"She would have been much happier if I'd only killed her," Solara snarled at him. "And I am more than that – I am the one who beat you within an inch of your life."

  Nayt barely reacted to her outburst, stretching and shifting in his tall seat, half-glancing at Solara from the corner of his left eye. He struck Adam like a cat lounging in the sun, barely bothering to flick its tail.

  "Mayhaps you did, mayhaps you did not. Cloudy, that memory. Violence hardly makes for a memorable impression."

  But stepping on your face didn't count as violence? Adam wanted to say.

  "Of course...I jest." Nayt's closed eye shot open. "I remember it. All too well." His voice sounded deathly serious. "The undying elf who laughed madly whilst rain fell on her exposed skull, stabbing me with her own splintered bones after having lost her hand in battle."

  The elves surrounding them from above stiffened. Their nostrils flared, bodies tensing as if they'd heard something profoundly unnatural, an offense against the very concept of order. Adam could see the subtle shift in their stances, a ripple of discomfort passing through them.

  Solara didn't seem to notice. Or she did, yet did not care. "How the hell are you in the Village, Hangman?" she demanded. "This place is supposed to be beyond the Emperor's reach!"

  The real question, as far as Adam was concerned, was less how he showed up – and more why the Elders appeared entirely okay with his presence

  Nayt shrugged. "I mean, it's not like I overpowered the illusion. I'm not that good."

  He tapped the sharp end of his ears. "But I am an elf. Wasn't difficult to get a hold of this place."

  Solara visibly recoiled at his words, as if Nayt had pointed a blade at her. Her lips parted, the start of some scathing retort – but then grit her teeth, trembling with something much sharper than mere anger.

  As she fell silent, Adam observed the elven council's reaction. They didn't appear overly concerned with Solara's claims, or the implications of what she was saying...yet they did appear concerned with her tone.

  He immediately made a mental note. The council will ignore anything, regardless of its importance, if they don't like how you tell it to them.

  Much as Adam wished to tell them off for it – Solara's frustration was justified, and the lot of them could burn if they had a problem with that – the Painter held his tongue. He was the Lord of Penumbra, representing his city on a diplomatic mission that could decide the lives of millions. Best to interject before things got even messier.

  "Elder Lorival," he began. "Forgive us for our manners. Allow me to start over."

  "The hell do you mean our manne–" Solara cut herself off at Adam's stern glare, casting her eyes downward.

  Sorry. I know there's a lot you want to say right now, but let me take over. We can't afford to look bad in front of them.

  Adam took a brief moment to center himself. He wanted to ask the elves why they'd let a Hangman into their midst, or to just jump straight into negotiating an alliance with them, but he was missing too much context here. A single wrong word could put him on the backfoot before he even understood what kind of game was being played.

  Instead, he gave the Council of Elves the courtesy of a bow. It was a noble gesture...though its execution was deliberately shallow and aggressively unyielding, merely dipping his head just low enough to avoid insult – yet remaining high enough to lock eyes with them.

  Aspreay may not have been his real father, but Adam was still taking his lessons to heart. 'Never submit during a negotiation,' the nobleman had taught him. 'Let them break your knees if you must, but do not kneel.'

  "I am Adam Arcanjo," the King of the Frontier declared, his voice proud and carrying the weight of his station. "Trueborn son of Aspreay Arcanjo." That was a lie. "I am here to speak of the war that is to come." That was a truth.

  "And to seek your wise counsel on what is to come." That was both.

  He did genuinely want to hear what Elder Lorival thought of the Emperor, the war, and perhaps even the Painters – but that didn't necessarily mean that Adam would heed the man's counsel. What he really needed to know was the Elder's perspective on things. How he thought. His view of the world.

  It was important to understand your opponent before clashing with them on the battlefield of words.

  Elder Lorival did not blink, did not react, did not grant Adam the dignity of acknowledgment. He simply let the moment stretch. Waiting. Testing. A chill settled over the room as his intent became clearer with every contemptuous second that passed.

  Here was a king that had come to speak – and an Elder that hadn't come to listen.

  "Still thy tongue, human," Lorival eventually said. "Kingship makes you no different from a human whore in the domain of the elves, oh Child of Paved Roads."

  His voice grew raspy, his tone dry. "It is customary to bend the knee when addressing your elders."

  A wave of amused murmurs swept through the chamber. Not cruel, just expectant. This was tradition, a game played for centuries...and Adam was playing his part perfectly, much to their delight. They were waiting for him – for a mighty human king – to make a fool out of himself, as so many others had in the distant past.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  And as so few have since the rise of the Empire.

  The council's anticipation was palpable, so thick you could have it with a knife. They needed this. Superiority mixed with spite to create a salve for bitter wounds; if they couldn't take vengeance on the humans' Emperor, then embarrassing this upjumped lord would suffice.

  Perhaps one day, the time would come when a human king submitted to elven wisdom once more.

  It wouldn't be today.

  Adam flicked his eyes down, directing Lorival to follow suit. Both of them glanced at the Painter's knees, firm and unbent.

  He met the Elder's gaze. See? Words were unnecessary – Adam's smirk said it all. I haven't moved. And I won't.

  So stop with the games.

  The Grandmaster. The Emperor. Now, the Elder. Every throne, every ruler, every demand – they were always the same. Identical assholes painted in different colors.

  Adam's fingers clenched, a slow realization settling in. Things had changed since then.

  This time, he too was one who ruled.

  "I understand your customs and shall offer them due respect," Adam solemnly stated. "Hence I ask you to extend that same courtesy towards mine – the knees of Kings do not bend so easily."

  The Elder's expression darkened, lips curling. His breath came sharp, fingers tightening against the armrest, his disbelief stifling his voice and preventing any curses from leaving his throat. Lorival's response – when it finally came – was thunderous as it echoed throughout the chamber.

  "FOOLISH–CHILD–OF–PAVED–ROADS!"

  Sound vibrated inside the chamber, strong enough for Adam's hair to twitch. It was the only part of him that moved. Compared to the Emperor and the Grandmaster...this much won't scare me.

  If anything, Adam had to stop himself from voicing a most dangerous thought – I'm confident I could take Elder Lorival in a fight. Even without my paintings.

  He supposed he had Eric to thank for that, in a way.

  "You desecrate our secrecy," Lorival began, "our only shield against your kind's atrocities, demand our help in war, then refuse to follow the one demand we ask of you? Does the arrogance of humans have no boundaries?"

  "It does, Elder of mine," Adam said, using a proper form of address that Solara had prepped him for. He hardened his gaze and widened his smirk. "Though we have yet to even approach those boundaries, mind."

  He took one step forward. "I would be delighted to demonstrate them for you."

  Lorival sneered. "Sit down, boy. Lessons come from history – from thousands of centuries of traditions your kind will never master."

  Here the danger rose, although the Elder did not. He had no need to stand; with a simple snap of fingers, the chamber's hidden occupants obeyed.

  From the balconies above, elves emerged from the shadows, bows drawn, arrows aimed. Not one wavered or hesitated as they waited for the order to be given.

  Solara bit her lip, and Valeria licked hers. The Lady of Gama's hands curled into fists, her legs falling into a fighting stance. The Detective's fingers twitched toward her sword's hilt, her chin raising as if in defiance of death.

  "I shall respect your customs," Elder Lorival sneered. "You said the knees of royalty should not bend so easily? Allow me, then, to make this proposition more forceful."

  Okay. I...need to approach this carefully.

  But how? Adam thought of his allies – how they would handle a situation like this. Tenver would've likely produced the decapitated head of some important elven figure to prove his point. Vasco would've begged for forgiveness in the hope of repenting for his family's sins. Aspreay...

  Well, had he been there, Aspreay's only regret would've been that the seats placed the elves too high to spit at.

  Ah, to hell with it.

  "Go on then. You may be forceful, if you wish." Adam laughed, then flashed a challenging grin. "But I will remain a King, for I must. "

  A whisper of tension went by.

  Then the storm broke.

  Arrows filled the air, a lethal rain designed to break the man where he stood. But Adam's brush moved, and the world obeyed. Streaks of ink curled into existence, swallowing the arrows one by one, erasing them before they could find their mark.

  His feet never shifted. His stance never wavered.

  They had fired at an artist. They should have expected a masterpiece.

  And the art he presented them was a mockery of their own ineffectual violence. Their arrows had been wiped from existence and marked onto the nearest surface. Hundreds of deadly projectiles, now merely ink painted onto the floor.

  Such was Adam's Talent of Hanging. Anything that was not alive would be immortalized by his brush. Unlike Eric and the other Hangmen, this was how his stewardship of death manifested.

  "Mayhap the blame lies with me," Adam started, his eyes fixed on the high chair whereupon the Elder sat. "For I was not wholly clear. I am King, yes, but also much more. I am a Painter."

  He held up his brush. "I am a Hangman."

  He brought down his brush. The arrows he'd painted danced across the floor, their two-dimensional images moving as if on a separate plane of existence – then turning to point towards the elves. "And I can be much more, should you desire it."

  Your Reaper, said the silence.