My choices are to either steal the soul of a kind man adored by all – or to allow thousands of my people to die gruesome deaths, the Painter mused.

  Penumbria's treasury had been a fuller vault, before. It was once filled not only with Orbs, but with the City's hopes for the future. Though under Aspreay's rule it had never been so flush with riches as to stave off the Rot completely, there'd still been enough to prevent the infection from subsuming everything. Enough to keep at least some people alive.

  Now, under the Lord Painter's rule? The vault was nearly empty – sacrificed on the pyre of a decision that Adam had made with shaking hands and a heart full of doubt.

  Orbs meant to keep his people fed throughout winter were instead used to raise his Talent's Rank. He'd bought power with the coin intended to support his city's livelihood, all to ensure that the Ghost of Waters was slain. It had been necessary, logical, and left him with a disgusting feeling in the pits of his stomach.

  What will my people say of me, if I can't save them? The thought haunted him. That their Lord – the one who'd sworn to protect them – had gutted their lifeline for one desperate victory…

  Necessity did not justify his actions.

  Now, as winter's frost loomed on the horizon, the consequences of that choice was beginning to sharpen their claws. Penumbria's coffers were close to empty. Without Orbs, the Empire's wards against Stained beasts would fail. There would be no more shipments of Halfwood, and those accursed monsters would slip through like water through a broken dam.

  Every citizen, every child, they'd all freeze or bleed before spring arrived – and that's if the monsters didn't get them first.

  Had Adam not reached for the noble treasury during his battle against the Ghost, Penumbria would have been left without a Lord, the city immediately taken over by the Rot. Yet the threat now was no less deadly. Without Orbs, the city wouldn't last another season.

  Penumbria needed the support of the Puppet Grandmaster to make it through winter…and he wouldn't even see Adam unless the Painter agreed to take the soul of a man who'd just shown him a surprising amount of kindness.

  Maybe there's a reason the Grandmaster wants Merrivale's soul, he tried to tell himself. Something that makes him a terrible person.

  The Swordmaster's very existence parried that notion.

  A day later, Adam found himself sitting in the Theater, arms crossed over his chest. He watched quietly as Merrivale and Ferrero taught fencing to a group of kids. The children wore carefree, joyous smiles, the kind that could only belong to those who had been allowed to retain a sliver of innocence in a world determined to stamp it out.

  One of them stumbled, falling onto his knees, and Merrivale helped him up with a laugh. Adam's eyes caught something strange – one of the children's fingers didn't bend right.

  Wood? He blinked, but the thought stayed. It followed naturally that the Puppets' missing flesh was replaced with Halfwood during their transformation. But…that a child so young had already gone through the process…

  What kind of life did they lead to turn into a Puppet so early? Adam didn't like the idea. He wished it hadn't occurred to him.

  Precisely because of that, he decided to carve it deep into his mind lest he ever forget it out of convenience. These children had been killed and resurrected as Puppets – victims of the Empire's rapacious hunger for Orbs. Even this fate could be considered a mercy, as they were outnumbered still by the many, many more who hadn't gotten a second chance at life.

  It must have been hard for them. Incredibly hard. Some might not even have their families anymore. Maybe they went through the process alone – or forgot their family afterwards, and ended up alone anyway. Ferrero said that your memories would fade if you'd been dead for too long before becoming a Puppet.

  One of the children was gripping their rapier, eyes shining with glee, as if he wished to swing it with reckless abandon. Merrivale helpfully adjusted his grip, careful to avoid the seams of the young boy's wrist.

  Adam noticed it immediately: the faint line where wood met flesh, smoothed so meticulously that it was nearly invisible. Not every Puppet had the benefit of an unblemished, nearly human-like body. Some looked wooden, blatantly artificial, closer to walking automatons than a person.

  And the Swordmaster made each of them laugh equally.

  Solara sat down beside Adam, raising an eyebrow. "If you ask me, that looks flat-out adorable," she told him. The elf gestured at the stage, where Merrivale was gently guiding a child's grip around a rapier longer than the child was tall, almost causing the kid to topple over from the weight. "So why do you look so miserable?"

  "I'm miserable because it looks adorable," the Painter grunted. He paused to consider how much to tell her – should he trust Solara with this?

  Yeah. I painted her soul earlier. I know she's not planning to betray me. "Keep it secret, but the Grandmaster wants me to paint Merrivale's soul."

  "Really?" the elf asked with surprise. Her gaze turned first to the Swordmaster dramatically encouraging a child to lift up their blade, and then back to Adam. "That guy? That's his number one priority?"

  "The Grandmaster won't meet with me otherwise."

  "And is the problem that you can't…or that you won't?"

  "Both?" he answered hesitantly. "I haven't learned enough about the man yet, so even if I wanted to, I doubt I could make an accurate painting of him. But I also don't know if I want to. So far, everyone whose soul I've trapped with my Talent has been…" Adam trailed off with a mild frown, searching for the right word.

  "Sort of evil?" Solara nodded. "Yes, I understand."

  I mean, not quite. I did Paint you – but only to excise the Ghost of Flames and remove Belmordo's Curse.. "Besides, I don't think that taking the soul of the most popular man in the Mines would be great for human-puppet relations."

  Solara blinked, taken aback. "You want Puppets and people to get along? Adam, that's–"

  "Going to be hard, I know." He cut her off, waving away the elf's concerns with a flick of his wrist. "But we've been here for days now – you're seeing the same things I am, yeah?"

  His hand swept across the vast cavern that encompassed the theater. They saw an intricate latticework of stone bridges, the ceiling decorated by hanging lanterns that cast dancing shadows everywhere. The walls shimmered faintly, lined with veins of silver and gold.

  "The Puppets have spent all of their second life being hunted by the Empire," Adam grimly pointed out. "They'd be slaughtered in an instant if they set foot above ground. But they're still…thriving, you know? And it goes beyond just this theatre."

  Solara shifted uncomfortably. "Yes," she mumbled, "I know."

  "I get that you used to not be a fan of Puppets until recently," Adam continued. He emphasized the word, letting the silence hang for a moment. "But they aren't monsters hiding in the dark, waiting for a chance to take someone and replace them with a husk of their former self. They're just…"

  He shrugged and laughed. "They're just goddamn people, you know?"

  "Yes," Solara mumbled again, more annoyedly than last time. "I know."

  She sighed and looked down, turning her annoyance at herself. "But it took a lot for me to see that. My circumstances were unique and…not easily repeatable. It isn't like you can make every person in the Empire find out that one of their closest allies was a Puppet all along, or have them watch as the creatures they despised so fiercely then battled a Ghost to protect them, or be given a tour of the Mines to see how Puppets live just like us."

  It was Adam's turn to nod slowly. "True, that's–"

  "–Or discover that some of her dead friends were resurrected into Puppets, granted new identities, and then protected from the real asshole who killed them."

  Adam stared at her blankly. "Come again?"

  "Forget it." Solara's reply came in a low, bittersweet tone that Adam couldn't quite place. "I'll tell you later, promise. Now is…not the time, though. You've got far too much to deal with already."

  She touched his shoulder softly, catching his gaze before offering a brief smile and tilting her head toward the stage. The Swordmaster's mock parry drew a burst of cheers from the awestruck children surrounding him. "So…what are you doing about that?"

  Adam closed his eyes and sighed into his hands. When he looked up again, his eyes were not of the Painter from Another World, but of the Lord of Penumbria, gaze sharpening with renewed focus.

  "First I'll find out more about Merrivale," he said firmly. "I can make a decision on whether to paint him or not later. If it does come to that, I'll need to know everything I can about who he is for my Painting Talent to succeed. Learning more will also help me figure out if there's anything wrong with him."

  "And if there isn't?" Solara insisted. "What if there's nothing wrong with him? What if he's just a…good man, whom the Grandmaster of Puppets hates because he doesn't want to share power with anyone?"

  Penumbria needs the Grandmaster's Orbs.

  That thought anchored Adam and held him prisoner. It kept him steady with its weight, making the choices to come feel all the heavier.

  In his memories, he saw the faces of the people – his people, who had welcomed him at his crowning as the Lord of Penumbria. They'd been hopeful, determined, unaware of how he would wager their very lives, arrogantly presuming he could make things better.

  Unaware that he too would bloody his hands like Aspreay before him.

  Captain Baltsar resurfaced in his mind, as he often did, and as he likely always would. Adam hadn't hesitated then, nor would he regret it now. But until his dying day, he would hear those echoes – that sickening sound as one clean stroke had separated the man's head from his body in front of a cheering crowd.

  "I'll cross that bridge when we get to it," he answered.

  –

  Devoid of sunlight and plentiful in uncertainty, the Mines seemed to blur time. Only a short hour later, the warmth of the Puppet children's laughter had faded, replaced by the more foreboding – yet no less happy – laughter of Ferrero's training square.

  "I don't think I need to learn how to handle a sword," Adam protested sharply, though resignation had already crept into his tone. He barely caught the rapier flung vaguely in his direction, its weight heavier than anticipated.

  The weapon glimmered beneath the artificial cavern light, reflected at the Painter with elegance that bordered on a taunt. You should be honored to use me, it seemed to suggest. "Shouldn't I at least get a wooden sword to start?" he asked.

  Ferrero's joyous cackle came from deep within his gut, as if he'd just been told the most wonderful joke. "I fence with rapiers. Why could I use a thick, wooden sword to teach you a quick thrusting weapon?" He shook his head. "No, it's about balance – you'll learn as we go. Come now, oh Lord of Paint!"

  Adam couldn't help but crack a smile beneath his tired sigh. He wanted to be annoyed at the man, but it was impossible not to be swept up in someone's enthusiasm when they shared a passion they held most dearly.

  It reminded him of Earth in some ways. Of art school, of…

  Eric.

  Before their paths diverged..

  If I hadn't lost that contest…if Eric hadn't done what he did…I never would've wandered into the old man's art shop, Adam mused. Never would have come to this world at all.

  How many things had changed because of his supposed best friend? Where would he be right now, if Eric hadn't–

  Ferrero's blade shot forward like a bullet. It went just over Adam's shoulder, less than an inch away from his neck. "This is why you need to hold your stance," Ferrero warned him, his tone that of a guest lecturer. "You were wide open, my lord."

  Adam stared in horror at how close the blade had come to his face. "This is why I wanted us to use wooden swords!" he protested. "If you had missed, I'd be dead!"

  The Duelist tilted his head in a confusion so genuine that it was almost childish. "But my lord, why would I miss?"

  I…can't even get mad at him. Exasperation was another feeling altogether. "Just give me a sec to get my head in the game," Adam muttered. "Before we begin."

  "Aye," Ferrero nodded. "A most fair request, my lord. Master Merrivale always said that non-Puppets should warm up before exercise."

  Merrivale's existence was enough to banish Adam's exasperation and replace it with the grim reality he'd been avoiding. I have to learn more about Merrivale. There's no avoiding that.

  Whether it would be to paint his soul, or to recoil in horror at the mere suggestion of the idea…Adam knew not yet.

  "Merrivale appears to be quite the local celebrity," Adam said after a pause. "Does he ever get a moment of peace?"

  "Several." Ferrero adjusted his gloves with deliberate precision. "Whenever he isn't here – and the man is gone often enough." The Swordsman puffed his chest with pride. "When Master is here, though…well, he is showered with the love he deserves, of course! And if I may be candid with you?"

  Forget asking for a vow of secrecy; he didn't wait for Adam to blink before continuing. "People love him more than the Grandmaster himself. He's not the one keeping us alive, but he's damn sure one of the reasons we have for wanting to stay alive, you understand? He offered up his own Orbs to fund the Theater of Echoes, can you believe it? And that's just one of the many reasons he's so beloved here."

  Huh. Didn't think it would be that easy. Adam hadn't expected to find out why the Grandmaster wanted him gone so quickly. It made things simpler, even if only by just a little bit.

  "You seem very proud of your master," the Painter slowly said.

  "How could I not be?" Ferrero answered, with a gleam in his eye and hands on his hips, as if bragging about his father. "Master Merrivale did more than give me a goal to aspire to – did more than give me his skill with the blade. He gave me someone to live up to."

  The Duelist laughed awkwardly and cast his eyes downward. He blushed at his admission, but did not shy from it. "A swordsman can cut down the enemies that threaten your flesh, and an artist can cut away the concerns that threaten your soul. Merrivale went further than that. He spends his own fortune to grant us hope, drains his own coffers to paint a brighter future."

  For a moment, he faltered. "I…I can only hope I've become a man he can be proud of."

  Adam nodded quietly, his mind clouded with guilt. Ferrero's admiration was genuine, his pride unshakable, his resolve unbreakable. Every word the Duelist spoke carved deeper into the Painter's heart than steel ever could.

  How could he take the soul of someone who had given so much to so many? What kind of monster was Merrivale supposed to be, that someone else would demand his execution?

  Hell, what kind of monster is the Grandmaster for wanting it done? Even if I can guess at his motives–

  'Have you taken his soul yet?'

  The Grandmaster's voice abruptly rang inside his head. It was loud, insistent, and refused to be ignored. 'My patience has limits, Painter. Do you care not for your own people's plight?'

  'If that were true,' Adam shouted back, 'then this wouldn't be so damn hard!'

  –

  Meeting with Tenver felt like a breath of fresh air, and just because Adam desperately needed a distraction from the choice that had been forced upon him.

  The two of them hadn't managed to see each other much since their arrival at the Mines – since finding out about Tenver's puppetry, really. They'd talked on the ship, sure, but even that brief correspondence had been limited by their unending obligations.

  In many ways, it was a relief to find out that he was a Puppet, Adam thought. It had certainly explained much about the man's odd behaviors. Meant he was less likely to betray him.

  Though still hardly a guarantee. Shared promises, their time spent together, having an actual reason to throw that all to hell…Eric had taught him that none of it mattered.

  People didn't need to satisfy a criteria before deciding to ruin someone's life.

  "Adam – my lord!" Tenver's distant voice echoed across the busy First Hearth, loud enough to be heard even above the clamor of many others enjoying their meals. "There you are!"

  The man's Puppet Arm hung heavy as he walked, long enough to scrape the rocky ground with each swing. Does that hurt? Its Halfwood gleamed faintly in the cavern light, like tree bark veined with raw metal, not even pretending at humanity like some other Puppet limbs were.

  But it wasn't the arm that drew Adam's attention – it was Tenver's clothes. Loose, comfortable, more of a rogue's outfit worn with pride than a proud knight wearing a roguish grin.

  This wasn't the knight Adam had come to know, nor the Puppet Prince he'd come to discover recently. This was someone new. Someone freer. The difference, simple as it was, caught him completely off guard – in a good way.

  Guess he doesn't have to hide his arm here. That, if little else about their visit to the Mines, was downright fantastic. Tenver deserved to look as happy and carefree as he did here. No one should have to wear thick knightly armor to hide their true nature from the world.

  Although Adam hadn't been prepared for how difficult being hugged by that monstrous arm would feel. "Good to see you," Tenver said, smiling brightly and in complete ignorance of how painfully strong his grip was. "How are you enjoying the Mines? It's not quite my birthplace, but it is my place of rebirth."

  Can't tell this idiot how much that hurt. He looks too damn happy. The Painter struggled free of the hug – after returning it for a brief second first – and smiled awkwardly. "Ferrero showed me around. It looks…more than just a little impressive, though we haven't exactly come here for leisure. There's a lot of work to be done."

  It was with no small amount of deliberation that Adam chose not to tell him about the Grandmaster's demand just yet. He could probably trust Tenver, most likely, but why bother with the added risk?

  "Not your place of birth, but the place of your rebirth." The Painter frowned at the words. "I thought the Puppet Mines were a more recent settlement. Didn't you 'die' a long time ago?"

  "Just over a decade, yes," Tenver acknowledged. A soft hum of voices filled the cavern, punctuated by the clink of bowls against stone tables. Adam absently ran a finger along the carved edge of the bench, its surface worn smooth from years of use, as he waited for the man to continue.

  "I was brought to Puppet Mountain, if you must be technical. Rather…my corpse was. I couldn't tell you if I was dead at the time, or merely dying. The Mines have always been a significant place for Puppets, mind you. So it was natural for the Grandmaster to relocate the survivors here after the Dark Captain massacred the mountain."

  He shrugged. The gesture looked almost comical with his oversized Puppet Arm. "It feels like the same place, though I admit it isn't."

  Adam thought back to his old house. A suburban prison that had rarely felt like home, even when its walls and decorations went unchanged for years. It wasn't the location of something that made a home – it was the sense of belonging, of finding a place where you could hang up your boots and trade easy smiles with the people there.

  "I think I understand what you mean." He paused. "So you can't remember much about when you were reborn as a Puppet?"

  "I remember what killed me." Tenver's tone was surprisingly jovial for the topic, but his eyes had darkened a little. "A rain of arrows that the usurper used to fell my father and our allies…I remember it hurting. Badly. Left me flickering in and out of consciousness after that. I imagine that's what dying feels like."

  Adam recalled using Solara's Talent in order to cheat death before. "Yeah, that's a pretty good description," he muttered, frowning at the memory. "Guess I understand why you're not sure. Death is…a confusing sensation."

  "Even if I did die, it can't have been for long," Tenver pointed out. "Or else I wouldn't remember my past so well."

  His smile never left his face, his casual tone never wavered – and for a moment, a sudden intensity blazed in his eyes. "I wouldn't remember how much my dear old uncle needs to perish."

  The intensity of his statement was diminished, somewhat, by the dried sauce on his face.

  Yet not fully erased. It couldn't be, when Adam had seen the nonchalance with which Tenver had murdered their enemies – and some allies – before.

  I'd really like to trust you, but you make it so hard sometimes. Which wasn't to say that the Painter didn't want to. If anything, he desperately wished he could blindly rely on Tenver, wanting to believe that the knight's passionate claims of friendship were real.

  That belief, more than anything else, was what scared Adam away from putting his full faith in him. When you handed someone the keys to your heart, there was no guarantee they wouldn't take it for a joyride and smash it into the nearest pole.

  "You visit the Mines often?" Adam asked, hoping to change the topics. "Even after joining Aspreay's court?"

  "Hey, he gave his guards enough days to rest."

  Adam lifted an eyebrow. Tenver immediately raised his hands in surrender. "Fine, he gave me enough days to rest."

  That made sense. Aspreay would've driven his own people to work until they dropped dead, but banished or not, Tenver was still officially a prince of the Empire. It benefitted the former lord to treat him well, in the unlikely scenario that he ever retook the throne.

  "What do you usually do when you come here?" Adam inquired. "Just…walk around, for fun?"

  "That as well. It feels nice not to have this hidden all the time." Tenver tapped at his wooden shoulder. "And the theater – well, you saw Merrivale's performance. Can't miss his show whenever he's around."

  His grin faded slightly, replaced by something nearing a pout. "Most of all, though, I come here for repairs. I do what I can, but my soul is inside this spear of an arm. It needs constant maintenance work performed on it, lest my body stop functioning."

  Questions about whether Tenver's body was controlled by his brain or his arm sparked in Adam's mind, but there was another topic to focus on. "Hope this isn't rude to say…but uh, Tenver, your arm is a bit unnatural compared to most Puppets." It felt goddamn rude, yet it was too important not to ask. "Why is that?"

  "In regards to the former – oh yes, most rude. The question pains me not when coming from you, mind. But if said to others? Most definitely, most terribly rude."

  Tenver's confident intensity faltered, frowning in deep concentration. "Ah, well, most likely?" He sounded hesitant. "I can't know for sure. Would you believe me if I told you I don't excel at some manners of social etiquette?"

  "I always believe you," Adam responded blankly.

  The Puppet Prince smiled. "As for your second question…I'm not entirely certain. The sooner your corpse is obtained after death, the fewer artificial components a Puppet needs for the process to stick. Among those who waited longer, their appearances trend more towards the inhuman."

  Tenver laughed. "I suppose that means I must have died – and that Captain Baltsar took a while getting me here, didn't he?"

  "Guess so," Adam lied.

  In truth, he was doing his best to hide his sheer bafflement at Tenver's lack of concern. While the Puppet Prince was handsome enough for bards to sing of his unmatched beauty, sometimes his naivety matched it like a sudden rival emerging from the shadows. Had I not witnessed how ruthlessly cunning and pragmatic he can be, I might have assumed he fit the 'good looks, empty head' stereotype.

  But Adam had witnessed it. Tenver was a man who smiled as he presented a bag full of your enemies' decapitated heads. When people underestimated or overlooked him, they typically weren't long for this world.

  So why couldn't he see that the Grandmaster had likely built him with a purposefully malfunctioning arm?

  You'll never be able to stray too far from him that way. The Mines will always draw you back in. And didn't you say before that the Grandmaster told you to find me? That you knew there was something odd about my Talent?

  More importantly, though… "I watched one of Merrivale's shows earlier," Adam said. "You said you watch it every time you're around?"

  "Every time I and he happen to be around. Which is less often than you would think."

  "Really now?" Adam asked, hiding his curiosity. "How often is that?"

  Tenver met his gaze, slammed his tankard against the table, and laughed. "My Lord Adam, do you really think you need to dance so elegantly around your point? Merrivale's existence is indeed strange, and I have looked into him. Would you like to know what I've found?"

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Adam nodded excitedly. "Yes, please."

  "Fantastic! Allow me to prattle on, then. Merrivale has been in and out of Puppet settlements for over twenty years now. He is not of any noble blood we know…and trust me, I know every noble house."

  Tenver's eyes widened with a tinge of annoyance at that last bit. "Despite this, he speaks with the dignity and gravitas of a lord. At times Merrivale appears quite ignorant of the history and politics of the Empire, yet his intelligence is not to be underestimated – he's been observed to give sharp and accurate observations of many delicate topics. He is no noble, but he carries himself with the dignity of a king."

  Adam frowned. "That sounds…like something is missing." And he could wager half a guess as to what, even if Tenver couldn't. "What else did you find?"

  "That he has been spotted across the Empire in several instances. Care to guess where?"

  "The theatre?" Adam hesitantly asked. "Some dueling ring?""

  "Correct on both counts." Tenver's voice was firm. "He appears and disappears across the Empire, displaying flashy swordsmanship, love of theater, occasionally taking a disciple or two…and then stops coming back. Except for the Puppet Mines. Something here has kept him returning time and again."

  "Huh. No idea what that could be."

  Adam wondered if a day would come where he could fully trust Tenver. Maybe then, he'd finally be able to stop lying to him.

  –

  The cavern hummed softly, the water below reflecting faint, rippling light onto the jagged walls. Adam leaned against a railing that overlooked it from a few feet above, his mind tangled in knots of uncertainty.

  I could probably paint Merrivale's soul at this point, he thought, the guilt worsening like a cold chill creeping into his bones. But do I want to?

  Do I have to?

  He didn't hear Valeria approach at first – just the sharp tap of her boots on the stone path. She emerged into view, her coat flowing behind her like the echo of a storm. Pale hair framed a face that was equal parts beautiful and razor-edged confidence. In that sense, she reminded him of Tenver.

  Valeria stood there, silhouetted against the blue glow of the cavern. Her long coat billowed faintly as she moved, her silver hair catching the light like a knife's edge. She looked at him with a gaze that seemed distant, yet still observing him far too closely. Like her mind was elsewhere, and at the same time, like she knew everything about him.

  Adam felt a shiver go down his spine.

  "I hear my Lord has requested my presence – and thus I have arrived to do whatever is demanded of me!" Valeria had the rare ability to sound both subservient and arrogant at once. It was honestly quite impressive. "Rest assured, my lord, that as the newest citizen of your mighty city, I shall do as requested and fulfill my duties. Whatever they might be."

  How can someone who's never opposed me be so unnerving? Adam sighed and turned around to face her. "I'm glad to see you're so eager to serve Penumbria," he said, attempting to sound regal. "That's exactly what this is about."

  "Oh?" The Detective's hand went to her chest as she feigned a melodramatic fainting spell. "My, my! I've heard much about Lords and what they demand of their citizens, but – how scandalous! I expected such debauchery to be only of fiction!"

  "What the hell are you even–I didn't even remotely hint at–"

  Adam stopped and drew a deep breath. She knows. She's trying to be annoying on purpose. Don't let her.

  "As we promised on the Airship, you are one of Penumbria's citizens now," he went on, forcing himself not to comment on Valeria's amused smirk. "What I want to know is…why."

  The Detective crossed her arms. "Does my Lord Adam really not know why one would feel the need to leave this place?" She glanced around at the cavern. "Has Ferrero's tour blinded your noble eyes? Do you forget, my lord, that even a home can become a prison?"

  "How did you know Ferrero was giving me a…"

  Adam shook his head. No. Not important right now. "I understand why you want to leave. What confuses me is why you need citizenship to do so. Even if the Grandmaster opposes anyone leaving the Mines, I doubt he could stop you. And I don't think you sought to become one of my subjects just to please him."

  "Oh, far be it from me to imply the Grandmaster would be pleased. Or that he would allow me to leave simply because I've sworn myself to Penumbria."

  Valeria leaned over the railing and aimed her gaze at the waters below. "But the Grandmaster has been gifted with a form of technology that keeps people from leaving or entering certain places. You're familiar with it?"

  Adam recalled the foreboding message in front of the Workshop. 'This world has not and will not ever spawn any Puppet, Human, Dragon, Stained Monster, living creature, or facsimile of life that may enter my domain without my permission.'

  So spoke the Grandmaster's First Law.

  "That makes sense," he mused. "So there's a similar wording about Puppets leaving the Mines without the Grandmaster's permission?"

  "Aye," Valeria nodded, her voice surprisingly solemn. "Save for citizens of other nations – I suppose to prevent issues regarding traders."

  Spies, more like it, Adam thought. Better if the Grandmaster doesn't need to grant permission to his own spies, in case they're captured. Gives him more deniability.

  Either that, or it hadn't been his decision to frame the law this way. But if not him, then who?

  'Have you made your decision yet, Painter?' asked the Grandmaster in his mind.

  Adam looked at Valeria and examined her knowing smirk. When she looked at him like that, the Detective gave off the uneasy sensation that she could read his thoughts as if they were pages in a book.

  "I have to see Merrivale," the Painter said aloud.

  The words were meant for Valeria, so she knew he would have to excuse himself. They were also meant for the seemingly all-knowing Grandmaster, so he knew that he'd only need to wait a little while longer.

  Most of all, they were meant for Adam himself – so that he wouldn't go back on his decision.

  I think…there's only one option.

  --

  The theatre was quiet, save for the soft rasp of cloth against steel. Merrivale stood center stage, his focus on the rapier in his hands.

  When Adam stepped closer, the Swordmaster's eyes lit up. "Young lord!" he called out, his voice as sharp and polished as the blade itself. "I am most pleased to see the stage calls to you so strongly – even when there's no performance being held."

  "It's less the stage, and more you." Adam gestured at the rapier. "A man might be afraid if he walks into a room and sees the tip of a sword pointed at him."

  "Not every weapon drawn is a threat of violence," Merrivale promised. "Sit down, young lord. Violence is not a future I intend to inflict upon you."

  Adam sat down on the stage floor across from him. When the Lord of Penumbria spoke, his voice was calm. "Would you mind terribly," he asked, withdrawing his tablet, "if I were to paint your portrait?"

  The silence settled like a held breath, thick and deliberate. A faint scraping sound of Merrivale's rhythmic, unhurried blade against the pillar was all that could be heard. Adam glanced at him, waiting for the moment to break, but the Swordmaster seemed more than content to let the quiet stretch – if not outright joyful.

  "By all means," came Merrivale's reply. "I am quite used to having my portrait painted. I will keep still as you capture my likeness."

  He wasn't bragging or exaggerating. From the naturalness of his voice, to the way he rested his back against the pillar to remain steady over the next several minutes, this was a man used to being adored – to having his portrayal carved into eternity.

  Tenver's words rang loud in the Painter's his mind. 'He is no noble, but he carries himself with the dignity of a king.'

  Yet standing on that stage, it was the Swordmaster's own words that rang even louder. They revised Tenver's assertion, amending it to something that felt more accurate, more…true.

  'He is no noble, but he carries himself with the dignity of a Champion.'

  Noble, Prince, King – he might have been all of them at one point in his life. Maybe he still was. More than anything, however, he was someone standing at the top of a mountain few dared to climb, and that fewer still succeeded.

  It was with this idea that Adam set out to paint his portrait.

  Despite the circumstances, he was glad that he finally had time to draw once again. Realistically, given time constraints, this would have to be a rough sketch at best…but that was fine. It would be enough. So long as he could capture the man's essence, he would–

  "Do you want to ask any questions of me?" Merrivale asked, without lifting his eyes off his blade. "I know plenty of artists – you lot are often curious about the inner stories of those you paint, yes?"

  "Not particularly," Adam answered honestly. "Don't think that's a thing we really do."

  Merrivale let out a charming laugh. "Ah, my dear Painter, you are too honest for your own good! I am trying to skip some of the steps in this eternal dance of yours."

  "Sorry." Adam rubbed the back of his neck. "I just don't like lying if I can avoid it, and I've had to do a lot of that since coming here. Mayhaps you can relate."

  "I fear I know not what you speak of." A sly grin curved the man's lips, his confidence effortlessly radiating outward. "Speak more of why I should relate. Paint me the full picture, if you will."

  Against his own wishes, Adam laughed and relaxed his shoulders. This would be a good portrait, he thought – even if he'd only have time for the initial sketch right now. Definitely something I want to come back to when I have time. Should make a note to remember it later.

  "Must say, I'm not used to being set up like this," Adam admitted. "People usually fight to keep me from painting them."

  "I too am an artist," Merrivale said. "And I would sooner die than keep another from their craft."

  Adam's expression shifted, his features sharpening with quiet focus. Deft fingers hovered over the tablet, his pen cutting the first line through the blank canvas like a whisper at a funeral. The theatre seemed to morph around him, the air tightening as he worked.

  Merrivale sat motionless as he silently awaited what was to come.

  "I've been wondering what your sins are," Adam remarked, in a thoughtful tone. "Trust me, this wasn't a half-hearted search. I investigated, interrogated, did everything I could to find out what you were hiding. From my experience, nobody is without sin. Yet with you…I found nothing."

  "Ah!" Merrivale exclaimed, a pang of nostalgia entering his voice. "I remember back when I thought that all evils had witnesses, and all sins were unjust. My friend, you saved the life of my dear disciple – if you were curious about my past, you need only have asked."

  Adam lifted his eyes and opened his mouth to reply, then shook his head and looked back down at his tablet. "I ask now, then. Will you tell me of your sins?"

  "Aye, I shall make it easier for you," Merrivale cheerfully agreed. "By law, my crimes are many. Over the years I have fought in wars, overthrown tyrants, and raged against gods."

  "Sounds heroic enough," Adam muttered, his focus on the painting.

  "Well that's just the problem, isn't it?" A roguish smirk tugged at Merrivale's lips. His gaze drifted towards a distant horizon only he could see, but his voice dropped to a low, adventurous whisper that felt like inviting Adam to come partake in the spectacle of his past.

  "Bards rarely sing of swordsmen who did not dye their blades in red," said the Champion. "Such a problem, that. Worst of all, young lord, you should know that I regret not a thing I did! Mayhaps you are too young still, to expect such sins to lay beneath the surface of kindness."

  Adam nodded vaguely. "Perhaps so. Then what am I to do, though? I can't know of things I've yet to experience. Sounds unfair to me."

  "You aren't wrong," Merrivale said. "And to that unfairness I say, your noble duty is to cheat. That is what our duties as your elders ought to be – to give you the script and allow you to break every rule and expectation of you. Does fate expect you to suffer, make mistakes, and carve yourself a painful path? TO HELL WITH THAT!"

  The Swordmaster's voice grew louder, yet no more threatening. His smirk remained as disarming as it had ever been. "So here I stand to fulfill my duty."

  Adam gave a soft smile. "Is that why you travel around the world looking for disciples?"

  "Correct!" Merrivale exclaimed immediately and without shame. Had Adam expected resistance or surprise, the Champion of an Unknown Land would've left him quite disappointed. "I assume you have some guess as to my motivations, then?"

  "Some." The Painter narrowed his eyes. "Let's start with this: you are not a Puppet."

  Silence fell.

  It was probably something of an open secret in the Mines, if a secret at all, but Adam had still found it a difficult fact to confirm. Although Merrivale appeared human enough, Puppets often did. That was hardly evidence worth noting.

  Thankfully, no one provided better evidence than a Detective. Adam's talk with her had been very illuminating. Puppets weren't allowed to exit the Mines, but according to Valeria, she could leave now that'd become a member of Penumbria. Her newfound citizenship afforded her that option.

  But if that was the case, then most Puppets already could have left the Mines whenever they pleased – so long as they were sworn to a lord before death.

  Meaning your previous allegiances 'die' when you become a Puppet. You'd have to forge them all over again. Until then, the Grandmaster serves as their one and only Lord.

  More to the point, if the Grandmaster desired Merrivale's soul, then it was unlikely he'd let the man travel in and out of the Mines so often. He would've prevented the Champion from leaving. Since he hadn't, and probably couldn't, then–

  "Correct!" Merrivale exclaimed, his smirk widening at the end. "I am no Puppet – a human, much like you."

  Adam's put on a hollow grin. "But that isn't exactly true either, is it?"

  The air seemed to contract, an invisible thread pulling taut between them. Merrivale's posture stiffened slightly, his hand brushing the hilt of his rapier almost absently, but not without thought. Adam's fingers tightened on his tablet, his next stroke hesitant, but not delayed.

  "There were two points I needed to settle before deciding whether to paint your soul," Adam said, his words slow and measured. "Why you kept coming back to the Puppet Mines…and why the Grandmaster wanted your soul taken."

  If the Champion was surprised about the Grandmaster's intentions, he didn't show it. Merrivale only nodded thoughtfully, his hand still brushing the hilt of his blade. "Then let us address your first question. I could simply answer it, but far be it from me to deprive you from the spotlight."

  Merrivale snapped his fingers. With that sharp sound, the theatre erupted into a flash of light. Adam blinked rapidly and rubbed his eyes, momentarily blinded as the brightness set in.

  It wasn't the whole theatre, he soon realized. Not even the whole stage. This was a series of spotlights – all directed at him.

  His confusion lingered as he looked to the Champion for an explanation. He found only a knowing smirk that seemed to say, 'This is precisely how it should be.'

  Adam's lips twitched with mirth. To be fair, he has been indulging my eccentricities, he considered. I think returning the favor is only polite.

  The Painter rose to his feet, tablet still in hand. He walked in circles round the stage, the unseen spotlight following him, his sketch taking more and more shape as he went. "Tenver told me you've visited many cities across the Empire. He said that you sought many disciples along the way, but always stopped returning to them after a while."

  "That I did," Merrivale acknowledged. "Not everyone is meant to dedicate themselves to the blade or art as much as we do. Sometimes, all they want is to learn a little of the sword, a little more of the stage, and little else. That, too, is most acceptable. I seek not to impose my life's goals upon any others."

  "But Ferrero!" Adam stopped suddenly, turned on his heel, and pointed dramatically at the Champion. Another spotlight shone down onto the stage now, this time onto Merrivale. "He's different, isn't he? You don't have to force anything with him. He loves the blade, the theater, and everything you stand for."

  "AND WHAT CRIME IS THAT?" Merrivale thundered, swiftly rising to his feet. He projected his voice as if the two of them weren't alone – as if the theatre was packed with a full audience. "I do not deny the charges; nay, I claim them proudly! At first I came merely to inspect and search, yet when that young boy approached, eyes sparkling with vigor, declaring that he wished to become a Swordsman just like me–!"

  He swept his arms out in a flourish. "Why, only a man without a heart would have denied his dreams! And so I visit often, to train him, and to see how my dear disciple is doing."

  Unspoken in his words were: 'And I spent a fortune making his home more comfortable for him.' Not because of shame, but because the Champion legitimately didn't believe it was worth mentioning it. His eyes burned with a sentiment Adam had often heard of in arts, yet had never experienced himself.

  'Do you really think that I wouldn't burn the world to make my disciple the ruler of its ashes?'

  "And therein lies the reason for the Grandmaster's growing distaste of you," Adam muttered. "He thinks you might end up disposing of him – or forcing him to open up the Puppet Mines. All because Ferrero wants to travel more, duel against other swordsmen, and see what other theatres the world has to offer."

  "I am not allowed to interfere to that degree!" Merrivale sounded offended at the notion…as his thumb crept ever closer to the hilt of his blade. "And yet–! I cannot claim to have never considered it.."

  "One could say the Grandmaster's rules are for the sake of keeping Puppets alive," Adam pointed out.

  "One could say I don't rightfully care," Merrivale answered. "If my actions were to bring the world down on my disciple–" He unsheathed his blade and stepped towards Adam. "–Then I would stand undefeated against this very world–" His blade inched near the Painter's neck. "–If only that made him happy!"

  It was here, when he stood so close that their spotlights joined together, that he stopped with an exaggerated sigh. "Yet Ferrero is, unfortunately, a good man. He would not doom the Mines to fulfill his dreams, even were I to promise him that I wouldn't allow a single Puppet to perish. The Grandmaster has nothing to fear from me."

  He shrugged. "And it is not as though I could harm the Grandmaster even if I wanted to."

  This last bit was told casually – yet also as a challenge.

  Adam rose to it.

  "That's an interesting point to make," he slowly began. "Why would the Grandmaster fear you, if you're unable to harm him in any way? Especially when he hides all day in his Workshop. Anyone who tries to enter his domain is burnt to ashes – I saw that when I first arrived. Remember the inscription carved on the door!"

  "But I do!" Merrivale theatrically answered. "I spent a long time memorizing it, even! Shall we recite it together?"

  Adam gave a short smile in response. "Let us."

  "This world has not and will not ever spawn any Puppet, Human, Dragon, Stained Monster, living creature, or facsimile of life that may enter my domain without my permission."

  The weight of the recited words pressed down on the theatre like a villain's soliloquy. For a time, the echoes of their joint declaration rang out, filling the air with inexorable gravitas – until their ghosts curled back into silence.

  Before, Adam had stood on this stage and felt it alive with love and thrill. Now, he felt it alive with silence.

  "Young Lord of Penumbria." Merrivale looked directly at him. "Care to enlighten me? How could I have harmed the esteemed Grandmaster of Puppets?"

  He didn't speak as though he believed Adam would fail this challenge. Instead, the Champion was inviting him, guiding him towards the answer – as if he weren't at all afraid of the outcome. Hard to upstage a professional, it seems.

  But not impossible.

  Adam spun around with a whirl of motion, tapping his forehead twice in a shadow of deep concentration. Then he snapped his eyes open, brandishing his pen as if it were a weapon. He pointed it forward as he declared:

  "BECAUSE, MERRIVALE, YOU ARE NOT FROM THIS WORLD!"

  The Champion staggered back, hand clutching his chest as though Adam's words had pierced him like a bullet. His eyes went wide, far too wide for a natural reaction, and the corners of his mouth would've betrayed an even wider grin had the man not been so dedicated to his craft.

  Instead, he showed a parody of exhaustion, as if he'd run out of breath. "Oh! How clever, Young Painter! Indeed, I am not from the Painted World."

  "And you're not from Earth either," Adam said, recalling their first encounter. "You're from…somewhere else. That's why the Grandmaster is afraid of you. Merrivale, the Champion of Another World, who visits his domain so often, is adored by the people – while also being immune to the ancient magic that prevents anyone from entering his Workshop."

  The Painter flipped his tablet around. "That is who you are."

  It was a quick sketch, yet no less fitting. His tablet portrayed a dignified champion, peerless and beloved, but inked in a different palette than the world he now tread upon. Far past him, in the farthest corner of the painting, was a distant color that matched the fencer's – a remembrance of the lands he'd once hailed from.

  Yet although he'd left his home behind, he was not alone. The masses were cheering his name, a sea of blurred, indistinct faces surrounding him…

  And one drawn in far more detail. A grinning, joyous boy, holding a rapier as he followed behind the champion's footsteps, attempting to emulate his stance.

  Adam didn't need to think of a title. His soul resounded the words before he'd even finished the last stroke of his pen.

  The Master and His Heart

  You're a good man, Merrivale. I don't know where you've come from. I don't why you're here. But no matter what you say, or what colors you use to try and paint yourself as a villain…I know you're just someone who dearly loves his disciple, and wants only the best for him.

  The Grandmaster wants your soul gone all the same. He's given me no choice. And that's why–

  "Odd," Merrivale remarked, as if he wasn't surprised at all. "My soul appears to still reside within my body."

  –THERE HAS ONLY EVER BEEN ONE ANSWER!

  "Not every weapon drawn is a threat of violence, dear Champion," Adam said. With a curt bow, and a promise to give him a copy of the finished portrait in the near future, the Painter made his way out of the theatre.

  'WHAT ARE YOU DOING?' the Grandmaster shouted in his mind. 'DO YOU NOT CARE FOR PENUMBRIA? TAKE HIS SOUL NOW, OR I SHALL NEVER MEET WITH–'

  "There's something you really should know about me."

  Adam stormed towards the Workshop without an ounce of hesitation in his steps. "The only thing I hate more than when someone ruins my art…is when they try telling me what to do. When they pretend I don't have any other choice than to listen to their batshit crazy demands."

  'THERE IS NO OTHER CHOICE!' The voice was ethereal, threatening, and bursting with rage. 'Listen to me, or let your people die. One soul, or hundreds of thousands!'

  Adam laughed loudly enough to drown out the yelling in his head. He stood now before the Grandmaster's Workshop entrance, in front of the cursed sign where he'd witnessed a poor soul trying to enter.

  The sign bearing the same instructions he'd just recited alongside Merrivale. He wanted to make sure I got the right answer, but stopped when he realized I'd already figured it out. I appreciate that.

  "Maybe you already know this, Grandmaster, or maybe you don't. But just in case, hear me out!"

  Adam lifted one foot off the ground and casually stepped through the archway. One foot, then another, walking forward with no punishment incurred. The blissful sound of silence resonated in his mind as the Grandmaster was left speechless.

  "I'M NOT FROM THIS WORLD EITHER! SO SHUT UP WITH THE TRICKS, AND GIVE ME MY GODDAMN MONEY!"