywhere, and blisters from the reigns. Other than the shuffling of the horse and the chirping of birds, the forest was quiet. So quiet.

He darted a look over his shoulder. 

Apart from the animals, there wasn't a soul around. Any passer-by on the road would not be able to see him; the trees stood close enough to function as a natural wall. Alone. Nobody to witness him, to witness magic.

Suddenly, his fingers itched with the urge to conjure flames and kill. The prospect of a full stomach. That gut-wrenching ache disappearing and feeling strong once more.

Slowly, he rose. He stayed put.

The forest had become a storage room. Rabbits, squirrels, doves, or quails—the first proper meal was within reach. 

Breathing shallow breaths, he waited for a branch to crack or wings to flutter. The right sound at the right time, and then he would attack. Swiftly and ruthlessly. 

One moment, his prey would be darting through the forest, not knowing of the fate that awaited them. The next, the creature would fall flat on its back, dead before being aware that they had drawn their last breath.

He waited and waited.

Tiny paws scurried through the plants, moving towards him. Just a tad closer, then he could see what it was.

The mare shuffled.

And gone were the paws. Through the shrubs, and back to safety.

Fox grumbled. "Stay," he whispered through gritted teeth.

Silence returned, and with it, he reverted to his stance. Sunlight seeped through the trees, on his head. Comfortable and warm. The God of Sloth tugged at his eyelids, but he shook the thought away.  First food, then a hot bath in the river, and then he'd make a bed of ashes and sleep until the next sunrise.

Leaves rustled, but too high in the canopy. The God of Patience was testing him, and he had to obey. Endure. He would soon be King.

More rustling.

Then a soft thud.

Something small had landed on the ground, a few yards east from him. Sparks pushed against his fingertips. 

He shot forward and cast the beam of green light. Energy surged through him. He felt more awake than he had been in days.

High-pitched peeping accompanied rapid flapping. A brown bird emerged from the smoke. 

He shot another flame. Too slow. Through the smoke, the creature's trail was impossible to follow. There was still squeaking.

There came a third beam of fire, bigger than the ones before.

A brown spot flitted towards the trees, out of the green fog. Before Fox could see where it had darted off to, it was already gone.

His ribs protested. Rubbing the ache in his side, he mumbled to himself, "Outsmarted by a robin. A stupid, puddingbrained size of a bird."

The mare neighed.

"What! You're part of the problem!" Fox yelled. His insides burnt with acid and frustration. Out of the palm of his hand blasted a flame.

The horse cowered. 

Sighing, Fox slammed the beam into the ground.  His ribs throbbed. He felt light in the head.

In between the smouldering leaves, he fell to his knees and clutched his stomach, wrapping his arms around the pain. Years of training to kill the King, and he couldn't even keep himself from starving. The God of Pride had lured him into His trap; he should have stuck to Storm's plan to increase the pressure of The Greenlands by invading the coastal towns and luring the army away from the capital before laying siege on Sundale.

A thought struck him. Had Storm wanted him to fail? To go on a fool's errand and get killed so they could claim The Greenlands for themselves.

A wet muzzle nuzzled his shoulder in comfort. He looked up. Between her teeth, the mare was holding her rope.

He took it from her. "You're right. We should go. I have no Greenlander explanation for what happened here."

Abandoning the scorch marks and smoking pits in the ground, the horse returned to the road where she trotted on. Her cadence was soothing, easing both the turmoil in his head as the burning in his ribs. No, Hawk would never. And neither would Storm and Cobra. The Silvermarkers needed him, he assured himself.  

Without him, anyone claiming the obsidian throne would be deemed a usurper. But not him. When Seb and King Thomas were dead, he would be the rightful King. Son of Lord Brandon. Grandson of King William. The fourth King Henry, if he didn't decide to go by the name of Fox.

King Fox. King Henry. King Fox.

He fell asleep in the saddle, only to wake up by a beam of sunlight slipping through the trees. While the mare had reverted to a walking trot, her hooves sounded louder. The hardened dirt of the road replaced by cobblestones. A wide, outstretched field on one side, for as far as he could see. On the other side, houses with straw roofs.

He approached an archway, announcing the town of Northmore.

The name rang a bell, but he couldn't recall if he was meant to pass here on his way to Sundale. 

More houses popped up. But it was as quiet in Northmore as it had been in the forest. Clothes belonging to a family with at least one infant and one slightly older child were drying on three separate ropes. Most of the doors had empty bottles standing outside, waiting for the milk farmer to do his rounds. Here and there, he found axes and hammers lying around, morning dew pearling on the tools.

If he wanted to steal something, this would be the place, in this snoozing, carefree town.

Then a whiff of something sweet hit his nostrils. He sniffed again, smelling honey and butter. His mouth watered. Where did that come from?

He softly kicked his horse, steering her in the direction of the scent. A slender swirl of smoke drifted from a chimney belonging to a large wooden house, likely a tavern or an inn.

In front of the steps leading to the door hung a sign from two chains: the image of a crowned sun.

He found the source of the delicious scent. In the open window sat a pie, steaming in the cool morning air. His stomach rumbled not with pain, but with Gluttony's desire.

Fox licked his lips. The road straight ahead led into a path shadowed by large birch canopies. He turned back to the sign: a royal sun. 

No, a regal sun. That forest was Regal Sun Wood. The forest belonging to the Greenlander royal family. Sundale was within reach.

The plan was simple. Give in to the temptation of the God of Gluttony, steal that pie, then gallop into the woods until he was deep enough to eat this well-deserved, rich breakfast in peace.

He pulled his hood over his head. Magic committed the quickest crime. One look to the east, then to the west. Nobody in sight. One well-placed sweep and that pie would be his. It was no stupid bird that could fly away from him.

Stretching his arm, he faced the window. Then startled.

His gaze met that of a round-faced woman with messy hair. He retracted his arm, his mouth open, stunned by her sudden appearance.

"We're open," she said to him, gesturing at the door. "I don't have any fresh milk yet, but I can offer you a thick slice of bread and a morning ale for two coppers."

"And the pie?"

A grin appeared on her face. He couldn't tell if she was mocking him or felt sorry for him—not that it mattered; he hated both sentiments. "It's still cooling down. But for one copper, I'll cut you a piece."

Humility's weight pounded on him. He stared at the saddle as he said, "I don't have any coins."

When he glanced up again, the woman was scrutinising him. He lowered his hood to show he had nothing to hide.

"You're not a runner, aren't you?"

"A runner?"

"From the army," she explained, a tad of annoyance in her voice. "I guess not."

Fox shook his head. "I got kicked out of the house by my parents. My father thinks I'm worthless. I want to prove him wrong by starting a new life in Sundale."

"With no gold." It wasn't a question.

"I had coins, but lost them." He made a face. If the woman were to find him endearing, he'd better take advantage of that.

"Oh my." She brought her dough-stained fingers to her mouth, then started to rub her chin. After a few moments, she said, "My Miles is suffering from a bad case of gout—hasn't been able to get out of bed for a few days now. I could use an extra pair of hands."

"I don't know..."

"The work will be easy—lifting kegs and chopping wood. Anything lads your age are better at than when you've crossed the bridge to forty."

"... I should get to Sundale," Fox said, hesitating. Staying here would be a diversion he didn't need. He needed to get to the King to become King.

"I'll pay well. Three meals and—"

The mare neighed, and not a heartbeat later, the earth began to tremble. The grit in between the cobblestones leapt up.

"Move to the side, lad," the woman said in an urging tone.

Fox heard the words but didn't act on them. He shot his heads towards the forest, whence came a rumbling sound. Then shouting.

Hooves, moving at spectacular speeds in a perfect cadence. Five times... no six times the galloping rise and fall of iron horseshoes on the rock-hardened path.

A cloud of dust caught the golden rays of the sunrise.

"Move, lad. Move!"

A panicked neigh. 

With a quick tug of the reins and a good kick, Fox turned the horse and moved her off the middle of the road and into a verge with low-growing shrubs and flowers.

He held her tight beneath him as out of the dust, as if appearing out of divine light arose a company of six riders on tall, long-legged horses with a thick, muscular build and an armoured nose. 

The two men at the front were clad in Greenlander green, the colour of the army uniforms.

Fox caught a glimpse of a blaster. Swords too.

They brought on a rising wind as they sped past him. The two riders in the middle wore no uniforms. No visible weapons. The man who flew past Fox had a strange iron construction hanging from the horse's side. In the framework, the man's leg seemed tied to his ride.

Two army men flanked the strange riders in the back.

The company rode deeper into the town of Northmore, showing no signs of slowing down. They galloped on, with no regard of other people or obstacles; others had to move.

"Who are those trumpets?" Fox grumbled.

The woman brought her hand to her mouth. "Oh no, lad. You mustn't call them trumpets. That's His Majesty and General George."

Fox chuckled. "Yeah right, the King never leaves his castle."

"All poppycock and rumours, lad. His Majesty and the General pass Northmore every Day of Soil. They like taking out their horses for a ride. They are magnificent beasts, aren't they—those Scorian horses. Real creatures of endurance. Don't try what they do with your mare, lad. She'll drop dead within the hour."

Fox discarded the comment. He knew the reputation of Scorian horses, had learnt to ride on a half-Scorian back in Laneby. "You're saying both King Thomas and General George storm past your tavern on a weekly basis?" He found that hard to believe.

"It's true, lad. Sometimes, they skip a week. I don't know why—they've never stopped for anything. They're usually earlier too."

"You'd expect they have enough to do with the war against Silvermark."

"War against Silvermark," she said as though he had said something silly. "Yeah, there's a skirmish now and then. But they happen at sea or far away in the mountains. The Silvermarkers won't dare to show themselves here. Sundale is impregnable."

Fox got down his horse and crossed the road. Sunstone Castle might be, but Northmore and Regal Sun Wood weren't. He had heard whispers of the King's habit to ride in the early hours of the morning but had never thought he would encounter his uncle so easily. The Gods were handing him the obsidian crown on a platter. If he had managed eight against one, then six against one was like pulling a blind cat's tail.

"About those chores—you said three meals and...?"

The woman looked at him, a hint of confusion in her eyes. She tapped her temple. "Yes, of course. Three meals and some coppers."

"Any chance I could stay a couple of days?" A week to be exact.

The woman looked around. "I could use the help, but..."

"I've worked in a tavern before," Fox said. "When I was younger. And leave the coppers. A bed and a bath'll do."

She nodded a few times before saying, "Alright, yes." Then she stretched out her hand. "The name's Kate."

"Harry." Fox accepted the dough-stained handshake.

They shook hands. "The God of Charity must have brought you to my window, Harry."

She had no idea.