Hoplite stared at the Fiendwallers as they worked, his patience straining as the men slowly assembled the wagon. It was difficult for him to just sit by and watch as the builders slowly toiled to put the vehicle together, a part of him wanted to bark orders to work faster, or to simply move in and start putting the pieces together himself. However, he held back, for Hoplite knew that the wagon would need to be assembled correctly. If that took extra time, it would be worth it. After all, if this wagon were to suffer damage from faulty construction, the results could be fatal for the entire party.

  Nothing in the Fiendwood was edible; plants, animals, all of it was contaminated by the Death Spiral. Any water that could be found in the Fiendwood was safe to drink at least, provided it was filtered and boiled properly. That was what Twindil thought anyway, but Hoplite wasn’t sure. The paladin was fairly certain in her theory, but had still firmly urged the party to ration the water they would bring with them. They wouldn’t try filtering and boiling unless there was no other option, and if it came to that, Twindil had said she would volunteer herself to test any purified water first.

  As the wheels were finally being set in place, Hoplite found himself wondering if his own body would be able to filter out the curse. If it wasn’t really a virus, then would his body actually be able to resist it? His throat was installed with a filter that, when activated, would purify any liquid he drank, but would it be enough? Hoplite frowned as his thoughts drifted to the Death-Day celebration and how he had completely humiliated himself before the hundreds of party-goers.

  He should have activated that filter when the party had started, maybe then, he wouldn’t have become intoxicated. The filter did make breathing difficult when it slid into place, and with how Hoplite had been affected by the magical narcotic in the air, it had been no surprise that he never used it. When that strange peace had settled over him, the last thing on his mind had been activating the uncomfortable throat filter.

  Prancing around with elves… Hoplite grit his teeth in irritation, when was he going to let these embarrassing memories go? There was no going back on what had happened, it was best to move on. With that thought, he turned his attention away from the wagon to instead focus on his surroundings.

  The center of the forward camp bustled with activity, with several Fiendwallers, Defenders, and Tongues going about various tasks, from patrolling the perimeter and clearing rubble to bringing food and water from the untainted side of the wall. Like Hoplite himself, Twindil, Alistair, Kid’ka, and the rest of the party all stood around the wagon, watching it be assembled by a dozen Fiendwallers that toiled and cursed as they worked.

  Lance seemed nervous, switching off from staring at the hill of rubble to the horizon far to the east. Was she reconsidering accompanying them on the mission? It was incredibly dangerous, and Hoplite did expect at least a few casualties among this team, either from being overwhelmed by Fiends, or exposure to the curse. If she went back now… well, Hoplite supposed that he couldn’t blame her. He couldn’t force her to go, it was as she told him days ago…

  She wasn’t his soldier.

  And while that was true, he still hoped that she would stick with him. Lance has proven more than capable of taking care of herself in the field, she’d not be a burden. These others though, Hoplite was unsure. It was true that they were proficient in fighting off Fiends, Hoplite had learned that when they had all fought side-by-side during that ambush in the Faewood, where Fiends had poured out from the trees like a flood.

  Yet, that had been the only time he’d ever seen them operate in combat. There were too many unknowns with these mutants, unlike with Lance and Michael. Just how would Twindil and her friends react to a comrade dying, starvation, and other stresses?

  Hoplite supposed that he would find out during this operation.

  The Fiendwallers building the wagon strained, trying to heave up the bed of the vehicle to more easily slide a wheel into place. Hoplite immediately stomped forward, lifting the bed up with a single hand as the men goggled at him.

  “Finish the installation.” Hoplite ordered.

  “Uh, y-yes milord.” One of the men said after a short pause.

  With Hoplite hefting up the wagon, the Fiendwallers very quickly were able to slide the wheels in place, making sure they were firm and secure before stepping back.

  “A-alright milord, it do be done. If you c-can lower it we can help load your extra provisions.” The man stuttered, his hands shaking slightly as he stared into Hoplite's featureless helmet.

  The Fiendwaller’s tone wasn’t horrified… It was awed. Hoplite needed to keep in mind that he had become famous for clearing out the Fiends that had threatened to flood over the breach. That hadn’t just been Hoplite though, the Tongues had been by his side. Hoplite could not take all the credit for eliminating the threat. Maybe the man was awed because he knew that Hoplite had killed a Pillar-Born? Had word spread that quickly already? Hoplite then set the wagon down, slowly so as to not damage any of its parts, stepping back to admire the Fiendwaller’s handiwork.

  It was a large wagon, as Hoplite had requested, about as wide as a T-57 Rhino and was about twice as long as Hoplite was tall. The bed held more than enough room to carry the party and the extra provisions they would need for the journey. It would be incredibly heavy and difficult to move, even with a full team of horses, but not so for a Hoplite.

  Elum may doubt that Hoplite could pull the wagon across the bridge in merely a week, but Hoplite would prove him wrong. He blinked in surprise again as a new desire began plaguing his mind. For some reason… he wanted to prove Elum wrong. It had irritated him that the red-skinned mutant had disbelieved him and Hoplite, for whatever reason… saw it as a sort of challenge. He knew that it was immature and unprofessional to feel this way, but Hoplite could not seem to help it.

  Every day that he spent out of the cold, dreamless sleep of cryo brought him closer and closer to re-embracing his human nature. Old emotions that Hoplite thought long dead were beginning to flare back to life and immature impulses threatened to crack his steely discipline. Hoplite needed to stay diligent to ensure that wouldn’t happen, the Eighth Arm could not have a Hoplite embracing their humanity like this, he was a tool to be used, a weapon against all that would bring harm to humanity.

  Nothing more.

  With that thought firmly set in his mind, Hoplite moved to the front of the wagon, hefting his bags of munitions with him as the Fiendwallers moved to put a canvas cover over the bed. The rations and weapons that they would bring had to be protected from the elements, as did the party themselves. Hoplite himself would be fine of course, the Phalanx armor -and even his own skin- had been installed with flexible Kelvinite piping, his body temperature couldn’t drop to fatal levels, nor could he suffer from the effects of intense heat.

  Not that he would be exposed to intense heat, he suspected that the Fiendwood was a colder climate. When he had first laid eyes upon Ahkoolis from the Sparrow, Hoplite had seen an infected purple blotch on the lower end of the planet. With his current intel, Hoplite could surmise that it was the Fiendwood that he had seen, situated above a polar ice cap.

  The party seemed to have taken this into account as well, for much of what they loaded onto the cart were warm furs and thick wool cloaks. Indeed, they seemed to understand just how frigid things would become the deeper they went into the Fiendwood. All except for Elum, whose packs seemed to contain naught else but rations. Perhaps Elum’s body temperature was higher than average, like Hoplite himself?

  If so, Hoplite would have less need to remove the Phalanx armor. Elum could fulfill the role of a biological heater in Hoplite’s place. Of course, utilizing body heat would be for emergencies only, but who knew just how cold it would get in the Fiendwood?

  Once everything was loaded onto the cart, Hoplite strode around to the front, seeing the wooden crossbar that he’d be gripping for the length of the journey. Lance climbed into the wagon bed, approaching him from behind and looking pensive.

  “Are you ready?” Hoplite asked her, slinging off the multitude of packs tied to his body before securing them to the coach.

  Lance sighed and shook her head, “I don’t think I could ever be ready for this, but I’m set now.” She said with finality. “I have to do it.”

  “...Affirmative.” Hoplite said after a short pause. What could he say to calm her nerves? “Casualties will be kept at a minimum.” He told her in as reassuring a tone as he was able.

  Lance winced at his words, and Hoplite frowned. What had he said that elicited that reaction?

  “Naw we ain’t gonna have no casualties.” Michael said, climbing onto the bed behind her. “We’re the best, ain’t nobody dyin’ while we’re around.”

  Hoplite disagreed. With the looming dangers of the Fiendwood, it would be impossible to keep everybody alive. Why did he lie to her that way? What was the purpose?

  “I hope so…” Lance said with a sigh, “I don’t want to become a Fiend…”

  “That ain’t gonna happen, trust me. The best, remember?” Michael asked her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

  Again, the odds of coming out of the Fiendwood without infection was unlikely. Maybe not everyone would become afflicted, but from Hoplite’s estimates-

  Then suddenly, he understood. This was not something to be based on logic, it was about reassurance. There was value in keeping spirits high on a risky mission such as this, despite the truth of the dangers. Telling Lance that some of them would die or become infected was just the plain truth, but doing so would serve no other purpose than to demoralize her. Michael’s approach was… it was superior to Hoplite’s, at least in regard to normal people.

  Hoplites and Paladins always dealt with pure logic. To expect casualties when going up against the odds, they did not… What was the term that was most often used for this? Ah yes, sugarcoat. Super-soldiers did not sugarcoat the risks of their missions to anyone, not to standard Eighth Arm infantry, and certainly not to each other. Hoplite was simply not used to such a thing, if death was likely, then it would be best to be honest about it… Right?

  Perhaps not in this instance. From now on, he’d keep his realistic expectations to himself. The number of casualties may rise if the party came to despair. Once Hoplite was finished unloading his packs, he gripped the crossbar, waiting for everyone to load extra rations into the wagon before finally settling in themselves.

  When all eight party members settled into the wagon, Hoplite turned his head, “All supplies loaded? Enough rations to make the trip?”

  “We have too much I’d say.” Alistair said, adjusting himself between two large sacks. “It’s cramped back here.”

  “Live with it.” Hoplite replied, “Better safe than sorry.”

  Alistair blew out his lips and simply nodded in response, right before slapping Theopalu’s hand away from one of the ration sacks.

  “You ate an entire turkey just an hour ago, we have to make this last, no more extras for you!” Alistair shouted, his face turning a hue of crimson.

  Theopalu gave a small frown before returning to his seat, shaking his head as he went. Kid’ka, who was seated next to the elder elf, gave a pat on Theopalu’s shoulder.

  “Sorry, but he’s right. I can’t sneak you anything anymore.” Kid’ka told Theopalu with a frown, “Maybe there’s some bugs on the wagon you can munch on? Maybe a spider or termite?”

  At the mention of potential insects to devour, Theopalu immediately began searching, lifting up bags and peering between the seams of the planks for any unfortunate morsels. Hoplite took a deep breath as he stared out at the horizon, scanning this way and that for any approaching hordes of Fiends that could be heading for the camp. There were groups of stragglers here and there, of course, all pouring across the Greatbridge to reach the Faewood…

  Hoplite blinked as he realized that he had no idea where the Greatbridge was actually located. How would he find it? It would have to be located along the shore for certain, but how long would it take them to reach it? If only there was a-

  Hoplite berated himself for forgetting Theopalu. The elder elf had apparently lived in the Fiendwood long ago, before it was cursed. Hoplite would need Theopalu to provide directions, it was the whole reason Twindil and her friends had hired him in the first place.

  “Theopalu, front of the wagon.” Hoplite ordered, “Point me toward the Greatbridge.”

  “Hmm…” Theopalu hummed, “Uh… I’ll stay back here. I don’t like you.”

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  Theopalu didn’t like him? Hoplite wasn’t sure why, but that wasn’t a factor to the mission. Theopalu needed to fulfill his role as a guide, and if he didn’t do that, he would need to leave. Had Theopalu lied to Twindil about knowing the way through the Fiendwood? If that were the case, he had no purpose besides eating up needed rations.

  “I don’t care.” Hoplite said in his monotone, “Point me toward the Greatbridge, or get out of the wagon.”

  Theopalu scratched his cheek before narrowing his old eyes toward the horizon, “I think if you follow the sun, you’ll reach it.”

  “You think!?” Alistair shouted, “You said you knew this place like the back of your hand!”

  “That was two-thousand years ago, boy…” Theopalu yawned. “I just remember that it was in that general direction. When we reach the shore, you won’t be able to miss it anyway.”

  Hoplite glared at Theopalu as he finished speaking, another emotion welling within him as the elder elf settled back into his seat. Hoplite’s face continued to grow hotter the longer he stared at Theopalu, the veins on his face bulging as he imagined the best way to crush the old elf’s skull.

  Hoplite blinked again, turning his attention back to his forward-facing camera and away from Theopalu. Why did that provoke such a reaction from Hoplite? What had Theopalu done that made Hoplite’s thoughts turn to murder? It wasn’t natural, he’d been talked down to all his life by First Arm nobility and had not felt a thing… all Theopalu had done was say that he didn’t like Hoplite.

  For some inexplicable reason… Hoplite didn’t like him either. It was strange, immature… even unnatural. The firm dislike for Theopalu had invaded Hoplite’s mind much as the peace had during the death-day celebration. For some reason, his blood felt hot, and not just the heat of frustration or anger, but physically hot.

  His skin blistered from the heat, his body regenerating the damage and leaving a tiny pit in his stomach. The Kelvinite lining his flesh fed on the excess heat, cold soon replacing it as the bionic fulfilled its purpose. Emotion alone would not have provoked such a physical reaction… So the question was, what had caused it?

  There was something strange about Theopalu. His eating habits, his behavior,, not to mention how he had just now gotten Hoplite’s blood to boil… literally. In fact, Hoplite had felt this way days ago, when he’d first met Theopalu in the Faewood. He’d need to interrogate the elder elf later when the opportunity presented itself.

  For now though, it was time to set off. Hoplite heaved the cart easily, in a slow walk at first, before breaking into a full-on sprint. The Fiendwallers, Tongues, and Defenders all gave whooping cheers for Hoplite, telling him to slay Kazon and to destroy the Rotting Ilum. More intel he’d need to ask about once the day's running was completed.

  The eight in the wagon all seemed to tense up as Hoplite pulled, Michael letting out a whooping, “Yeah!” As the wagon took off.

  He hoped that they would be able to find more survivors from the Sparrow…

  Hoplite needed to find them, before he became a person again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: THE LAST CHAPTER

  Tuji struggled with himself, trying his absolute hardest to wrest back control of his body as it drew closer and closer to the Ilum Tree that loomed over him. Every step he took was completely out of his power, as was every breath or twitch of the fingers… It seemed that his body was lost to him. Tuji had never felt this way in his life, this utter lack of control, this helplessness, it was a repulsive feeling. No matter how hard he fought, his body refused to obey his commands.

  His memories of what led him to this fate were hazy. The only thing that Tuji could remember was that he had been defeated by Hoplite. Why was Tuji not dead? He had been dead, or at least close to it, but why would Hoplite not ensure Tuji’s demise with a blast from one of his thunder staves?

  Perhaps Tuji really was dead, and instead of dining in Zodd’s Hall for eternity, he was damned to prowl the Pits of Ankoriss. If that truly were the case though, then why did the Pits look like the Faewood? No, Tuji was not dead, though if he could not retake control of his actions, he’d soon wish he were.

  Tuji’s head then suddenly shot up of its own accord, eyes staring intently at the towering Ilum Tree. That black pillar of wood almost completely blotted out the sun’s rays, its many branches spreading out like dark fissures in the blue sky. His mouth forcefully quirked up into a smirk, and in an instant, Tuji was somewhere else. His surroundings had changed from a field of midnight black soil to a circular chamber of gnarled wood. A massive glowing yellow crystal hung suspended from dozens of roots overhead, bathing the whole room in a shade of radiant gold.

  Where… where was this? How had he come to be here? Was he having some sort of strange nightmare? Several elves sat high above the chamber he stood in, seated in high-backed wooden thrones. These thrones were seemingly grown straight out of the ground and somehow seemed ornate despite their knobbly appearance. The seated elves all looked down at Tuji with wide eyes, and he could easily read the surprise in their gazes.

  Tuji would have furrowed his brow at that, had he control of his body. His Dok-Ah was underdeveloped and weak compared to that of a full-blooded elf, and he’d rarely ever been able to read the emotions of another person… So why was it so easy now? What had changed since his defeat at Hoplite’s hands?

  “Harkmother.” Tuji said, his mouth working of its own will, “Your rule has been weak and fraught with ill-made decisions.” Tuji continued, his finger pointing directly at a matriarchal elf woman above.

  So this was the Harkmother? If that was the case, then this was most definitely the Harkhall… but why was he here? Why was Tuji saying these things?

  Her green eyes regarded Tuji as she fingered a strand of her long blonde hair. Fear was in her eyes, though she did quite a good job at concealing it outwardly. A very composed woman to resist fleeing from the ice-cold terror she felt. Perhaps she recognized Tuji somehow? If she did, it could only be because he’d been described to her by the Watchers. After all, Tuji had never met this woman in his life.

  Tuji’s finger lowered finally, and again, his lips quirked up in a smirk “It is time that the Harkhall be disbanded. Draoi never set up this system of governing, it was a purely mortal decision. Therefore, I break none of his laws in overthrowing you to install a more efficient form of rule.”

  The Harkmother drew her lips to a tight line, glaring down at Tuji with fire in her eyes, all the previous fear evaporating from the sheer heat of her rage. It was hard to believe that he had ever respected the woman, she was a fool and a coddler. Tuji would have blinked in shock had he been capable of it. Respected this woman? Tuji had never even met her! Where had that stream of thought come from? It was alien and most certainly not his own…

  “You…” The Harkmother said slowly, “Will begone from this place, creature. Our Lord Draoi will smite you from our sight-”

  “Mother,” Tuji said, cutting her off. “Draoi is not going to stop me. I wouldn’t have even been able to get this far, had he not wanted me to. Do you not see? This is Draoi’s will!” He shouted, flinging his arms wide, “Look me in the eyes Harkmother, and know me for who I really am.”

  A second passed, then another, as the Harkmother peered into his eyes. The woman blinked before gasping in horror, placing a hand to her chest as her jaw hung agape.

  “Terlin!” The Harkmother shouted, “How can this be!?”

  Terlin grinned as he shoved Tuji to the recesses of his mind, locking the foolish orc away as he crossed his arms. It seemed that the creature's soul had not been completely purged as Terlin had hoped. Another discovery to be marked down in his notes once his business here was concluded. This was a kind of magic that no one had attempted to use across all of preserved history… At least, not the history that common people were privy to.

  Terlin crossed his broad arms over his chest as he glared up at the Harkmother, his fiery eyes boring holes into her skull. If the Harkmother didn’t comply with his commands… then Terlin may have to do just that.

  “I had to do what was necessary,” Terlin explained, “With the body of this Pillar-Born, I will overthrow you, all of you.” Terlin told them, his eyes finding each member of the Harkhall, “Now bow if you value your lives. I, Terlin Fire-Eyes, declare myself as King of the Bastion!”

  “Slay him!” The Harkmother shouted at Magulian, another sitter for the hall.

  Magulian was a small elven man with a dangerous Dok-Ah, being capable of slicing flesh with only his eyes. Magulian has slain countless Akan-Dari during the Expansion War, and alongside Terlin, had served as the Harkhall’s enforcer, should a situation such as this play out. Of course, none of the members of the Hall would have ever anticipated a Pillar-Born coming to attack them.

  Terlin wanted to shock the Hall into submission, not slaughter them. They were not all fools like the Harkmother, but they were certain to go against his rightful rule. There would only need to be one example made hopefully, and that example would have to be Magulian. Unfortunate, but Terlin’s old friend would need to be slain, for he knew that Magulian would not back down from his duty.

  Magulian was one of the main reasons why Terlin had opted to take possession of Tuji’s body. Magulian’s Dok-Ah alone had been the only real threat to Terlin’s plans… at least before he had obtained this new body of course.

  Magulian had always been just slightly faster in activating his Dok-Ah than Terlin had, meaning that in most scenarios, Magulian would kill Terlin before he had the chance to set him aflame. With the Pillar-Born’s steel flesh, however, it could be resisted.

  Indeed, Terlin felt an invisible force strike his throat, and as Terlin had hoped, it merely glanced off his skin, a clang echoing through the chamber. He stared at Magulian, the elf showing terror in his eyes just before Terlin used his own Dok-Ah in retaliation.

  In an instant, Magulian erupted in flame, and he tumbled out of his chair screaming, falling head-first into the visitor’s platform and cracking his skull open on the gnarled floor. Terlin ceased the flame in that instant, approaching the burnt body and looming over it. Surprisingly, Magulian coughed, raising a hand toward Terlin with horrified eyes.

  “M-mercy…” Magulian wheezed through burnt lips, his gray eyes desperate.

  “I am sorry, friend. It has to be this way.” Terlin said coldly before he stomped on Magulian’s skull, the heel sinking into the forehead with a sickening crunch of bone.

  Terlin sighed as he heard Tuji wailing in the back of his mind.

  “You violate Tomah!” The creature shouted from the murky depths of his subconsciousness “Stop this!”

  He huffed in irritation at the mewling voice of this body's former owner. Terlin had thought that this possession would have purged the Pillar-Born’s consciousness completely, yet somehow it seemed that the monster's soul still held on. Perhaps it was something to do with the divine blood the orc had been born with?

  Terlin silenced the wretched voice again as he easily leaped to the high seats above, coming to loom over the Harkmother’s throne. She flinched away, sinking back into her throne before averting her fearful gaze.

  “So, what will it be, Mother?” Terlin asked, readying his fist to deliver a killing blow to her skull.

  Hector leaned back in his throne with a heavy sigh, a low guttural sound that echoed throughout the empty stone chamber. There was really no need for Hector to bother with guards, none would be able to protect him better than Hector himself could. It was far less risky as well, a hired guard could easily be a spy from an enemy Block-Lord, or an assassin paid by the gangs of the Akan-Dark to eliminate him.

  There have been assassins, of course, several had come to try and slay Hector over this past decade, and all had failed. Most were dealt with by his capable servants, true, but the ones that did make it to Hector never stood a chance. His senses were just far too keen to allow any would-be killer to sneak up on him. Those very senses allowed Hector to hear the footsteps echoing outside his empty throne room, and he froze an instant before easing back into his seat.

  The weight of the footsteps and the distance between them indicated that it was his most trusted servant, Glen. Hector was soon proven correct as Glen’s signature knock soon echoed from the far end of the chamber, and he grinned.

  Hector then sat up on his throne, quickly combing a knot from his white beard before he bellowed, “Enter Glen!”

  The ornately carved wooden door then slowly swung open, two other men heaving on the door to allow Glen into the throne room. After he passed over the threshold, Glen urged the two men to shut the doors once more. They immediately went to work, pulling the doors closed and leaving Glen and Hector alone in the wide chamber.

  Glen approached on sandalled feet, his silk cloak hanging down to trail the red carpet of the floor. A short-trimmed beard framed Glen’s tanned features, and his dark eyes held a glint of mischief, even after all these years.

  “My master.” Hector’s servant said, kneeling before his throne.

  Hector sighed, waving for the man to stand, “What is it, Glen? And again, you don’t have to kneel every time you come to see me.”

  Glen shook his bald head as he stood from the red carpet that led to Hector’s throne, “I insist sire, you are one of Akan-Dar’s Block Lords, as such, you are deserving of every ounce of respect I can give you.”

  Hector sighed again before he stood to his full height, towering above Glen by a solid two feet. Glen was by no means a small man, it was just that Hector was overly massive, a result of his… unorthodox upbringing.

  “It is a small Block, and I am a humble man.” Hector told Glen, stepping down the carpeted stairs toward his servant, “Please just call me Hector.”

  “That makes you all the more worthy of serving, my lord.” Glen said with a small smile. “I would sooner stick a knife in another ‘lord’s’ neck before referring to you by just your name.”

  Hector laughed and shook his head. “Don’t say that where others can hear you. You know how the serpents of this city slither in all corners.”

  “Aye my lord…” Glen said, bringing his voice down to a whisper, “I have news pertaining to the Starfall.”

  Hector’s golden eyes widened in surprise. “Is that so? I am eager to hear this news, please speak it.”

  Hector had been aching to learn more about the Starfall, and the ‘moon monster’ that had appeared next to Rhetyna. He dearly hoped that his suspicions on what the mass could be were false… but until he gathered more intel, all he had to go on was a guess.

  Lord my God, let me be wrong.

  “A man has risen from one of the fallen stars my lord.” Glen said silently.

  Hector gasped, “A man? As in a human?”

  Glen nodded, “Aye my lord, a human.”

  Hector gave a sigh of relief. Just a human, not what he had thought these ‘stars’ might be. Though if these ‘Starfallen’ really were human, Hector would have a different kind of problem on his hands…

  “The Starfallen has a name, and has already earned himself quite the reputation.” Glen said, locking his fingers together, “He has destroyed an army of Fiends, saving the Fiendwall and likely the Faewood from total annihilation, but even more impressively, if the report is accurate, then he has slain a Pillar-Born as well.”

  Hector’s brows shot up in surprise. The presence of a Pillar-Born meant that the end of the world was coming soon… right?

  He sighed and put a massive hand on Glen’s shoulder “Thank you for your good work Glen, now, you said that this Starfallen had a name? I would hear it.”

  “Of course my lord.” Glen said with a nod, “He goes by Hoplite.”

  Hector’s blood immediately went cold, and he backed away from Glen with a startled gasp.

  Impossible.

  It was impossible.

  Hector put a quivering hand to his face, his golden eyes seeming to shake in his skull.

  “His number!” Hector suddenly shouted, “What is his number Glen!?”

  Glen’s eyes widened in shock, and he put his hands up in a calming gesture before saying “I do not know what you mean my lord, all I know is his name, not this… number. Was he a slave?”

  Hector took a deep breath to steady his nerves before he clasped his hands behind his back, turning away from Glen to stare at his throne.

  “Glen… please leave me for a time. Please find out his number if possible. I… I need to know.” Hector rasped, tears threatening to slide down his cheeks.

  “Aye my lord… be well.” Glen said slowly, “When next we speak, I hope to have the information you are asking for.”

  Hector said nothing as Glen left his presence, and as soon as those doors closed, his shoulders slumped.

  “He is a slave, Glen…” Hector whispered to himself, the tears freely flowing down his cheeks. “We all were…”