The king was ecstatic when he left the castle. A stride in his step that bordered on a skip. A goofy grin and off-key hum in his throat. The bag strapped to his hip jingling with the tambourine of coins. His weighted robe and precarious crown nowhere in sight, replaced instead by an ornate dagger at his opposite hip. As he waltzes through the streets, sampling food and bargaining miscellaneous baubles to their bare minimum profit line, he peppers his conversation with various comments about the fresh air, the open spaces, and the lack of paperwork in sight. Adding insult to injury, he spies a very disgruntled Troy appealing his wares from a thin blanket, the well-earned bull munching on grass just behind it, and offers the happiest beaming wave.

Troy pretends not to notice. His glower, however, sours further.

“I love that guy,” Aldrainian says to me.

“It does not appear the feeling is mutual.”

He bursts into laughter. Childish, pure, genuine mirth. “Come on! I haven’t even shown you my favourite place!”

Elleven perks up when the king’s frame squishes into the shop. “Oy! Who let you out of the castle!”

“Ellie, buddy, it’s been ages. I almost forgot your face.”

“I wish you’d forget my taxes.”

They both stare at each other, deadpanned, and break into laughter. Aldrainian slaps a hand over the big guy’s arm. “Politics, Ellie. Politics. The best I could do was help with the location for your shop.”

“You just wanted an easy getaway for yourself.”

He tilts his head, a twinkle in his eye, and jerks a thumb at me. “This guy here’s been giving me a headache. Hear it’s the same for yourself?”

Elleven groans. “I swear the pest will rob me blind one day.”

“I am not a thief,” I say, leaning back on my heel and crossing my arms. “Though, if that’s what you want…”

“No! I’m good.”

The king chuckles. “How’s the wife?”

“Stationed at one of your garrisons. You should know better than me.”

“Haven’t written a letter?”

“I get an earful either way. Too long, too short, I don’t want to hear about that.”

“You’re smiling.”

Elleven shakes his head at the king’s tease. The glow of energy remains. “That woman sure is something.”

“You’re saving the letter for your anniversary, aren’t you?”

“Two days. I will be locking up the shop.”

“Does that mean you figured out the door?”

“I’m just gonna throw a rock in front of it or something. I give up.”

The king chuckles. “Missus sure won’t like that if you tell her.”

“She doesn’t have to know. Long as you keep your trap shut.”

“Hmm. My best friend or a good laugh?”

“Draen.”

Elleven stretches the word like a well-heated iron ingot. King Aldrainian chuckles and slaps the big guy’s arm again.

“I can feel my aide counting the ticks on his watch. Best get back to my errands.”

“Don’t wait till I’m dead to visit again.”

“You’re the one who hates the castle.”

“Too much paperwork just to see a friend. I don’t have half a day to waste just sitting around an office. Besides,”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ve said it before. The air’s weird in there. I already told you it’s the circulation.”

Elleven hardens his brows.

“Hey, it’s all good. I will make time to visit.”

Ivans leaves the shop first. He helps the king step down, then me. I squeeze his hand before turning to the king.

“Your Highness, which garrison?”

He cocks his head over his shoulder at me. Casually flattens a would-be pickpocket and banishes them elsewhere. Most likely to a guardpost.

“Why do you want to know?”

“I may accompany your friend on his trip.”

“Elleven can handle himself.”

“I am sure he can.”

“Why do you want to go?”

“Would you like me to say it here?”

He sighs. “I know I mentioned it first, but why do you have to bring up work? I can already see the paperwork. And the papercuts.”

I look at Ivans, whose understanding of my intentions has dimmed his demeanor. He nibbles on a pastry quietly, avoiding the attention.

“Speaking of, you can’t leave the barrier, right?”

“Not without dropping it and the wrath of approximately six hundred citizens on my head.”

“Six hundred?”

“Rounded down. Figure I can escape the rest if I have enough of a head start.”

“You’ve been planning.”

“Legally, I will neither confirm nor deny your claim.”

“I read briefly that there used to be a rotation. What happened?”

“Some fucker had to ruin a good thing.”

“Rebellion or invasion?”

“Both. Fuckers ended up ruining each other.”

Sounds like a good premise for a comedy. One of my writers was facing a block on their project. Exchange the soldiers for spies, the castle for an intelligence base… could shake up the creative juices at least.

“Ugh. I don’t like that look in your eye.”

“What look?”

“The kind that says you’re plotting something.”

I fold away the idea for the time being and fold my arms. “I have been told that my expression is pretty neutral.”

He cringes. “That’s when you’re at your most cunning. And then you pull a disappearing act the next second.”

“Let me guess? More paperwork.”

“If you understand, stop. Please.”

I smile in place of answer. He groans and drops the subject. Reaching into his bag, he plays with a coin. Rolls it between his fingers. Swaps hands. Repeat. Manipulates the barrier to flick it into the air and swirl it around. Flicks again into a loop, triangle, star, circle, regular flip, catch, rolls between fingers again, then starts hiding and reappearing the coin through standard magician or sleight-of-hand (depending on intention) techniques.

We take a turn and arrive at two open mirror-doors. A priest clad in pale grey and brown robes stands in the centre at attention, smile big and toothy.

Pearly and white. The building? Not so much.

Brandished within his hands is a singular box with a wide, black, gaping hole. The king’s countenance is distorted with disgust at the mere sight, finger and thumb pinching the coin nearly white.

“We always appreciate your generous patronage, Your Majesty. For two?”

The king grumbles to himself a slew of curses and swears, clenches the coin tighter, and inches it back. The priest’s smile is ominous and unflinching.

Reluctantly, he drops it into the box. The box remains brandished. The priest doesn’t say a word.

“Ahhh… Fuck. Fine.” Grabbing another coin, he discards it over the rim of the box. The coin clips the edge and nearly bounces out, but tumbles into the gaping hole out of sheer spite.

The priest tucks the box under his arm and gestures the two inside. “All are blessed within the church.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

Upon passing through the doors, he turns to look back outside. “What are you looking for?” I ask.

He jumps, swears, and whips around to face me. “Fuck! How did you get in here?”

I point at the door he just passed through.

“But I didn’t see you pay?”

I point at the tile on the floor between the two doors. Obscured just behind the priest’s feet from the outside, it presents itself in full view (albeit upside-down) from inside the church.

Free entry. All donations welcomed.

“Now I’m pissed,” he grumbles under his breath.

“It pays to pay attention.”

“Don’t you start with me, now.”

He has a point. The mirror on the doors have been deliberately scrubbed of the writing. I only thought to check because the priest’s robe vanished at a very peculiar angle.

“So? Left or right?”

“It’s the same either way. The wall’s just here so passerbys can’t look in and see the main attraction.”

We follow the wall to the left and turn right into a large audience space. Several rows of benches have been lined up, all facing towards a small podium positioned before a towering hourglass. Golden frame threaded with black beads. Sands a deep purple dye. There is another robed priest at the podium. His voice booms over the crowded benches, captivating his audience through storytelling.

I fold my arms and cock an ear. The man speaks with the enthusiasm and energy of a narrator, spinning theatrics and drama with the inflection of an octave. The kind of manner and tone that delves into the secrets of the universe over a sandwich and a cup of tea.

The king plops to the floor, checked out of the story and rummaging through his pockets for something to occupy his time. Ivans sneaks some jerky into his mouth with more discretion than usual. Hasn’t spoken a word all morning. I’ve been leaving him more or less alone; it’s difficult to tell how much space the man needs.

“-and then, with a mighty brandish of his wand, a brilliant flash of light coats the countryside. A light brighter than the sun and more deafening than a storm. The horde staggers and cripples back, repulsed from the brilliance radiating from the castle walls. The sound of a thousand cracks. Rot and skin peels and crumbles and sizzles from the arms and faces of the hordes.”

Nice description. Infusing the actions into his voice sells it well.

“And it is thus how the Hero of Arcane saved this family-” he gestures to a group in the front row, who stand and wave for the enraptured audience, “along with thousands in the fourteenth generation.”

The crowd oohs and applauds. The king rolls his eyes.

“Are there any questions?”

The hall is silent. The priest unclasps and swigs a mouthful of fluid from a bottle. When he reclasps the bottle and is just about to launch into his next legend, I step up to the podium, a smile on my lips.

He gawks at me openly, flicks his gaze to the back of the audience hall where the king and Ivans wait, and gawks some more.

“I have a question,” I say simply, circling the podium to face the audience. He grants me berth instinctively, dazed and confused.

“Once upon a time,” I continue, “there existed three Heroes in title.”

A child leaps up, arm extended straight up. “The heroes were Might, Arcane and Hunt!”

“That is correct. Very good.”

The child beams and sits down.

“Each of the selected Heroes bear a unique trait – one that is considered essential to wield their weapons. Do you know what those are?”

The same child hops up, but another beats him go it. “H is for Honesty!”

The child glowers. “Might has loyalty.”

He is sat down by his parent, who supplies the last trait. “Arcane represents Compassion.”

The way she frames it is more of a reprimand to her son than an answer to the question.

“If the Heroes represent Honesty, Loyalty and Compassion, why was a fourth needed?”

The priest retakes the podium, a genial smile lifting his cheeks.

“That is a very good question. Laura, would you like to answer?”

She stands up timidly, looks around, and fiddles with her fingers. “Well… Because there was an en-imbalance.”

“Thank you Laura. Wonderful questions, miss. Now, back to-”

“That wasn’t my question.”

His smile falters. He cocks his head.

I look at the Hourglass and linger on it for a long, deliberate pause. There is something stirring about the sands. A semi distant, intangible memory.

Whatever it is, it feels important.

“What happens when one of the Summoned have their trait corrupted or forgotten?”