The door closed behind Damian with a solid thunk, followed quickly by the click of the lock engaging. Looking around, the room seemed dressed like an extra sleeping chamber. A generous bed piled with furs, a fireplace, a couch and chairs, a wardrobe, a desk, and even a door to an attached bathroom filled the space. If it weren’t for the iron bars on the window, Damian might’ve been able to forget it was serving as a very plush cell.

  Suffice it to say; the explanation could’ve gone better. Just trying to talk to the King—Morozov was his name—felt like trying to breathe with a horse on his chest. His aura was so oppressive it froze Damian’s bones. And it was clear he was, ah, not exactly happy about his daughter letting a young man into her room unsupervised, regardless of what her skill told her.

  Damian had been privy to them arguing for about sixty seconds before the King ordered his guards to remand him to a holding chamber. Two [Knights] escorted him from the room, and for a brief second Damian considered making a break for it. But where would he go? Out the window? The castle had seemed sparsely inhabited when he’d first explored, but he had no doubt they could lock it down in a blink if they thought he was a threat.

  And even if he did somehow escape, where would that leave him? Kat seemed to believe he was there to help, but her dad clearly wasn’t as convinced. If Damian acted suspiciously, surely the king would keep him far away. Which left him playing along and hoping things worked out. He hated that option, even if he knew it was the smartest one.

  He tried not to feel relieved when he realized they weren’t taking him to a freezing dungeon under the castle, but it was admittedly a relief. Still, he did his due diligence inspecting the room for potential exits. The flue for the fireplace was too small to even consider, the iron bars on the two windows were sturdy, the door was locked and probably guarded, and his long-shot hope of a secret passage behind the wardrobe turned out a bust.

  In the end, Damian made a small fire in the fireplace when he realized the room was a little chilly, then settled into one of the chairs. Soon he was nippish again and cursed himself for not taking one of those yummy-looking scones from Kat’s room. The [Knights] had confiscated his bag of holding, so he didn’t have any food on him. Maybe if he knocked on the door and asked for some food, they’d bring it? Or maybe that would just annoy his guards.

  He could go hungry for a bit.

  With nothing to do but wait for someone to decide he was worth checking in on, Damian was left to think. This situation wasn’t like Konrad’s. Kat was a princess of a generously sized nation, with a father who was clearly kind of a badass outside of also being an actual [King]. She had an entire knight order willing to fight for her, a castle, and whatever artifacts and ridiculous wealth a kingdom could provide. Which begged the question: what exactly was Damian supposed to provide?

  For Finn and Konrad, he’d been all they had going for them. But Kat seemed well taken care of. So what was the point? From Damian’s perspective, he wanted to help, and that was enough for him—but he couldn’t see that argument making much traction with her father. The main thing he could lean on was his class. It seemed unique and uniquely helpful to the chosen one. Or... potentially uniquely helpful. At his present level, he really only saw [Sense Divinity] as an asset that likely couldn’t be reproduced any other way.

  That gave him at least an angle, no matter how small it was.

  It was hard to keep track of time locked in a room, but if he had to guess, Damian thought about two hours had gone by before someone came to visit him. The lock clicked, and he straightened in his chair. When the door swung open and King Morozov stepped through, Damian shot to his feet, bowing at the waist.

  “Stand,” he commanded, and Damian did—just in time to see the door close behind him. This time it didn’t lock, though.

  The man looked exactly the same as when Damian had first seen him, but this time his aura wasn’t billowing around him like a snowstorm. His furs, one-shoulder cape, and crown made for a regal figure, but upon closer inspection Damian spotted smile wrinkles tucked beside his eyes. In each hand he held a steaming bowl. He set them on the squat table between the chairs, and Damian saw they were filled with small dumplings and two slices of black bread.

  “Please, sit,” the King said in a softer tone, taking the seat across from Damian. He lifted one of the bowls into his lap, spearing a dumpling with his fork and inspecting it. “Have you had pelmeni? They’re a comfort food popular among my people, and my favorite meal. Not very fitting for a king, but that doesn’t change my taste.”

  Cautiously, Damian picked up the bowl and glanced down at the dumplings. They looked good, but he was a little wary of how casual the King was being. Even though the man was clearly reining in his aura, Damian could still feel it rippling around him. He’d never seen an aura so powerful before, except for maybe the gods he’d encountered.

  Damian tried one of the dumplings. It had a sour tang, the dough wrapper was chewy, and the meat filling was savory. Not necessarily his favorite thing ever, but good. “I haven’t tried it before, but it’s good. Thank you.”

  The King nodded before eating his own. Damian had a second, resisting the urge to scarf them down as he was now quite hungry. Then the King smiled and added, “Though it is customary to wait to eat until the [King] has taken his first bite.”

  Damian froze mid-chew. He should have thought of that. But the King had implied he was curious what Damian thought. And he’d brought them here. Still, he should’ve expected a test like this. Gods, he was so—

  The King belted out a barrel-chested laugh, putting a hand over his chest for emphasis. “My apologies—the look on your face is priceless. I take no offense; you clearly haven’t had an education on manners around nobility. It’s no stain on your character. Please, please continue to enjoy your food.”

  Even with that explicit permission, Damian was cautious as he went back to eating. But the King was also eating, so he figured he was safe. He wondered if the man was waiting for him to say something, but he’d already put his foot in his mouth at almost every turn since he’d walked into the castle, so there was no way he’d be taking the lead now.

  Damian ended up demolishing the bowl of pelmeni, as well as the bread. The King set his bowl back on the table with about a third of his still left uneaten. For a moment Damian wondered if he shouldn’t have eaten everything. He hated how unprepared he was for this situation.

  “My daughter says you claimed to have [The Chosen One’s Squire] as your class,” he said, holding Damian’s gaze with his nearly purple eyes. “And that you’ve seen two chosen ones before her—is that true?”

  “Yes,” Damian answered, then hurriedly added, “your majesty.”

  “I understand recounting the details may be difficult for you,” he said in a soft voice. “But I’m afraid I must insist.”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Damian hesitated for a moment, adjusting his posture. “Okay. Um... I grew up in a small village named Bekham, and—”

  “Wait,” the King interrupted. Damian saw where his daughter got it from. “[Tell Me a Hearthside Tale].”

  The room began to fill with snowflakes, blowing on a wind coming from nowhere. Damian gripped the chair tight as the two of them were swallowed by a whirlwind of white in a matter of seconds. It grew thicker and thicker until he couldn’t even see the room—just the King, his chair, and the table between them, the only color in a whirling snowstorm.

  Then it faded, the wind dying down and the snowflakes melting. Behind the storm wasn’t the room they’d been in before but... Bekham. The village before it had been destroyed. Damian gawked as he stood and walked toward his lodge. With a trembling hand, he opened the door and stepped inside, entirely forgetting he was speaking with the King.

  It was surreal to see himself sleeping in his small cot. Finn was sitting up in his own, next to Damian, watching him sleep. Had he been watching him before Damian woke up? As though the thought somehow reached the other version of him, the sleeping Damian stirred.

  “Another dream?” Finn asked softly.

  “Your brother?” King Morozov asked, and Damian—the real Damian—jumped, not realizing the man had followed him inside.

  But he recovered quickly, nodding. “Yes. And no. Not by blood. In our village we were all raised as brothers and sisters and fathers and mothers. One big family.”

  Morozov nodded thoughtfully, stroking his well-trimmed beard. “I’ve heard of that in some of the frontier hamlets. I hope my skill didn’t scare you. I find it helps me to... understand.”

  Damian didn’t respond, walking up to the fake Finn and reaching out to touch him. When his hand pressed against Finn’s cheek, it was bitterly cold and flaked away, skin and flesh turning into white snow. Tears pricked at Damian’s eyes, but he blinked them away and stepped back. The snow reformed into the facsimile of his friend’s face again.

  “I was just surprised is all,” Damian said to the King. “I’m... thank you. It’s good to see him again.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  It felt like a strange skill for a [King] to have, especially since it felt like a higher-level one. But Damian wasn’t complaining; it was good, if bittersweet, to see his siblings and parents again. As he narrated what was happening, the scene continued to unfold in front of them. He skipped their trip to the water hole and beach, and they watched his hearth march into the woods and return moments later, the sky shifting from morning to evening in a breath.

  Then they followed Damian and Finn into the [Seer’s] house to watch them have their futures read in the smoke. Despite his earlier interruption, the King was a much better listener than his daughter and, for the most part, just watched and let Damian tell the story. When the winged, spear-wielding figure formed from the smoke, his brow furrowed deeply, and he walked up to inspect it closer. For Damian’s part, he wondered how the [Seer] hadn’t seen the impending doom coming. Maybe the gods could hide themselves from her future-seeing?

  They stepped out of the [Seer’s] lodge directly into their hearth’s lodge again, and watched Damian and Finn talk about what this meant for their future. The fake Damian scoffed when Finn joked the one thing they could do was party like monsters, and Damian winced, only now seeing how defensive he’d sounded. “I’m coming with you.”

  Morozov hummed as he leaned in and glanced between the fake Finn and Damian. The real Damian blushed as he realized exactly how obvious it was that he liked Finn, given hindsight and an outside view. But luckily, the King didn’t comment on that. “You were very brave.”

  That didn’t help Damian’s blush.

  “Or very stupid.”

  “You’d be surprised how much bravery and stupidity overlap,” the King commented idly.

  Damian wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that, so he just continued with the story. When they exited the lodge, it led them straight into the party. Unfortunately, they had to watch fake Damian shouting at Mother Revna, and his face burned with shame. He didn’t mention his later conversation with her in the lodge, and mercifully he was spared showing it. Still, he remembered having not said I love you when she left. The shame burned hot in his gut.

  Instead, they watched the party rage on as fake Damian staggered back into the periphery. Then the fire exploded into a pillar of flame, and the giantess who was Nephret stepped out, demanding to know who the chosen one was. King Morozov held up his hand, and the scene froze. He walked up to the goddess, inspecting her with a critical eye. “So... this is what divinity looks like. Don’t touch her. Even with my skill, she feels... realer.”

  Damian shivered—even if the King hadn’t said anything, he wouldn’t have gotten any closer.

  The scene continued, and Damian felt his throat get tight as it descended into madness and death. He’d seen this once before, and that was enough for him, so instead he watched the King’s face. Even without watching, the sounds of flesh tearing and bone cracking had him trembling in place, clenching his fists and hoping the King wouldn’t notice. As his family was torn to pieces by an angry god, the King’s expression went hard, jaw stiffening and eyes narrowing.

  Damian didn’t say anything while the fake him was nearly smooshed to death under Nephret’s foot. He didn’t say anything when Mother Revna died. And he didn’t say anything when Finn was killed. Nephret brought her foot down on fake Damian’s face, then disappeared in a flash, and the only noise left was the distant screaming of injured survivors and the crackling of fire.

  Morozov’s hand closed around Damian’s shoulder, firm but comfortable. He squeezed gently, leaning down until he was at eye level. “You have lived a tragedy none should be made to endure. My heart weeps for you.”

  “Thanks,” Damian muttered.

  “I’m sorry to ask this of you, but the other [Chosen One]?”

  Damian made the executive decision that the King didn’t need to see him arriving in Jahrmarkt, or making drugs, or getting high... so it was just the tail end of their last conversation. This time, the real Damian could see Marduk sitting in the room the entire time. It was distinctly uncomfortable, watching them move around Marduk and even react to his rare comments, passing him a bowl of food. He wanted to scream at his past self, tell him to just see the god right in front of him. But it didn’t work that way.

  Damian gave only a minimal explanation of what happened when Marduk took them on a journey around the city, but luckily the skill didn’t seem to need much. Morozov watched it all, pausing the scene every now and then but not asking any questions. He seemed especially interested when Marduk formed the pact with Konrad for Damian’s life.

  When Marduk killed Konrad—or the fake Konrad—Damian couldn’t watch again.

  His voice trembled slightly as he ended his tale. “Then he left. And then... doesn’t matter. Just traveling until I got here.”

  The rooftop of the grand cathedral slowly faded into snow again, and the snow blew away, melting into nothingness and revealing the castle room. They were standing between the table and the hearth. It was a little jarring, and Damian turned away from the King to wipe at his watering eyes.

  “So it is true, then,” the King said wearily. “I will tell you, Damian, what I know. My head priest of the Solar Brotherhood found evidence of the chosen ones in his holy texts. It is said the [Chosen] are an affront to the gods themselves, and that they must be destroyed when they are found.”

  Damian swallowed hard.

  The King’s shoulders slumped. “But she is the gem of my life—the greatest treasure of my kingdom. How could that be an insult to the gods? It’s an insult to me and to my people. I don’t... I do not know what to do, Damian.”

  For a moment, the proud King gave way to a weary father, and Damian thought he saw an echo of Father Garm in him—under the fancy clothes and expensive crown and armor. Still, it made him more... human, just for a moment. Just a tired father.

  “I don’t know either, your majesty,” Damian admitted.

  “I know what’s coming, and that my faith demands I let it happen. But I refuse—I refuse to believe my daughter is somehow at fault for existing. I just... am not sure how to reconcile my faith and my love. Can you understand?”

  “No,” Damian said quickly and firmly. The King’s words stirred a warmth in his chest—a fire that hadn’t stirred since Konrad’s death. “What faith I had was taken from me. Broken when I burned the corpses of my family. And I don’t know what to do either, but the Great Game gave me this class, and I have to believe it was for a reason. So I’m going to do everything I can to help your daughter, if you let me.”

  The King was silent a moment, and then his posture straightened as his head rose to meet Damian’s eyes. “I believe you.”