“Do you have any IDEA how old this tapestry is! And you’ve gone and put a hole in it!”

The Emperor of Threeneer strode over to her, ankle-length nightshirt fluttering over warmly woven slippers, embroidered with tiny blue flowers. Oh, and Idun’s own sword struck through the center of his heart, though from his angry gestures it seemed to be the last thing on the elderly man’s mind.

Idun sputters as she stands up abruptly. “You’re not...how--”

The emperor, almost half a head shorter than the knight, shoving his way right up to her until her own sword pommel bumped into her ribs, glare cutting into her as she scrambled backwards and away.

He stepped forward again, jabbing one arthritic finger up at her and shouting “This tapestry was hand-woven over a century ago by a Talented weaver! It’s a priceless relic, and you’ve gone and stabbed a hole in it! Can you imagine if I had been alive, and you had gotten my blood over it too?!” The emperor tsked as he continued, “Really, the youth these days, no appreciation for the arts!”

“I’m sorry, I-- hold on, what?”

Idun forced herself to look down to meet the gaze of the Emperor, huffy and impetuous, then down to Idun’s sword still in his chest. The sword had no blood on it.

Idun looks closer, and sees what she missed in the dim lighting and shock. The emperor’s body shimmers and glows faintly in the darkness. His feet fade away to nothing towards the ground.

“What are you?”

“How rude,” the emperor of Threeneer sniffs. “I’m quite insecure about my Talent-based condition, I’ll have you know. Besides, I thought every nearby nation of ours knew I’ve already been dead for quite some time.”

Idun backs away, leaning against the nearest stone wall for support.

It promptly falls forward onto her, smashing her to the ground.

A woman with the coat of the Steward of Threeneer thrown hastily over her nightdress steps onto the top of the rubble (and Idun, lightly crushed), scowling. “Alright, what’s going on here?! And whose screaming woke me up?”

“Ah, dear grands-niece, good timing!” the emperor turns to the Steward, Idun’s sword still suspended in his ghostly ribs. “It seems I’ve been assassinated. We were just talking it over.”