CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Pious Prince

  This notification momentarily distracted Bram from the crisis at hand.

  Since Bram had been the one to create the quest, all responsibility of rewarding Bridget fell to him, and he didn’t just want to offer her experience, which was the one option the system could provide without preparation. For making the Loom’s announcement trailer, Bram had planned to gift Bridget with a set of armor made from the very breastplate he’d looted from the assassins of the White Rose that Rowan had massacred.

  It had been a few months ago, the ‘Battle of the Bedroom’ Bram had slept through where Rowan destroyed most of the White Rose’s forces within Lotharin. However, as there had been dozens of assassins, a few pieces of armor had survived the slaughter, and, during the cleanup, Bram had sent those pieces to Master Wolfgang, his bastion’s chief blacksmith, for repairs and modifications.

  The prince had been so busy in recent days that he nearly forgot about this task. He remembered it now though, and in his next visit to his bastion’s forge, he would make sure to claim Bridget’s prize for her.

  “I’ll give it to her later,” he muttered.

  Receiving his response, the system notifications vanished like wispy gates revealing the view of a tense scene that was on the verge of exploding into a full-blown conflict.

  “It’s the imp,” one of the faithful whispered.

  “Is that truly him?” another asked, “our ill-fated—”

  Even Bram heard the hard slap to the cheek.

  “We don’t call him that anymore, you daft fool,” someone chided.

  While another added, “Didn’t you hear, our prince slew a demon — he’s got magic in him now.”

  ‘Our prince.’

  Hearing someone call him that without malice caused a big fat grin to flash on Bram’s face.

  Celebrate later, Rowan whispered into Bram’s mind. We have a job to do now.

  Right, Bram cleared his throat, we’re de-escalating this situation…

  Or we could just fight. That’s an option too.

  One of Bram’s eyebrows hitched upward. He could taste the eagerness in her thoughts.

  Of course, she’d prefer to battle the protectors of Phoebus’ temple. Rowan’s hate for the sun god was especially venomous.

  Just a suggestion, she whispered, adding, and I’m not the only one willing to draw my blade…

  Right…

  It was clear as day who she meant—everyone but him.

  Bram stood between the armed guard of Phoebus’ temple who’d formed lines across its front steps and the players who’d arrived to protest the clerics’ barbaric mistreatment of the young woman they held captive in the stocks to the side of the temple’s front doors.

  Frankly, he couldn’t blame the players for their sudden zeal.

  Leni’s treatment—how they shamed her in front of a crowd—was abhorrent even to Bram. If Hajime’s sensibilities were any indicator, the prince assumed the other players felt similar vitriol for the clerics’ actions—and he was right.

  It also didn’t help that the Loom was goading the players into a confrontation. At least in part.

  Bram had learned the false reasons for Leni’s punishment from the old mercenary. He assumed the players behind him had asked others for information too and the system rewarded their due diligence with this quest.

  It was a strange quest though.

  One of the players behind him spoke up. “This explanation’s a little ambiguous, ain’t it?”

  Bram couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder.

  The player who’d spoken stood nearby, a pale, narrow-faced, middle-aged man with wavy green hair. He had the look of a scholar, though he shared Chris’ Texan accent.

  At his words, other players nodded.

  “It’s like the game’s giving us a choice,” Nike replied.

  “Like there’s more than one way to complete quests,” another player weighed in.

  She stood behind Nike, a broad-shouldered woman with bronze skin and tightly braided hair. Her leather gauntlets were caked in dried blood.

  “We could choose the good route…” Nike began.

  “Or an evil one,” a fourth player finished Nike’s dark musings.

  The pale man with dark hair stepped forward, drawing many gazes at him. He was dressed all in black, and the many different weapons strapped to his body showed signs of recent use. The blood still caking their blades gave that away.

  I need to make a quest that teaches these players proper equipment care… The way they look now, you’d think a war started somewhere nearby.

  Nike didn’t look much better than the others. Like most of the players who’d come forward, she’d yet to wash off the dried blood from her clothes.

  They look like a force of vagrants.

  Bram wasn’t picky about allies though. It was enough for him that they looked ready to fight despite the other choice the Loom offered them.

  “Those who stand for righteousness need not be afraid of the pious blade,” Rowan whispered.

  Could these players win against the forces of the sun god…?

  For a moment, Bram entertained the notion of letting these players loose. In the end, he chose not to goad them further.

  “Yes,” he faced forward, “let’s try to be as admirable.”

  Bram sent his molten gaze sweeping across the temple’s front steps and all who were caught by those eyes that were so like the Sovereign’s flinched in response. Before Atlan’s seventh prince, even the two knight brothers lost their haughty expressions. Yet still they barred his way. To Bram, this was a sign of disrespect that he no longer needed to endure. Not these days.

  “Ser Rowan.”

  “It would be”—the trickster drew her shiny falchion from its sheathe—“my absolute pleasure.”

  With her blade drawn, Rowan’s aura shifted, becoming almost tangible, spreading like wildfire, and pushing against the wills of those around her. Her aura carried with it a killing intent, one so palpable that it could be felt, and even Bram who hadn’t been its target was forced to suppress the shiver climbing up his spine.

  As for the temple’s armed guard, the blade of Rowan’s falchion had become like the reaper’s scythe to them. Many stumbled back in fear, while the few who maintained their broken formation stood frozen with backs suddenly coated in sweat.

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  “M-My faith will protect me!” a cleric yelled nervously.

  Bram couldn’t help replying. “No, it won’t.”

  Not against the rebel trickster of legend.

  The stuck-up clerics scrambled away, and even the players behind Rowan stepped back.

  Surprisingly, the knight brothers held their ground, though it was clear from the sweat dripping down their brow that they too were affected by Rowan’s threatening presence.

  “She’s the Knight of Scarlet Blossoms,” one of the faithful whispered.

  Murmurs began from the crowd, revealing that all had heard of the beautiful knight and her recent ‘Showing of Mettle.’

  “I heard she beat a hundred knights,” someone said.

  “And she took down a swordmaster too,” another chimed in.

  “Sarde off, wouldn’t that make her a swordmaster too?” a third spectator asked.

  Even if the tale had been slightly exaggerated, too many nobles had been present for it to be dismissed as a lie. Besides, after seeing her up close, there was no one here who didn’t doubt Rowan’s prowess.

  “I heard she professed her love for the prince,” a third person added.

  “Really?” Someone asked.

  With another saying, “Lucky bastard. Guess he ain’t so ill-fated after all.”

  That last rumor was an interesting one, and one Bram was eager to hear more of.

  “Wipe that grin off your face,” Rowan chided.

  Bram cleared his throat. “I was simply expressing my delight at your popularity.”

  “Of course, you were,” she giggled.

  It was a warm sort of giggle that was a stark contrast to her earlier killing intent. Her deathly aura resurfaced as soon as she took another step though, and the knight brothers’ spears shook as she approached.

  “You may be a prince, but even royals aren’t allowed to draw their weapons against the temple,” the blonde knight argued.

  His brother, the brunette knight, added, “You’ll be branded a heretic if you shed blood here.”

  “Then you should have stepped aside when my prince asked,” Rowan insisted.

  She took another step forward.

  “And he’s not just Atlan’s seventh prince. He’s governor of this entire kingdom.”

  Rowan took a third step forward.

  “To draw your weapons on him is treason, and treason trumps heresy.”

  Rowan brandished her falchion in a knight’s salute. It meant she was ready to attack them.

  The tension in the air grew thicker, drawing voices into silence and hearts to beat with dreaded anticipation.

  However, before the battle could be joined, the temple’s front doors—these massive, intricately carved wooden doors of twenty feet—groaned open, and a middle-aged man limped out of them.

  His coming drew every gaze to the temple’s entrance. Even Bram’s and Rowan’s.

  He walked with the assistance of a simple-looking cane, though the silver trappings on his yellow robe marked him as a high cleric of Phoebus.

  “Ser Castor.”

  He had a quiet scholarly voice, but it carried throughout the temple’s front lawn.

  “Ser Pollux.”

  He looked not at the knights whose names he called but at the prince waiting behind his own knight. The gaze behind round-rimmed spectacles was generous, friendly even.

  “Prince Bram is a champion of the faith. He is welcome here.”

  At the high cleric’s words, Ser Castor, the blonde knight, and Ser Pollux, the brunette knight, stepped back, and the tension Rowan had created over the steps was cut off.

  “Spoilsport,” she whispered, though she too sheathed her falchion.

  “Maybe next time,” Bram whispered as he passed her.

  Lotharin’s governor took the high cleric’s invitation at face value and walked up the temple’s front steps with a carefree gait. In his mind, however, dark thoughts were already brewing.

  Rowan followed behind him, and so did Hajime who’d been quiet throughout the showdown even though he gripped tightly onto his wand.

  Soon enough, Bram arrived at the top step, and the clerics who’d been so boisterous in their chant of “Shame!” were now meekly bowing their heads to Atlan’s seventh prince.

  Bram ignored them.

  He also ignored the high cleric even though the middle-aged man was clearly waiting for Bram to approach. Instead, the prince walked to the side of the temple’s front doors to reach the stocks that kept young Leni prisoner.

  “June’s breath…”

  He hadn’t noticed it from below, but now that he was close enough, he saw that she was naked. On a cold night such as this one, to be naked seemed as cruel as the raw scars on her back.

  The girl had been whipped. Perhaps worse. There was dried blood on her thighs.

  “P-Please…” Leni cried.

  Fear and relief were at war on her face as if she wasn’t sure what Bram would do now that he was standing before her.

  This angered him.

  “Hajime…”

  Rowan once claimed that there was power in symbolism. Indeed, Bram had felt that power a little over a month ago when he’d stood on the prow of a skyship while an entire village of weargs cheered from below. This moment in front of the temple seemed like that time, a perfect opportunity to gain some fame…but Bram didn’t want it. Not this time. It seemed more fitting for another to claim that honor.

  “…Set her free.”

  Indeed, there was power in symbolism, and though the onlookers knew it not, Hajime was a symbol too. He represented the players who were waiting on the lawn, these unknown champions whom Bram believed would one day be renowned throughout the Imperium.

  “Yes, Br—”

  Hajime checked himself.

  He took a breath.

  Then he bowed.

  “Yes, Your Highness!”

  It was more like a yell, but it was enough. The gazes were on him now.

  Anyone who possessed the Loom’s All-Seeing Eye would see his green tag, his moniker, and they would know he was a player like them.

  “One of us,” someone whispered.

  “So effing cool,” another weighed in.

  “I feel like I know that guy,” came the familiar voice.

  Bram resisted the urge to chuckle.

  For one of the players to become tonight’s symbol of what was good and right to the people of Reise—this was Bram raising his middle finger to the fickle gods who’d cursed him with an ill fate.

  “What do you think you’re doing?!” the Fat Friar screamed.

  He was the only one among his fellow clerics to dare raise his voice in the prince’s presence.

  The Fat Friar strode forward determinedly.

  “That girl is a dark—”

  Rowan’s falchion flashed a second time that night, its blade slicing the air in front of the obese cleric. The warning was clear—no further.

  “Where’s your proof, Cleric Mathias?” Bram asked.

  Despite the bubbling anger rising in him, the prince didn’t forget to be respectful.

  “What proof do you have of your accusations?” he pressed.

  “We have proof, Your Highness,” the Fat Friar insisted. “I promise you that girl—”

  But Bram refused to let him say anything more to tarnish Leni’s honor.

  He stepped into the space Rowan’s falchion cut.

  “Show me your evidence and I will strike her down myself,” he declared.

  So clear was Bram’s conviction that only a fool would answer back. Unfortunately, the Fat Friar was indeed one such fool.

  “We received testimony from witnesses!”

  “From whom?”

  Bram’s gaze turned to the crowd below.

  “Bring these witnesses to me!”

  At the prince’s demand, the Fat Friar bit his lips.

  He glanced over his shoulder, but his fellow clerics who’d been on his side earlier refused to look him in the eye now.

  As for those so-called witnesses, no one had come forward, and Bram knew no one would.

  He tried hard not to smile because he’d seen this reaction many times before in the Sovereign’s court. In the face of oppressive power, who would dare argue?

  “Well?”

  When he turned to face the prince, the Fat Friar’s face was beet red with anger, but he was at least wily enough to know that he shouldn’t throw his anger at Atlan’s seventh prince.

  “No witnesses then,” Bram decided.

  “Wait—”

  “Ser Rowan,” Bram ignored the Fat Friar, turning away from him, “do you sense any dark magic in this girl?”

  Rowan made a show of touching Leni’s cheek, but she was actually wiping the tears from the girl’s face.

  “No, this child is pure,” Rowan answered.

  “H-How would your knight—”

  “Because”—again, Bram interrupted the Fat Friar before he could get going—“she stood watch as I slew The Impure.”

  Bram let his statement sink in.

  Predictably, gasps reverberated among the faithful.

  Surely, they’d all heard the tale of the demon who invaded Bastille’s bastion, and the prince, who, before his noble guests, slew the fiend of the seven hells with righteous might and fury. Finally, Bram’s voice gave truth to that tale, and there were only a few doubtful faces in the crowd.

  “Ser Rowan has seen what I have seen. She knows what I know.”

  Bram’s gaze fixed on the gathered faithful.

  “I fought a demon of the seven hells.”

  He pressed his fist against his chest.

  “I know firsthand their taint!”

  Their prince had changed. They saw it now. Surely, he spoke the truth about vanquishing evil. And now that they thought differently of him, now that they no longer saw him as the ‘Ill-Fated Prince,’ Bram’s natural charm became infectious.

  “And I swear to you…”

  Thanks to his masters in the Delightful Troupe, the prince who was also a bard knew how to work a crowd.

  “…Leni is innocent!”

  “Innocent!” someone took up Bram’s words.

  It belonged to the old mercenary.

  He was smart enough to follow Bram’s lead, and with raised hands, he joined in on the prince’s scheme. Soon enough, more mercenaries were yelling for Leni’s innocence, and the commoners, swept by the atmosphere, cried out for her innocence as well.

  “She’s innocent!” someone cried.

  “Innocent!” another yelled.

  “Innocent!” a third agreed.

  Even the faithful chanting “Shame!” earlier changed their tune.

  “Innocent!” they all cried, louder and more boisterous than before, surprising even the players who’d first come to Leni’s defense.

  Through the din of “Innocence,” there came the familiar yell of “Hi-ya!”

  With a flourishing of his wand, Hajime sent a bolt of magical energy into the lock and broke it. He pulled the two halves apart and set Leni free. Then he placed his cloak over her to hide her pain and shame from the eyes of others.

  “It’s okay now,” he promised in a soft voice. “We will protect you.”

  As if to fortify Hajime’s promise to Leni, Rowan’s falchion came swinging down and she cut the stocks in twain, ensuring this tool of torture would never be used again.

  Cheers broke out from below.

  “W-Wait!” Fat Friar cried, but no one was listening to him anymore.

  “That’s enough, Cleric Mathias,” the high cleric patted the Fat Friar’s shoulder. “You’ve lost.”

  “This is an outrage, High Cleric Adrian. I must protest this here—”

  He was silenced before he could say ‘heresy’ out loud by a look that held none of the generosity shown to Bram.

  High Cleric Adrian leaned forward to whisper in the Fat Friar’s ear, though he spoke loud enough for Bram to hear him. “Be grateful that the prince is willing to let things end here, and your other transgressions haven’t been pushed into the light.”

  Despite his scholarly voice, the threat was obvious in his tone.

  His words weren’t meant just for the Fat Friar either. It was a tactful request to Bram not to cause any further damage to the temple’s reputation.

  “Fine.”

  Bram had planned to shame the Fat Friar some more, but he didn’t want to get on the high cleric’s bad side either. Not now when he needed more allies in Bastille. Besides, he’d gotten what he wanted. There was no need to drag this on. All that was left was to finish the quest.

  “Hajime, take Leni to the inn. Make sure Madam Bertha takes good care of the girl,” Bram ordered.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Hajime replied.

  As he led Leni down the steps toward the players gathered on the front lawn who stood at attention as if they were all willing bodyguards for her, a new notification popped up for all the system’s users in the square.

  Some whooped in joy, though others looked at their screens with sheepish faces.

  “We didn’t do much but stand here though,” Nore complained.

  “That was enough,” Ashe answered.

  Hearing him, Bram couldn’t help but agree.

  There was a great deal of difference between facing enemies alone and facing them with others' support. Having the players gathered behind him had been a boost of confidence in the prince’s steps that pushed him onward.

  “There are many ways to complete a quest,” Rowan noted.

  Bram nodded. “One that doesn’t always end in bloodshed.”

  “Pity. I wouldn’t have minded bloodshed this time.”

  “I know.”

  While the players cheered the success of the event quest, and a red-faced Fat Friar was away by his fellow clerics, two men met in front of the temple’s front doors where none but the trickster could hear their conversation.

  “Your Highness, I am High Cleric Adrian of the Phoebus Temple,” he introduced himself.

  “Bram of House Attilan,” he returned the greeting, but added, “Do high clerics normally preside over a small town’s temple?”

  Apart from the grand clerics who presided over the temples of the kingdom’s capital, high clerics were usually found in great cities presiding over the faith of nobles who plied them with lavish gifts. There weren’t enough donations in small hamlets like Reise to warrant such a revered presence.

  “I am here on business for the temple.”

  “What sort of business?”

  “The kind that requires the aid of Lotharin’s pious prince.”

  He flashed Bram a smile like the one Rowan usually had on. It made the prince wary.

  As if to confirm his suspicions, Adrian said, “You’ve done me a service already in dealing with my troublesome brothers, but I hope you don’t mind if I ask for one more favor.”

  “What sort of favor?” Bram couldn’t help asking.

  At this, Adrian’s gaze drifted briefly toward Rowan.

  Still smiling, he replied, “I would like you to purify a cursed land…”

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