Cedric knelt there upon the ground, his fists balled in rage. He shuddered in a way that was new, a way that he'd never shaken before. Even to the man approaching him from behind, such a sight was unbefitting of Cedric—unbefitting of their king.

  “Are you okay—Lorik?”

  Cedric jerked his head back in vile aggression—then stopped. He ungrit his teeth. “Sorry. I didn't realize it was you, Tyverius.”

  The masked elf had finally removed his face covering, exposing the perfect skin underneath. He was marked by no indications of age or strife, his complexion was without fault. His expression was without emotion altogether.

  “Faunia is…”

  “She'll be well, I think.” he attempted to console. “She's hardy.”

  “Stronger than me, probably… No, definitely.”

  “...Any interest in grabbing a drink?”

  Cedric stood, let Tyv assist him to his feet. “I'm not feeling particularly thirsty…” said the king, before he thought of Rithi. “Actually, a drink sounds proper for the occasion. Nothing else to do, right? We can only wait.”

  Tyverius cast a wary glance at the white mannequins dancing erratically around the battlefield, those soldiers of Evra. They'd done a great job already of cleaning the bloody mess, restoring Calamon to some facsimile of order. But just how far would their order go? Just how much would the world change in the aftermath of their battle?

  “You're still fighting?” asked Cedric, seeing the quiver and bow on the elf’s back.

  “Not much to fight. I was here when the Sylvet poured through. Thankfully Faunia had briefed us on them, and I knew to stay well enough back. As far as everyone who Kogar… erased…”

  “Kasian. Everyone he erased, or otherwise killed...”

  Tyverius considered his words. “Are they all gone for good?”

  “Probably. Until the Deadworld spits them back out again.”

  “...Is that so bad a fate?”

  Cedric chuckled solemnly, his eyes tracing his fingers. “It depends who you ask. They're spared from this hell, at least, but I can't promise that anything beyond this life is much better. I'm not acquainted enough with the realms to know...”

  Tyv feigned a painful smile. “Come on. Let's go get that drink.”

  “For the Hunters!” was the raucous cheer which greeted them as they entered—at first just a cheer to the day itself. But when they saw Lorik in the flesh entering their tavern, their tankards reached for the sky all the sloppier, and their cry was loud enough to reach the far ends of the realm.

  Cedric didn't answer beyond a meek smile. He didn't feel much like a winner—he wouldn't until Faunia returned. If Faunia returned. That would be some sign that Kasian was done for good, at the very least. And then, he wasn't exactly sure how else to vent his feelings for her.

  They sat at the cozy wooden bar and were delivered two pints of ale on the house. The place they'd chosen was more on the side of luxury, though not by a great stretch; there were candles placed along the polished bartop all the way to either end, and more candles dangling down from above on golden plates. Behind the bar's collection of assorted glass bottles was a mirror—Cedric wasn't happy to see his face in it. He lowered his head so he couldn't.

  “Please—now’s not the best time,” consoled Tyverius to the people trying to crowd the king's shoulders. He was not the most intimidating by a long stretch, but somebody bound to Lorik’s right hand was intimidating in great measure by that achievement alone.

  “We can go somewhere quieter, if you'd like.” said Tyv when he finally turned his attention back to his sulking ally.

  Cedric meekly shook his head. Then, after a moment of quiet introspection, he wondered aloud: “Where would she even return to?”

  “Hm?”

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  “When Faunia comes back, will it be somewhere safe? Or will she ever be able to find her way back at all? Will I know—will there ever be closure?”

  “I'm sure…” began Tyv, but he didn't know the true machinations of anything anymore. Even the last time he'd had Sie’uel, his Etherian, he hadn't known a damn thing. And that was when it went berserk.

  “Will she wake up comfortable, confused, in her bed? Hells, do I even know where her bed is anymore? We've been on the move so long, we abandoned our old home… Do I even know where my bed is going to be after this?”

  Tyv took a big sip of his ale. His elven blood made it hit all the harder, all the faster—and that gave him the courage to speak. “Perhaps the bed isn't what matters most. No, rather—the blood around our feet, that which the Ordinators have cleansed… the blood is wont to become your throne. King of Blood, King of Fire… you need only take up the claim. Make this a place which none can touch. Make this a place beyond reckoning, a place safe from Azafel’s wrath, safe from Kasian's vying hand… When Algirak returns, as he will, be the fist which strikes him into the earth again. Be protector, in Kyrrith. Be leader, in Haketh. Be born again in this Calamon, as this Calamon is birthed anew by you.”

  Cedric’s eyes rested so intensely upon Tyverius in that moment that the elf was forced to clear his throat, pull up his mask, and apologize for the brashness of his words. “I don't mean to tell you your business, King Lorik. But that's what I would do, in your position. Rule with kindness, but present an iron fist to enemies. Be a leader who is resolute, but generous.”

  “...Then perhaps that's what I'll do.”

  Another unrelated cheer from the crowd broke the tension of their conversation—”For the Hunters!” Tyverius felt comfortable enough then to take his mask off again, to sip from his ale.

  Cedric placed down a few coins as tip and stood from his seat.

  “Leaving so soon?” asked the elf.

  “Yeah. You've given me an idea. Thanks, Tyv.”

  With a firm pat on the elf’s back, Cedric turned and left the tavern.

  The Ordinators were to his beck and call behind him as he strolled the streets, the same streets that were now crowded with Hunters saluting as he walked past. He took to the center path, the one which led north past the Guild Hall. The pain of the memories still haunted that place—but that rung true to him insofar as what Tyverius had said.

  Soldiers and Ordinators all heaped behind him, followed him as he approached the giant square building, watched in awe with their jaws held slack as the blood smattered between the tiles began to enrapture the entire structure, twirled up and around the pillars and columns, made spectacular inlays of dragons and men all across the marbled walls.

  White-bound Ordinators opened the giant doors for him as he stepped deeper into the mess, the place where now collected all orphaned and abandoned by the city. They scrambled as the king approached, hid under their broken table shelters and within the tarps where once marvelous goods had been sold and advertised.

  But the blood took care of them. The blood was a blanket which covered all and impressed upon it a new life—the smell of iron filled the massive auditorium as walls erected themselves from nothing and hardened into place, creating dormitories for those lost to find real shelter, real homes.

  He continued forward and stairs began up the center of his constructs, they appeared under every step he took closer to the giant windows which wrapped around the ceilings of the hall. They supported him up until he was above it all, able to see the faux town he'd erected in the Guild Hall.

  Then formed the bloody throne in the center of the platform there. Etchings of flames ripped through the base of it, and inscriptions of his enemies became engulfed in them. They were a list through images—every battle he'd won. Every damnable creature he'd slain.

  Algirak.

  Akvum.

  Aeo.

  Rykaedi.

  Kogar.

  Kasian.

  And then he looked to the backrest of the intricate chair. Therein became a single word, carved in the daemon tongue which was unreadable to all creatures of the mortal realm. The single word which read Serkukan.

  And he took his place upon his throne.

  His Ordinators knelt.

  His Hunters knelt.

  The people he'd sheltered began with a cheer, then fell into the same solemn kneel at the base of the steps.

  It felt good, to Cedric. To help his people. To sit above them. To watch his soldiers bow, knowing that he was all-powerful, as good as a god.

  Then Tyverius sprinted through the crowd, stopped upon the stairs by Ordinators thrown suddenly into defense.

  Cedric stood at once. “Stop—leave him!”

  “Cedric!” he barked, trying to reach him through the mass of soldiers. “Cedric! Faunia is back!”

  The king's eyes widened in shock.

  “Faunia is back!”