Reborn as the Black Knight

 

Only but one star shines high in the night, blasting down toward them with a godly shine that hints to the presence of a higher power still watching the world, despite the lamentations and crying of its people — they hold themselves to be damned and lost. Men in black armor, with weapons of the same tinge, march across the continents and storm castles and city alike, taking them by force. They never sleep. They never eat. They never speak or scream. All they do is march. March. March — forward beneath the black, tattered banner of the black princess, who has come to bring upon the world an era of great suffering. Whispers speak of dark, foul magic fueling her crusade, as while some men don the armor willingly, others speak of empty suits that march by themselves. Of heads that have been struck off by hammers, only for the body to keep moving — fighting — by itself. Forever.

They march. They come. Through rivers, through mountain passageways, across meadows and graveyards alike, they move as indifferently as the winter’s dead wind — as cold as it — and now they have arrived here below the shine of the last star in the night sky that remains. All the other stars have faded away, leaving but one.

Nobody can explain the darkening. Not the greatest scholars of the world, not the higher priests and oracles. It’s as if each individual pinprick of starlight had retreated day by day, as if they themselves knew to hide from the approaching host, for they themselves too are too weak to stop her forceful incursion led by the beast that shatters crowns, a monster of ancient legend that had all been but forgotten.

Dandy screams as the explosion behind her knocks her to the ground, fire and debris casting toward the sky as if fully intent on blinding the last eye of God that remains. The priestess falls, tumbling down in a disoriented frenzy. Scrambling, she crawls — her legs not responding for her deepest animal desire for them to work again — her hands pushing through the smoke to grab hold of broken stone from the monastery walls. She looks around herself, lying on the ground for a second, as men fight and scream, losing themselves to the spirit of war as the sky above them cracks and sparkles with charged, magical energy that reaches critical mass from the number of spells being flung in all directions.

A second explosion rocks the night, up above.

Her eyes rise up, looking at the massive church spire that bursts into flames, the structure’s pinnacle struck by a spell from outside the walls — not that they mean much anymore at this point. They’re inside the monastery grounds. The church steeple rattles and begins to shift, lurching off sideways at a disturbing angle that makes her gut clench like she were looking at a leg that had been broken in two.

Run.

She crawls, her legs still not working.

“RUN!” screams a voice in the night. Dandy’s legs return to her, and she pulls herself forward and out of the debris, running forward as fast as she can, realizing as the shadow and the rocks fall toward her from above that the voice was her own. She runs through an archway, everything behind her collapsing together. Broken bricks and dust fly out, blocking off the way she just came as she runs inside the monastery's central structure, her head darting left and right, the tears flying off of her face because she doesn’t have time to cry as she looks for an exit.

The kitchen! She can get out from there through the wine cellar!

Dandy, the apprentice priestess, runs toward the door on her right, down toward the central connecting corridor that lies beyond. Her straight, neck-short, wood-blonde hair that is cut into an unflattering egalitarian bob sticks to her face, matted with nighttime dampness, sweat, and dust.

She screams, stumbling over herself and grabbing onto the corner as a face looks straight into hers.

— He’s stuck to the wall, pinned there by an iron blade thrust through him and into solid brickwork.

The priestess stumbles back, her eyes looking down the corridor that is ideally a boring shade of off-tan brown on the best of days, but now is painted in ruby and crimson red. Bodies lie scattered from one end of it to the next, dozens of them, maimed and torn into pieces she didn’t understand a person’s body could be separated into. Her brother priests, her sisters, soldiers of the kingdom, and even those who just took shelter here. All of them have become… homogenous.

Vomit pours from her, dripping through her fingers as she spins the other way as she sees something moving in the darkness at the end of the unlit hallway — something black.

She doesn’t recognize any of it happening; it just does, and she comes to her senses down at the end of the left passage, having run back to where she came in as behind her comes the sound of a thing coming after her, pursuing, encroaching.

Her hands grip the portcullis nested within the stone doorway, and she yells incomprehensible sounds as she yanks it down, fastening the bolt into place before hurrying along the only way left — through the prayer hall.

The thick, wooden doors that she as a child always needed help to move, even by as much as an inch, are broken in and fractured, as if they never meant anything at all. They always used to make her feel so safe with their weight, heft, and thickness. But now, looking at them broken apart into two pieces like a smashed jaw full of fractured teeth makes her vomit a second time as she stumbles through the room, her vision blurring from the adrenaline and lack of air. Smoke rises toward the ceilings, collecting there as it comes in through the high windows and begins to drift down toward the ground as a miasma.

“…Dandy?” sputters a voice from the end of the room that she is stumbling through, her eyes stinging with smoke. “Dandy, is that you?” asks a hoarse man, his scratchy words barely coming through the chaos toward her.

“Barlow!” cries Dandy, dropping down and looking at the old man in simple brown robes sitting there, leaning against the wall. Father Barlow, an old monk who has been here longer than she’s been alive. He’s a perplexingly kind man, with an oddly contrasting knack toward selfishness when it comes to the most petty things, like sharing fruit. “Hold on, oh gods…” she says, her hands running over his robe to try and hold it together for him, but she can’t because her fingers slip not over fabric but through entrails that hang out of its front, unable to be held back in full by his summer-worked arms. “Why is this happening?!” screams the young priestess, looking at her hands, which are covered in the smears of everything the nightmare has to offer. “Hold on!” she says, weak magic flickering around her fingers as she tries to prepare a healing spell — even if what she can do isn’t anything close enough to fix this kind of wound. Half of the man has already spilled out of him and begun twisting and churning as the hot smoke and debris make contact with the loose organs.

His hand grabs her shoulder, his eyes already lost to the blindness. “It wants to stop the ritual, Dandy,” he replies, hacking out his words with breath that has no right to be in a body in such a state. His fingers squeeze down on her shoulders, the broken and burnt nails pressing through the fabric of her robe. “It’s not human, Dandy. It’s not a person.” His other hand grabs her wrist, breaking her spell. “Run. You need to run, Dandelion,” drips the man, his body spasming as he hacks out smoke from his lungs; everything pulsates as he does so.

“No, Father!” cries the girl, not able to force herself to go as she looks around herself. “I’ll drag you over there to the pew,” she explains, showing him a pew by a barred window. “If I get you laid out, I can… I can…” She can’t finish her own sentence, her shoulders rising and falling with her chest as she cries, the man trying to say something that she can’t understand in her grief, until she opens her eyes again and sees his haunted face.

“…It’s not human…” he says, his eyes trained down from the broken mess she came through. Dandy turns her head, looking that way too. Fire is everywhere, smoke is everywhere, but everywhere else… there is nothing. “Run,” he repeats again, and now she finally hears the word he had spoken to her several times over.

Full, empty blackness fills the corridor she had come from, entirely distinct from the collapse. Flames wick into it, but then just vanish as if they were being pulled into an abyss for them to suffocate inside of. The smoke falls and drifts like a cloud, but the blackness stays distinct, as if it were a shape silhouetting a dark sky.

A shape of a thing with man eyes, and many legs, and many teeth.

And it takes a step forward.

“It’s all of them, Dandy… It’s not an army,” rasps the old monk, frothing at his mouth as he tries to hold himself together. “It’s just one. It’s one. It’s -!” he gasps, shoving her away. “Run. RUN!” screams the man, his face contorting in a twisted grimace, spit flying in all directions and for the second time today, Dandy’s body adheres to the command and runs as fast as it can. Behind come the sound of steps, of a creature’s rampaging paws as it gives chase, and at the same time comes a shine so bright and vivid that it almost feels like sunrise has come again as Father Barlow casts his last spell, putting in everything he has to offer in body and spirit in one last act of service in the name of heaven.

Priestess Dandelion runs, clambering over broken armor and broken bodies as she haunts the crumbling home she had spent her entire life in. Warm springs, gentle summers, kind autumns, and nippy winters all came and went here in so many passages, with so many people and faces to match the spectrum of emotions she had felt in her years here. But now there is only one thing left in her core, her guts, and in her heart to feel.

— Despair.

She runs up the stairs toward the belfry; all the other corridors have collapsed, are burning, or are filling with marching, black silhouettes with halberds and blades in hand.

Through the small tower windows, as she ascends toward the top of the church, she sees nothing but war in all directions. The forests to the south and east are burning brightly, like lanterns on the horizon, and the north and west are moving — flowing — as the last defenders fall to the tide of black-armored soldiers who never seem to lose their cohesive lockstep as they march directly her way.

It doesn't take a minute until she reaches the top of the collapsed steeple, crawling up through the debris into an opening and looking down at the collapsed bell that had fallen where she entered the building just before.

There’s nowhere to go.

She spins atop the broken tower, exposed all around her to the night and the smoke that rises on all horizons like the bars of a prison she has been thrust into. There’s nowhere to go.

Something below her stirs; the darkness moves.

And, very quickly, her body finds a place for her to go without her consent. Dandy flies off of the broken steeple tower, falling a ways down to the slanted roof of the monastery. Fractured tiles and stonework slide downward as she crashes into them, her hands grabbing onto sliding fragments of anything she can grip as she falls down together with it all. A moment later, she latches on to a broken truss that juts through the roof like an arrow through a man’s neck and clambers herself into footing, scrambling. The priestess, with her wide auburn eyes that haven’t blinked in minutes, looks behind herself toward the tower.

The night isn’t visible there any longer.

There’s only blackness that obscures it, as if it were a curtain drawn shut before her eyes.

She runs, tiles slipping and falling down below as she watches the soldiers fall, cut down by spells, metal, and the bolts of crossbows.

And then the ground gives way below her.

Dandelion screams, plummeting down as she breaks through the smoldering roof. She falls through the central church, her eyes and senses overwhelmed by the sudden motion, until suddenly they aren’t. There’s a loud, wet, cracking sound, and the young priestess finds herself lying on her back down in the church. Her eyes, spinning in a blur, see the bodies all around her of the elder priests. Their throats are slit, their hearts cut through, and their heads caved in. The sacraments of the almost completed ritual are all laid out for a ritual, one that has been spoken about for a time now. Relics of ancient days that had been brought here over a period of months by kings themselves, exotic essences and extracts from the lands of the world, and a book — a white tome — from the forgotten annals of history.

“Please. Please. Please,” hisses a voice consistently over and over again in the air — her own once more. But it doesn’t matter how much she begs. After the fall through the ceiling, her legs won’t run this time. They are beyond just being frozen in simple fear.

Her broken chest panting, desperate with a wish, she rolls her head forward and looks toward the pitch-black, endless emptiness that has come to fill the hole she created on her way down.

It looks like she’s staring into the great emptiness beyond all life and death itself. There is a depth to it that makes it more than just looking at a black-painted wall. Even when looking toward the horizon at night, the senses and eyes tell one that there is an end eventually, but what she sees now here above her has no end — it has no beginning.

It is just empty.

And it is coming closer.

It drips. It sickers. It runs and dangles down toward her like mucus from a broken nose. Dandy continues to beg the world as everything in her presses in together and condenses — all of her memories and hopes, her fears and dreams, quashed under the fresh terror that promises to make them all null and void. But traveling still within that emptiness that begins to descend around her is… a whisper.

It is her own whisper as she continues to speak despite everything getting darker and darker and darker. It is a whisper that she mutters through her torn lips, repeating it like a chant. ‘Please’.

And the darkness drops around her, unimpressed, surrounding her whole because it thinks she was just begging the same as she has been doing for her legs to work — as she has always done, her entire life, whether in her childhood when she ran away from home or in her adolescence when she ran away from responsibility to hide in the monastery. It knows her because it knows of people just like her. But this time, it is mistaken.

Dandelion’s fingers scratch through the paint of the full ritual circle she landed in, smearing through the spilled blood all around her as she hisses in one last final agony the only wish she ever had but could never form in a full sentence to herself before it was too late.

Her eyes look up — not at the infinite blackness — but through it. They look through its endless expanse, through the aeons of entropy, through everything that is empty, until they find one single thing to focus on, and it is the same thing that her desperate prayer and whisper carry towards.

“…I don’t want to run anymore…” whispers Dandelion, the plea that leaves her lips with the foggy, warm vapors of her breath traveling through the anarchy as a weightless presence. The full sound of her voice within the blackness creeps and crawls through the last of the wretched cries that fill the night, differentiating itself from the stamping of boots and the clashing of metal as it slides in between those crude noises, which are caused by the rough material world — it being born of something entirely immaterial. Yes, it was her lips that spoke the prayer, which are as physical and tangible as the rest of her body is, but the word itself stemmed from the core, hollow pit that she feels not in said corporeal form but rather within her spiritual being — her soul.

That whisper strings along, winding its way through the war, the sky, through thousands of things clad as people — all of them stuck together in that single time-frozen moment, slithering and crawling like the strange, cold thing that it is — until that wish she spoke presses and breaks it way up to the sky above, floating on toward the very last star that burns in the night directly above her, above them all.

She can see it shining through the empty creature.

It’s so bright.

It’s so bright… she has to close her eyes now. It’s too bright.

Darkness closes in around her, and everything becomes cold, blank, and quiet as the monster begins to consume her as it has all the others.

It becomes quiet enough that she can hear a voice — a man’s voice. It is one that she doesn’t know, having never heard it before.

“Then don’t,” is all that he says, his voice so firm and warm that it seems impossible to exist in a place she’s sinking into that is so much the opposite.

‘Then don’t.’

‘Then don’t’?

Dandelion opens her eyes again, staring into the nothingness that is all around her as the answer repeats in her mind, her thoughts not even having a chance to ponder its source because of the raw honesty of the words. Her back is still on the stones. Her back is still on the cathedral floor, on the ritual circle. She’s not gone yet. Catastrophic, deep magic of the body floods into her hands, her soul driving a full surge into it that promises to be enough to kill her, to destroy what’s left of her flesh if she releases this much all at once. The flesh doesn’t let one do this under normal circumstances. It is just like the brain; in times of desperate need, it will deactivate all senses of a person’s pain in order to let them achieve incredible, body-breaking things.

If she won’t run anymore, if she won't always let the score of her life stay at zero, then she has only one other option.

— Fight.

Her palms strike down next to her on both sides of her fractured body, which writhes in the ways that it can as fire shoots through her veins, blasting out of her core as it flows with her heartblood through to her hands, her legs, and her head. A shock wave blasts out in all directions, the black ink around her quivering and repelling like a mass of slime that was struck with a hammer. The circle she is lying on shines vividly with light, reflecting the shine of the single star above back down toward the brightly glowing thing that lies between them both — her. Radiance fills the church, washing over it in such a vivid, prismatic shine that even the grim corpses seem to smile and fall easier down into their slumps as if they had found peace within the light of heaven above.

But she can’t.

The magic begins to waver, and the light starts to flicker. The darkness starts to push back in, agitated now — malicious at having been defied.

She can’t do it.

She can’t fight. She’s scared. She’s always been too scared. Even now, even if she’s already dead anyway, she can’t bring herself to do it because it would mean she’ll die a few seconds earlier, and she doesn’t want to. She doesn’t want to.

Dandelion hisses, spit pressing through her teeth as she declares herself as worthless, as a coward, as weak. She was never meant anything but that. If she was, then she wouldn’t have ended up here — a wretch, broken.

The circle begins to fade. Her shoulders slump back and down, and she gives up. She relinquishes.

And that’s that. It’s all she had in her.

The man’s voice comes from the last star above the world. “You can be weak,” he says affirmatively and at his own pace, as if the end of all things was no bother for him.

“Why?” she asks desperately, feeling light, as if she were afloat, swimming in the ocean, her mind not having processed that there is nobody here to speak to. Even now, broken and dead, it feels as natural to talk to him as breathing. It’s warm. It’s safe. “Why?!” she shouts, needing to know why this could possibly be okay when it’s haunted her for her entire life — weakness, cowardice.

How could it ever be okay when it’s brought her to a place like this?

And the voice replies to her, offering a simple, convincing promise. “Because I’ll do the fighting.”

The priestess’ body flies off of the ground in a single lurch, suspended as an arc of light radiates down from the star above, plunging through her and into the ritual circle like the sword of an archangel thrust into the heart of all evil.

Radiance. Warmth. Glow. God — All things surround her all at once, enveloping her in body and soul.

Her hair flies, whipping around her wildly together with her tattered robes of the faith in a heat as her shining eyes reopen to nothing but infinite white, infinite sunshine, to infinite fullness and saturation. Magic flows through her, her arms and legs spreading outward, pulling together with her body as cresting waves of unimaginable power pour down over the world and over her. Something grabs her hand, holding it as it pulls her up off and back onto her feet. The darkness retreats, a scream filling the air as it pulls back against the walls, black-armored soldiers recoiling and covering their hollow faces.

Dandelion, her healed body surging with power, looks at the thing — the shining man — who has taken hold of her in one single arm. He is made of pure alabaster white, dancing with the color of fairy lights. Hair and clothes flow from him like water from a spring — made up of the same spark as true starlight.

“What… what are… who…?”

The man, glowing with the grace of all things good and true, stands tall within the ritual circle. Clad to him as he manifests is the steel of a silver hue so bright and unblemished that it might well be made of winter’s first snowfall. His hair is golden and clean, and his eyes of the same luster look not down toward her but toward the thing that he has been brought into this world — by her hand — to remove.

The darkness, the monster, the creature that has been pressed back by the incredible light of the ritual snaps and snarls; it screams with the heads of a hundred dogs and the fangs of a thousand serpents. Tendrils whip and snap as broken, melting arms swipe and claw together them.

The man, with his one free hand, reaches toward his side and pulls out a blade that manifests itself — as if it were not made of metal but of the same hallow that he is. It takes the shape of a greatsword that he holds in one single hand with ease, as the healed priestess is safe kept by the other.

Bells.

She can hear… bells ringing. All around them, church bells ring, despite the steeple having collapsed, despite the monastery being in ruin and ash. They aren’t ringing from here, from this place. They’re ringing from there, that other domain, that… vast whiteness that surrounds them now — the spirit world? Heaven? She’s not sure. She doesn’t know. They ring and they ring, counting up in chimes.

“I have many names,” says the white knight, narrowing his eyes toward the enemy and readying his stance, the ground below him cracking as he moves from the sheer force of his presence. “Given to me by many people. Yet only one ever remains the same,” he says, almost wistfully, as he holds his focus toward the beast.

Her eyes stare at him, her mind just barely catching up now to the radical events of these last few seconds as a thousand names go through her mind from her schooling, and then a thousand more until it falls into place with the context of the ritual.

“…Hero…” whispers the priestess, her legs failing as always, as the man sets her down behind his shielding body.

The ethereal church bells toil twelve.

He smirks and then lashes forward with a single strike, with a true hero’s strike well beyond the power of any simple man that cuts through the air as his body presses forward into motion. White, endlessly pure light cascades out of his blade, that seems to have no end or beginning, as if the sword itself could stretch across the world. A single clean cut carries across her vision as he and the beast collide together. In a single cut from a true, chosen hero — summoned by a desperate wish — ten-thousand black-armored soldiers crumble and fall into ash. The swipe, the streak of the sun's grace, eradicates all hints of darkness, all hints of treachery. The magic of his power illuminates every last corner of the last beating heart here — hers — and exposes within it all the wretchedness and treachery present within the human condition of even a simple priestess, and his power simply washes over it without a care or a judgment to the matter in its pursuit against evil, because it knows it belongs there as a piece of the human condition.

Blackness writhes and screams, and then, in a flash of an instant, it’s… over.

Just like that.

The light fades.

The night returns.

And Dandelion finds herself staring at a back that may as well be a mountain, at a man who is the only thing left standing between her and the horizon. The monastery walls, the church, the armies, the corpses, the forests — everything has been made into a single flat, glossy surface that shimmers with sparkling magic, crackling and drifting up toward the moonlight.

His cape, long and ethereal, billows in the winds of something non-physical, because she feels nothing on her skin except sweat and dew.

The evil is vanquished, and the man sheathes his sword, turning back around to face her, silhouetting the suddenly glowing horizon behind him as the sun starts to rise, as if beckoning by him alone to come right now, this very moment.

She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. It has frozen the same as her legs always do. Her eyes rise up toward him as he bends down, holding out a hand for her to take, looking at her without a single care for any of her failures within his warm gaze. “Priestess.”

“D… Dandy… I mean Dandelion,” stutters the priestess. “But you can call me ‘sister’. — I mean Dandy!” she interjects, stopping herself. “Just… I’m just Dandy… haha,” she says, pointing at herself.

— That last part was a joke, one she’s had to hear a thousand times growing up ever since the church adopted her and gave her a new name. She’s not sure why she thought it was appropriate to say now, but it just kind of came out.

She hates herself.

She wants to die. What the hell is she thinking?

The man looks at her, perplexed for a moment, and then strikes his side, helping her to his feet as he starts laughing in full barrel, causing her to flinch in surprise. “To find humor at a time like this,” he says, looking down at her. “There is strength in you,” he says, planting a hand on her shoulder, only half of which fits because either his hand is just too big or her shoulder is too small.

She opens her mouth to reply and then stops, looking around herself in a moment of quiet shock at… well, everything.

A joke? What the hell is wrong with her?

Everyone is dead. Everyone she knows, everything she knows… it’s gone. There’s nothing left because… because she was too weak. Because of -

“- Dandy,” says Hero in a strong tone that speaks its promises of reassurance for her worries in just the rigid strength of the one word, breaking through her mental downward spiral as the weight of the situation begins to crash down rightfully onto your shoulders. “You brought me here. And I am only called for in times of great crisis,” explains Hero. “So tell me,” he asks, his finger lifting her chin so that their gaze meet. “— Who is my enemy?”

Through the shaking of her own, Priestess Dandy looks into the fearless eyes of the great hero of ancient myth and then over toward the new sunrise that crests in the distance, bright and good enough that she feels like it could fix everything all by itself, if only she would give it a chance to do so.

— If only she would fight, just a little more.

She opens her mouth to reply.

 

---

 

 

A shrill, harpy laughter fills the air, cutting through the glamor of the warm estate with a depthless chill. The high-pitched, smugly content voice of the witch fills the air and echoes down the many hallways that servants scurry through, quickly closing doors and hiding away — lest they too suffer the horrors bestowed upon the living by the princess with the broken crown.

Sunlight cascades in through the grand windows in many shimmering rays, casting a warm, gentle kindness upon the deep colors of the wooden furnishings and window frames. Ruby and gold-laced curtains hang upon the walls, shimmering as they move in a soft breeze, their bottom tassels tickling over the lush rugs and furs that have been laid down to give the radiantly shining marble flooring some love and character. Birdsong fills the air, from the many trees in the courtyard that have been rented out to the local avian population for the price of their company, and voices from the market street just beyond carry through the air. The city outside is alive and booming as industry and life alike flourish beyond imagining. Wealth dances in the pockets of men, as every purse has coins jingling inside of it, and then finds its way back into their homes in the forms of exotic foods and drink, in good furnishing, and in good health for their families. The abundance present in the city — in her domain — has attracted many travelers and many with useful skills. Healers and merchants, scholars and wise men, swords for hire, and young, fresh adventurers who have heard about a great city where they can rise in fame and glory — if only they would keep that lively spark within their eyes.

Yes, the city — the domain — of her regal majesty, queen-to-be of the kingdom, and boundlessly merciful reagent, Acacia Odofredus Krone, is flourishing in an unprecedented golden age that all the nations of the world have come to both admire and envy. Envoys from foreign kingdoms come day and night to request an audience with her to speak of the time after her ascension, which they seem to hold for a signed inevitability already. Vildt, elves, orcs, and even fairies, as well as other humans, have come to bargain with her in preparation for her rise to power. Her black-armored soldiers, created in next to infinite number through Sir Knight’s power, march day and knight across the land, building, holding, and helping. Here, they are seen and welcomed by everyone because of their nature as protectors and guardians who never sleep. Like gargoyles in a church, their somewhat frightening appearance is overlooked because of the gratitude toward their protective function.

— The fact that she has yet to actually dethrone her older brother, the king, does not seem to be relevant. Given the fact that the part of the kingdom that is not yet her usurped domain remains at war with the far greater enemy empire to the east, nobody believes that he can hold his crown, neither against the foreign enemy nor against his own sister.

The bets have been hedged, and given the number of audiences, it seems that the world thinks that she will reach and break the capital before the enemy does.

And all of that is well and good, and one would think that this all means that the world is right and pure and that a smile is present on every face within her city.

However, that is not the case.

For here, within her very own residence, there exists an agony — a cruelty — and she delights in it like a witch about to rob a cradle.

“Tea,” says Acacia in a self-assured, demanding tone. The height of her nose can be heard straight out of the single command. “Servant.”

Holding her head loosely on her hand and her elbow on the chair’s rest, the youngest princess holds out an empty teacup, shaking it lightly. A smug, wicked smile is on her face.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” replies an elf’s voice. Standing next to her with a small, elegant teapot that only has enough liquid in it for a single cup — as is the noble way, large teapots are for the poor — Junis leans over and pours a fresh floral blend into the gilded porcelain. She keeps a peaceful expression on her unbothered face, holding the side of her elegant maid’s skirt with one hand as the other holds the tilted teapot.

“Thank you, Junis,” says the true noblewoman, not stirring her body an inch as she looks out ahead of herself and then simply tips over the full teacup, pouring its contents onto the floor. “Servants,” says Acacia, nodding her head at the mess.

Another two figures, already wiping the floor on their knees with cloths, look over her way.

“…I understand the work,” says a young man’s voice in a foreign accent. He sighs, his shoulders slumping as he looks up at Acacia’s smug face as she sits there, her legs crossed and one foot waving up and down, her hand playing with the empty teacup. “But is the cruelty really necessary?” asks Fee Videlius Kaisersgrab, a former enemy and detestable person who is now a protected refugee beneath her noble and good banner. He holds his hands out, gesturing to the fresh puddle at Acacia’s feet.

Junis sets the small teapot down on a table that costs more than many houses in the city. She grabs a larger teapot from there, taking the lid off of the small one to refill it. “The cruelty is the point, Mr. Kaisersgrab,” explains the elf with an ever-calm, content expression on her face as she pours the tea from one pot into the other.

“Thank you, Junis,” repeats Acacia.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” replies the elf, standing back next to her again with the small teapot.

“Tea,” says Acacia, waving her cup to Junis.

“Yes, your Majesty,” replies Junis, refilling the cup that this time Acacia — in her boundless grace and mercy — drinks from instead as she watches Kaisersgrab.

The man gestures down to himself. “Is this really necessary?” he asks, pointing at the same black and frilly maid’s uniform dress, the same as Junis and all the other servants have on.

“Why, yes, Mr. Kaisersgrab,” explains Acacia with a precious smile, as if the tea had warmed her very soul. She lifts her head, tilting it. Her free hand gestures over to the side of the room, where a quiet woman with green hair is dusting a stone statue that she has lifted up off of the ground and is now holding aloft with just one hand, despite it having needed five men to carry inside. She, Fichtenholz, never talks much. Her other hand holds a pretty feather duster. She and Kaisersgrab are both werewolves — Grim — taken from the Holy-Church. “You and your friend are so close to each other,” she starts, a pitiful look coming to her face as she lightly holds the tips of her fingers against her chest. “It would break my heart to see you separated from another for even a second in any way,” says the gracious princess, with all the love in her heart visible in her eyes. “You work where she works, and you wear what she wears.”

Kaisersgrab sighs, wiping the floor.

“You’re too kind, Your Majesty,” notes Junis next to her.

“Thank you, Junis,” replies Acacia, crossing her legs over the other way as she sits back and looks around at the room with a smile that could melt the devil’s heart. “I know. My poor, delicate spirit is as fragile as a virgin snowflake,” she sighs, shaking her head. Her eyes wander the room for a moment, searching for something. “Speaking of delicate things, where is Sir Knight?” she asks.

“He may be marching in the east, pressing your line toward the capital, Your Majesty,” explains Junis, walking back to the table to refill the small teapot again. “He should be here.”

Acacia frowns, sighing. “Undependable as always…” she mutters to herself, her eyes narrowing in annoyance as if she were waiting for something to happen. But nothing does. Junis, Kaisersgrab, and Fichtenholz go about their work.

— The door opens at the end of the room.

“I’m not doing it,” says a voice from the end of the very, very long room. A head of golden hair looks inside.

“…What did she say?” asks Acacia, looking around, having not heard the woman clearly.

Kaisersgrab lifts his head from the floor. “She said that she will not do it,” he explains.

“Thank you, Mr. Kaisersgrab,” says Acacia. “Good dog.” The princess lifts her eyes back to the door. “Chicory. You will. I will not allow disobedience within my inner circle.”

Chicory, the priestess, standing in the doorway, blinks and looks.

“…What did she say?” asks the priestess quietly. The room is too long to hear each other.

Fichtenholz sets down the massive statue, unbothered by its weight because of her inhuman strength. “Lady Krone said that you must,” says the green-haired woman without tone or intonation. She’s just as blank as the statue.

Chicory groans audibly and loudly enough so that it can be heard all the way across the room — to make a point — and then retreats back out.

Then, a few moments later, she enters back inside.

“I am not allowed to wear this,” explains Chicory, tugging at the edges of the maid’s uniform as she awkwardly walks into the room, stumbling around as if she had never walked in anything other than her priestess’ robes, and her body simply didn’t know what to do. She makes her way through the massive hall, her formal shoes clacking audibly against the marble floors. “As a woman of the faith, I must adhere to wearing my vestigial sacraments,” she explains, reaching Acacia and staring her down.

Acacia smiles that same smile she’s had for days now, then leans forward and reaches out to Chicory’s head, grabbing the side of the frilled headband that holds her hair out of her face and adjusting it. “I am your god now, Chicory,” explains the princess, nodding contently. She gestures around herself at the manor that they’ve come to reside in for the duration of this little adventure. “This is your new church.” Acacia points an idle finger at the maid’s uniform that Chicory has on as she leans back into her chair, which might be a throne, depending on who is asked. But she doesn’t like it when people call it that. “These are your new robes,” she explains, as if it were obvious.

“That’s sacrilegious blasphemy!” replies Chicory sharply, swiping a hand through the air. Her raised voice echoes through the hall.

Acacia rolls her eyes, resting her head back into her palm. “Sir Knight,” starts the princess, looking at her nails on her other hand and then examining the fine, golden, bejeweled ring on it. “— Kill Chicory,” she orders, her tone almost bored and lackadaisical.

Nothing happens.

Chicory stares Acacia down with an exasperated expression, shaking her head and leaning in closer as if trying to provoke a fight.

Acacia sighs, shaking her head. “…Unbelievable,” mutters Acacia, looking around the room. “Where is Sir Knight?!” she snaps, looking around for the man who is under normal circumstances, entirely impossible to miss, given that he’s a leviathan amongst men. Her eyes wander back to Chicory, who is still standing there. “Huh? Oh, don’t worry,” remarks Acacia dismissively, waving her off with a loose, floppy hand. “That was all just a joke. Well, the ‘kill’ part. I meant the rest of it.” She shrugs. “Besides, you’re not a real priestess anyway; you’re a spy, or have you forgotten?”

Chicory crosses her arms. “I am first and foremost a healer and disciple of the word of heaven.”

“You’re a royal agent, sworn to serve the crown before God, Chicory,” replies Acacia, spinning a finger in a circle to order Chicory to spin around. “And I wear the crown, if you haven’t seen it yet,” she explains, the shimmering, bent, and jagged crown on her head clearly visible.

“It’s hard to miss…” mutters Chicory, holding her arms out to the side as she rotates around as ordered. “Pretty gaudy.“

“Oh… speaking of hard to miss,” starts Acacia, looking at the massive lump below the back of Chicory’s dress.

— No, not like that. It’s a different lump, and it has boots.

Acacia grabs the edge of the maid’s dress, lifting it up into the air. Chicory lets out a surprised yelp, slapping the princess’ hand away, but not before Acacia throws the fabric to the side, revealing a small figure that had been hiding behind Chicory’s back.

Hase, the vildt thief, lets out a nervous chuckle, her arms holding a heap of stolen coins and gems — hers. The young girl, with black hair and long rabbit ears to match, stands there frozen, having been discovered. Chicory lets out a series of surprised curses, pulling her dress back together as she looks back behind herself at the rather obvious trail of coins and gems.

“And what exactly was your plan?” asks Acacia curiously, looking at Hase.

“…I wanted to sneak out past the guards at the front like that,” she explains, looking down at the ground and then back behind herself. “I think living like this is making me sloppy,” concedes the robber.

“Oh, you little devil!” says Acacia with a kind smile as she pinches the girl’s cheek. Hase makes a pained face as she gets squeezed. “You are my favorite of them all, but I can’t condone theft,” says Acacia. “Sir Knight,” calls Acacia, looking to the side of the room at the shadow behind a thick curtain. “Kill Hase.”

Hase lets out a terrified yell, dropping her loot. The coins and gems roll across the floor, scattering in all directions with a loud clamber.

Nothing happens.

“If I may, your Majesty?” starts Junis. “Execution seems a little harsh,” notes the blue-haired elf. Acacia scans the room, waiting for Sir Knight to appear. “If I might suggest an alternative?” asks the elf. Acacia nods. “Perhaps she can work in your service like the rest of us?” says Junis. “I’ll have a uniform ready for her by sunrise.”

“Junis. Please!” huffs Acacia, taken aback in shock. She gestures to the young girl. “As if I would condone child labor!” she replies, aghast. “— In my own house!”

“…Weren’t you just asking for her to be executed?” mutters Kaisersgrab from the floor.

Acacia looks down at him. Her leg sweeps down, kicking some of the coins and gems further away. “Clean it up,” she remarks coldly before looking back at Hase, who is standing there trembling. “Oh no, no, no…!” says Acacia quickly and softly, reaching out for the little thief who looks like she’s about to start crying. “I was only joking,” she explains, rubbing between her long rabbit ears, her expression changing back to something softer and more gentle than any spring flower. “I’ll have them all killed before you, I promise,” explains Acacia with the soul of a saint, gesturing to the others in the room. She gently pulls Hase toward herself and then pats her lap.

The young girl sniffs, rubbing her wet eyes. “Really?” asks the thief, sitting down on Acacia’s leg.

Acacia nods contentedly. “Each and every one of them,” promises the princess, leaning back on the chair, which is most certainly not a throne, and smiling. Then she shifts her tone to something more stern rather quickly. “...Hase,” she says curtly.

“Yes?”

“Give me back my ring,” commands Acacia dryly.

Hase lets out a weak laugh, dropping the freshly stolen ring back into Acacia's hand that she had slipped it from unseen only a few seconds ago.

Junis clears her throat. “Perhaps we should discuss other matters at hand?” she suggests, rolling her eyes as Acacia stretches out a hand, tapping the table with an empty teacup. “There is news from the southern border and from the frontier villages,” explains Junis, lifting a hand. “Bandits have organized in the north-west, and the merchants’ guild is asking for more protection. There is also the matter of the room-and-board subsidy for young adventurers. The funds need renewing.”

A man in black armor comes across the room, holding stacks of paperwork that he has been quietly grasping without a word or complaint for the last hour, having been fully ignored. He sets them down next to the teacup, salutes, and then marches off back out the door just in time to regroup with a patrol of soldiers that makes their way through the halls.

“Perhaps…” sighs Acacia, her eyes glancing around the room in annoyance. “But really, where IS Sir Knight?” she asks. “Will someone please tell me?” She looks over toward Chicory. “Chicory. You’re such an annoying busybody. You surely know where he is,” suggests Acacia accusingly.

Chicory clears her throat, her eyebrow twitching being the only betrayal of her annoyance. She is a professional, after all.

 

---

 

 

“Quack,” says the duck in a loud, gruff voice.

A man with a shaved head looks over the park bench, staring at the water and a flock of ducks that swim there, all quite at ease. “Did that duck just say ‘quack’ instead of quacking?” asks the man, sitting on the bench.

“Reginold. Please, focus,” hisses the man next to him, glancing around the park nervously. The city is busy, thriving like none other that they’ve ever seen. The servants of the black-crowned-princess march down every street and alley, but the people don’t live in fear of them. Instead, they prosper. He cannot tell if they are hiding their true emotions or not. There is hardly a corner unwatched anywhere. He suspects that most know better than to utter a word in protest of their malevolent master. He reaches into his coat. “Here are the maps and the documents,” he whispers, quietly handing over the parcel to the other man, who quickly slips it away without looking at it in close detail.

“How did you get these?” asks the other man.

“It wasn’t easy. You don’t need to know.” The first man pulls his coat collar tight. “There is a carriage waiting for you at the eastern gate. Be there within the hour. It will take you as far to the eastern border as it can,” explains the spy. “You will find your way from there.”

“Very well,” replies Reginold, rising up and then walking the other way in a hurry, leaving the other man behind on the bench. It’s suspicious if both of them leave at the same time.

He sits there for a while, listening to the world around him buzz, and then he looks back, seeing something there.

A duck.

He tilts his head, staring at the black duck that stands there, round and content. “Quack,” says the duck in the voice of a man.

 

---

 

Reginold hurries, moving through the city like a spirit trying to return to its lost grave. Expertly, he weaves between merchants and people as he goes down the main market street, blending into the crowd like any other busy person there, as he makes his way to the eastern side of the city.

The sound of marching boots comes from nearby. He turns, looking, and sees a troop of black-armored soldiers making their way toward him.

The spy breaks off into a busy tavern, entering through the front door. Voices yelling for drink, laughter, and the hammering of fists against tables fill his ears before the deep smell of roasting meat fills his nose. Without breaking his stride, he walks directly past a dozen tables, past the bar, and straight through to the kitchen before a server can stop him — to perplexed by his confident stride that hints he belongs there to finish thinking if they should stop him or not. Only the kitchen pauses him for a brief second. He scans the room, deliberately looking past the chefs and then toward a window. He walks past a few men, all too busy filling out tickets to care about him, only watching in confusion for a second as he climbs out of the window and into the back alley.

Behind him, a heap of trash falls over, disturbed by something.

He looks behind himself, seeing nothing there.

Nonetheless, Reginold hurries in a deliberate but unsuspicious pace down the alley and then breaks out back into a street, grabbing onto the side of a carriage that is traveling the same way he’s going and then jumping off again after a minute and walking a little longer down to the eastern edge of the city until he reaches the gate. A bell rings in the distance.

Pressed against the wall is a row of carriages, all preparing to head out to various parts of the city. Dozens of them move in and out by the moment, the street full of anqas and wheels as merchants and travelers come and go alike. Several companies here provide travel services.

He strolls through the parked carriages, half hunched over as he walks between the rows, hidden from the main street. Then he sees it — the mark.

One carriage has a small sign carved into it by a knife; it’s hardly big enough to notice, even if one knew what they were looking for. This is his.

Reginold grabs the carriage door, sitting inside and closing it behind himself.

He exhales, leaning back on the cushioned seat, and closes his eyes. In about an hour, he’ll be out of the region and on his way back to the east. It’ll take a while to get there, but that’s the easiest part of this entire operation. These documents are critical for their information-gathering campaign. They need everything — every weakness, every detail. A long time ago, their forces broke into this city once before to capture the youngest princess, Krone, in a failed operation. Doing so again and getting it right now, after so much has changed, will be a monumental task that can allow no failure or oversight.

Reginold opens his eyes again, having rested them for a moment. He freezes.

Sitting across from him inside the closed carriage on the other bench is a black duck.

The man and the duck stare at each other.

“Quack,” says the duck.

Minutes later, the coachman looks inside his carriage and then shrugs to himself as he finds it completely empty, without a single trace of anybody inside or around. He had a booking for today. Oh well. It's a good thing he was paid in advance.

 

---

 

 

“Sir Knight!” demands Acacia, her fist hitting the table with as much strength as it can muster, which is not a lot, actually. Her breathing is strong today, but her body is weakening often. The tea cup and saucer rattle nonetheless, as they know their place.

“Quack,” responds a growling voice from next to her all of a sudden.

Acacia quickly turns her head, looking at the arm rest of the throne, where all of a sudden a black duck sits, ruffling its tail and feathers. It seems to have simply appeared from nowhere at all.

“And where have you been?” she asks in a deeply annoyed tone. “Goofing off as always, I assume?” accuses Acacia, narrowing her eyes. “I have been calling for you many times, and you have me here looking quite the fool in front of the help,” explains the princess, gesturing to the others.

“Hi, Sir Knight!” calls Junis, waving. Hase and Chicory too. Although Kaisersgrab seems to go out of his way to clean up the floor a little further out.

“Hey guys.” The duck looks around the room at them and then at Acacia. “These are our friends,” amends Sir Knight.

“Yes, yes,” sighs Acacia, rolling her eyes. “As you so constantly remind me.” She leans back, looking at him, the duck staring back. After a moment, he breaks eye contact and then looks around the room, not understanding the silence.

“…What?”

Acacia smirks with an unnerving satisfaction. “Junis. I’ve been waiting for this for what seems like forever.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” replies the elf, walking over to the table next to the stack of papers, on top of which lies a new document that wasn’t there last time she looked. Reaching over, she grabs a mass of black fabric and then unfolds it toward them.

It’s another maid’s dress. This one is extra-extra-large in size, draping down over the floor despite Junis’ best attempt to hold it up as high as she can.

Sir Knight stares at the outfit and then back toward Acacia, who lifts her nose and smiles smugly, eyeing down toward him expectantly.

He looks back toward Junis again, who holds out a frilly headband and feather duster in her other hand.

“…Quack…” says the duck — as ducks are wont to do

 

---

 

 

Priestess Dandelion nods with intent, knowing what’s right in her heart as she opens her mouth to answer the hero's question.

“Der Schwarze Ritter!” replies the priestess, looking back at the man in white armor with fresh resolve. She clenches her fists, shedding fresh tears for the dead as she bites her teeth together to stop her face from contorting and breaking apart as streams run down her face. However, this is not to hide her agony, which is clear in her eyes, but the great rage that is now growing in her heart — the anger. “- He did this. They did!” she swears to the powerful hero who has saved the world so often in the past, according to legend. “The Black Knight and his wicked, monster-hearted master!” she shouts, her arm swiping out in rage toward the dispelled night.