An orc can never be king- Old Proverb, its origin is uncertain, but it predates humanity’s arrival to Artaghan from the Broken Land.

  Kaladhen hit the water and everything went black.

  Heat. Blinding heat. Burning heat. Blackness turned to reds and to oranges.

  Cold. Sapping cold. Freezing Cold. Oranges faded to blues and to blacks.

  Kaladhen's eyes were open, and they burned with salt. The water around him was clouded with smoke and with thin and swirling trails of blood. He could not breath, as his body burned and froze, so did his lungs. A few sparks of fire flaked away. His necklace, a gift from Arrietty, a gift from Zephyren burned away. A phoenix born anew in a pyre of flame. Then, the ocean surged, and that brief moment of respite, of death and awakening, was taken away, and Kaladhen felt himself flung by the jolts of the open sea.

  He slammed into a nearby rock, a foot away there had been another sharp and pointed enough he would have been impaled upon if Lady Luck had not favored him. He tried to swim upwards, as his body demanded air, but he felt heavy. Only now, did the realization of pain strike him. His right leg refused to work, and he saw it had been ripped open by some sharp coral or rock, or perhaps even striking upon the water itself. The pain was a distant thing, yet present, ready to strike him when his mind had nothing else to latch upon. His arms struggled to swim upwards, yet they lacked the strength to fend off the ocean itself.

  It was cold, so very cold. The final embers of warmth from the phoenix were dying. He was dying. A hand was raised above him, it took a moment to realize it was his own. It was bloody and bruised. He had been betrayed. Judge had killed him. Why…why?

  He knew why, he had hoped Judge could forgive him.

  But why should Judge forgive him, when Kaladhen couldn’t forgive himself. The ocean dragged him deeper, and he struck rock, his back scraped down across it like cheese over a grater. He was glad for the cold, it ebbed the pain.

  Down and down he was swept. He couldn’t breathe, it was almost peaceful. The rise and the fall, the twist and the turn. No decision to be made, no mistakes to make. Everything decided for him. Then, he saw something impossible, a sight so incongruous, it made him think his mind summoned a final mirage as he crossed into the unknown. Kaladhen saw another person. They swam without difficulty, cutting through the water as if they were born of it. He felt the weight of their hand around their arm, the warmth of another’s touch. And then he began to rise, dragged up instead of down.

  *

  Caistlin coughed and sputtered on the ground, pain spasmed through him as he fought back the memory, and the tears, and the guilt. Dylon was screaming nearby, but it was hard to understand. The sharp sound of a bolt loosed from a crossbow shattered through his whirling mind, as he blinked away water and crawled to his feet. The pain he felt was forced behind a wall in his mind–something to be dealt with later.

  Dylon held aloft his crossbow, and was aiming it at Lydia’s niece, murder in his hands. Caistlin froze, as several thoughts crossed his mind. He could stop Dylon, but not in a fair fight. He could hold his own in swordsmanship for only a short time before his pains would wear him down, and that was on a good day. He was sore, and broken, and too far away. But one jolt of Sophomancy could stop this. However it would have to be blunt, obvious, and Dylon was close enough to Judge that Kaladhen–Caistlin was certain that Dylon would recognize what happened.

  Reveal himself or watch Lydia’s niece die. Years of planning lost for the life of a girl he did not know. Swallowing down trepidation, he raised a trembling hand. Could he do it? Then, Caistlin heard another bolt fire, and realized what a fool he had been. He had debated too long, considered too long. It did not matter how much time had passed, how much he had been hurt and changed. He still was that same kid, that same man, who always spent too much time thinking. Dylon’s bolt flew true, right towards Gwynfor as she stood braver than he, facing her own death.

  Then, Caistlin saw a flash of pure and brilliant white, and a blinding light enveloped everything. Kaladhen saw himself standing atop a precipice, overlooking an endless void. Judge stood beside him, cruel and twisted eyes filled with hate, as they both grasped the cuff of the other person’s coat. One wrong move, and both would tumble into that darkness, one right move, and one of them would be the victor. The light faded.

  Gwynfor was gone, and left in her place was a pool of silver blood and a strand of white hair.

  “No,” Dylon said, voice empty.

  “No. No,” he continued, a note of despair creeping into his voice.

  “NOOO!” He wailed, stomping the ground, like a kid whose toy was taken away. “NO NO NO!” Dylon turned, and his attention fell entirely to Caistlin. In Kaladhen’s days, he had seen many people look at him with such anger. Once it would have frightened him. Dylon was far from the worst person to gaze upon Kaladhen in such a way.

  Once again, as Dylon prowled towards him, Kaladhen had several things running through his mind. First, was that he had utterly failed. Dylon needed to have succeeded, so that whatever Judge was planning could continue forth, and Caistlin’s work for their group could buy him into their plots as a pawn. Besides, Kaladhen understood House Itterarkh well, and had a few ideas in mind for how to crumple a new Line of their House and ruin Judge’s intentions there. Second, if Kaladhen did nothing to stop Dylon, the idiotic noble would try and kill him. Third, Kaladhen figured there would be a way to still turn this to his advantage. Fourth, Kaladhen was damned, and the guilt still rested on his shoulders for failing to help Gwynfor. Yet, perhaps this had worked out better for her. That Unicorn had no chance at survival, and Kaladhen knew what it would do next.

  At least, that was the lie he made for himself, so that it could be used to silence and lock away the voice of regret and the twinge of humanity left in him.

  “YOU FUCKING TRAITOR!” Dylon said, and he reached Caistlin. The elf did not bother with weapons, and he tackled Kaladhen, and they both fell to the ground. Kaladhen didn’t fight back, as he was kicked and punched and felt spit fall all over him. “YOU WILL PAY FOR HELPING THAT BITCH!”

  The signs of a weak mind made themselves apparent more than you would imagine. Some insults were best left unsaid, some twists of the tongue unspoken. He should not have called Gwynfor that. With fury and guilt and all manner of unsavory thoughts running through his mind, Kaladhen released all inhibition and struck at Dylon’s mind.

  It was strong, Dylon had been trained well. But Kaladhen had been trained by the very best, and had grown his talents in the middle of a war whilst being an underdog. In order for him to survive and to win, he had to be better, smarter, more dedicated than anyone else. If thoughts were a river, then a mind’s shield was a dam. And Kaladhen burst through a wall of stone by applying pressure greater than the ocean.

  Dylon’s mind was laid bare, his insecurities and struggles, memories close and forgotten, all were subject to Kaladhen’s whims. Atop him, Dylon went still, like a corpse or a man left catatonic. Anger and guilt and dark memories poured into Dylon and he heard him release a soft moan of sheer and utter anguish. Oh you poor fool, if you flinch at this, you are not ready for the torments which come next.

  Kaladhen did not believe in the High Father, or at least, he did not believe in the Church which worshipped him. He had seen too much evil amongst their ranks, and he had lost a good man to their zealotry. But, even more than that, he knew they were no saints by what they decreed Blasphemy of Magic. For if Black Omens, and Vampirism, and Lycanthropy were deserving of death, yet what Kaladhen was about to do wasn’t, then they hadn’t the faintest idea of justice.

  Slowly pushing Dylon off him, Kaladhen stood to his feet as he kept streaming the worst images his mind could conjure into Dylon’s mind. The elf’s body seemed to arch up, as if struck by lightning. His mouth opened and closed without words, for there would be no words the mind could form in response to what it experienced. This was the work of the great Sophomancers, the skill all dreamed of: Coercion. The ability to so utterly break the mind that by the end, even the strongest of wills would do anything you said if it meant never having to experience the sensation again. And they would have to return to them, for the experience was so devastating, that only by constant excision by Sophomancy, hiding it away for a while, could one continue with existence. Kaladhen’s skin was covered in goosebumps, his body chilled to ice, as he watched, trying to remain as detached as possible.

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  Dylon’s body continued to twitch, to jerk, to show small signs of the agony he must have been feeling. Finally, as he arched up into a shape Kaladhen was sure Dylon would normally never manage, he heard the elf shout “MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP!” The words came over and over again, endless, turning into a hoarse whisper as his voice strained in its begging. It was no conscious mind which kept the words coming, but the deepest and most inner workings of Dylon’s being which demanded freedom from its torment.

  Kaladhen drew close, and whispered in Dylon’s ear. “I can free you, but you will be mine. Your every action will be mine to dictate. Your every thought to my liking. Your very existence will be clay for me to mold.“

  Before he even finished the first sentence, Dylon was saying, “Anything, anything, anything,” so much so that the words blended into gibberish. Kaladhen tied off the torrent of emotions, not excising it, but leaving it as a bubble in the deepest and darkest corners of Dylon’s mind, a constant presence and reminder to him that he was Kaladhen’s. Dylon no longer jerked, and had been rendered unconscious. Kaladhen doubted he would wake for some time. Now, came the time to plot and plan, and to determine his next step: Offering his aid to Judge.

  *

  Judge’s office was quiet. He had sent Fourteen away so he could do whatever it was in Morterran’s hell he did in his free time. Judge did not want distractions from his Sender, especially not Arrietty’s response. He had too much on his mind. Centurion occupied his thoughts. What was that old man’s plan? It was hard not to feel the bubbling cauldron of anger boiling in Judge’s stomach at the thought of him. How odd it was to so hate a man, and yet have so closely tied himself to him. Centurion would have destroyed the Flowers, and taken the Throne himself, had Judge not intervened. He had traded one life for many, and yet he still could feel the noose tied around his own neck.

  Oh well, he was used to the sensation. What friend might Centurion be sending, and what was this merchant council’s role to be? More importantly, how might Judge twist it to his advantage? There certainly were many ways, but which were true and which would be figments? And of those which would work, what would be most successful? Ideas sprang to mind and faded, it was difficult to know where to step when he still lacked crucial understanding. Judge kept pacing. When would this friend arrive? Was Centurion making a play for the Throne? Did he finally wish to sit upon it? Judge felt goosebumps at the thought, but not for Centurion on the throne. He pushed that away–he was Arrietty’s hand. Judge doubted Centurion wanted the cursed thing. He only fought in the succession war to be certain a capable pawn would end up on the Throne. Vitruvius ended up failing, and so Centurion turned the Flowers into his pieces. Yet, perhaps Judge’s own positioning and Arrietty’s…idealism, annoyed him to the point he would remove them. It was not without possibility. Yet, this line of thinking had little to do with a merchant council. What could that achieve for Centurion? He already had the ear and vote of both the Noble and the Dragon’s council. What would one more mean?

  Clearly he had friends among the new class of wealthy traders and sellers, but was that really all? Judge doubted it, Centurion was not a man who worked on the surface level. He paused at his table, tapping his fingers against it, feeling the wood beneath, rough and without polish. Much like himself, so to think.

  There was a knock at the door. So the time had come. Judge, facing away, said in a loud and clear tone, “Enter.”

  The door swung open and swaggered in a quite distasteful individual. Peytiel Greenwood, dressed in a suit of black over a white collared shirt with a satchel across his shoulders. His hair was cut low to the scalp. He also was wearing makeup, masterfully applied, and very discreet. Most would not even have noticed, but Judge made a habit of observing the tendencies of people. Peytiel was the pristine appearance of wealth. A heavy perfume followed him into the room, and Judge made no effort to hide the wrinkling of his nostrils at the assailing scent of wood smoke. Evidently, Peytiel cared about appearance, and illusion. Judge could see the man’s eyes, which immediately locked upon him, saw the callous smile on his face, barely masking the disgusted twist of the lip at Judge’s own appearance, the instant disdain for him Judge was all too used to seeing. Now here was a man who operated much nearer to the surface.

  “Good, you are here. I have little time to waste with you Judge–”

  “Sir Chamberlain,” Judge interrupted.

  “Hm?” Peytiel asked, eyes flashing as his lips curled.

  “You and I are not acquainted. It is customary to refer to me as Sir Chamberlain. Normally Lord would be more appropriate, but I have an understanding that you merchants see yourselves as equal to us, and I acquiesce to our mutual friend Centurion.”

  Peyteil crossed his arms over his chest, and seemed to plant his feet. “As I was saying Judge, I have little time for niceties.” Peytiel pulled a scrollcase from his satchel. “This describes the Council of the Coin, or merchants or whatever title would make it palatable to Arrietty.”

  “Her Lady Dragon.”

  Peytiel continued over Judge and without acknowledging his interruption. “It must be implemented within the next two months, so you best scurry back to Dragon’s Throne and have it–”

  In a single quick motion Judge lunged forward, and slammed a fist into Peytiel’s cheek. He saw a tooth and a bit of blood fly from his face as the man collapsed onto the ground, eyes wide in all manner of pains and fears and surprises. Judge stomped a foot onto Peytiel’s arm, and heard him yowl in pain.

  “WHAT THE HELL!” he screamed and tried to push himself up. Judge drew the knife hidden in the folds of his cloak and leaned down onto him, pushing Peytiel fully to the ground, as the knife pressed to his throat, close enough that he might die if he breathed wrong.

  “I believe we are operating in misunderstanding. Allow me to correct that.” Judge did love the look of fear in Peytiel’s eyes. How comforting it was to see one who always had power be so utterly helpless. “You are not Centurion Cicero. You are not superior to me. At best, you may consider me an equal, but you forgot for all the things money can buy you, what it cannot do is buy me. You will address myself and Arrietty with respect. You will ask for help. You will treat me as a human and not as a tool. You seem to forget that I have the authority to bring even the High Lords to justice.”

  “You’re insane,” Peytiel said, eyes still wide, turned down to the blade at his throat. He did seem remarkably calm, given the situation. “Centurion will–”

  “Centurion is not my mother. I have already told that bastard I am not his to command. He cannot ruin me without exposing his involvement too. Arrietty’s fury will extend to anyone involved in conspiracy. So, I feel we are equals. If he wants my help, he can be polite. If you want my help, you will be polite. I do not take kindly to bullies Peytiel. I spent a childhood dealing with them, I expect better of supposed adults. Have we an understanding?”

  “Yes,” Peytiel spat.

  “Yes…?

  “Yes Sir,” Peytiel said, his eyes daggers.

  “Excellent,” Judge said, and stood up, but not before making sure the knife left a thin cut on the throat. Peytiel scrambled up, and Judge could see the bruising and swelling already beginning around the man’s mouth. A smirk played over Judge’s face, stretching his muscles to the point of pain. “The details are in the scroll then. Two months you are asking for?”

  “Yes,” growled Peytiel, trying to dust off his jacket. He would need a deeper clean than that to return it to its prior condition. “Within are a list of people to suggest as members on the council, as well as a number of empty slots you can fill in yourself, or leave open–”

  “No.”

  “No?” Peytiel remarked, and would have looked dangerous if not for the way his suit was rumpled and frayed.

  “The position on the Merchant Council will be decided by a people’s vote,” Judge said, unrolling the scroll and starting to scan it over.

  “That is not what–”

  “Need I give you another reminder? Arrietty’s position is tenuous right now, mainly thanks to Centurion’s policies he is forcing through. This will engender sympathy from the people, who are already on the point of revolt.”

  There was a dark glittering in Peytiel’s eyes. “And I wonder whom we might have to thank for that.”

  Judge continued to smile, but felt a queasy sensation in his stomach. What might they suspect about Judge’s own plans? He had told no one of what he worked towards, of the lengths he would go to reach his ends. He treaded dangerous grounds here, but he always had. “I would start by thanking House Groloth for their continued resistance against Arrietty’s rule. Are we agreed on the people’s vote?”

  “That is Centurion’s decision.”

  “Then it is decided, for Centurion is a reasonable man.” Judge kept glancing over the scroll. Centurion wanted to steal away some of Judge’s duties as High Lord of Scales. Matters of money were a powerful tool in Judge’s pocket, but he was playing aggressively against Centurion, and his position as High Lord of Sending, and Arrietty’s Chamberlain were of far greater importance in Judge’s estimation. A sacrifice needed to be made. “I will need more time to study this in detail, but a first glance reveals a well put-together proposition. Lord Centurion has my compliments.”

  “When will you know for certain? Centurion is not patient.”

  Judge raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you misinterpret anger for lack of patience. There are few people in all of Artaghan more patient than he. Centurion has outlived four Dragons, not counting the idiots who briefly held the title after Hyrth’s demise, and has remained a key figure behind the Throne throughout them all. I will have my answer fully before I leave town. A week at most, after which, it will be sent to Arrietty for approval and given to the capitals for the people’s vote.”

  Judge could tell Peytiel seemed annoyed, luckily–Judge did not much care. “Very well.” Peytiel turned to leave. “And Peytiel,” the man paused to look back at Judge. A smile cracking his lips, Judge pulled a golden scale from his pocket and tossed it to him. “You may want to see someone about that swelling. Don’t want to get called an orc now would you?”

  Peytiel did not seem to find his humor funny, as he strode out of the room without a word. Judge kept laughing. One day, others would understand his mirth.