Cowardice came in many forms.

There was the coward who would abandon hope at the first sign of danger. There was the coward who would abandon even their most beloved to serve their own interests. There was also the coward who would become mute at the barest hint of confrontation.

And then, there was the prime minister.

He was a unique sort of coward. While he was unrepentantly craven, he was also a bit strange to categorize.

Firam Degardous never wanted power. He had no intention of holding high office. Every day that he met with the cabinet for some important decision or another, he wanted to jump out of the window and try his chances against gravity.

But more than anything else, Firam didn’t want to die. He would endure any indignity and maintain any farce in order to avoid the noose around his neck. This wasn’t to imply that he was bereft of any morals other than his own cowardly desire to survive but it was certainly his first, second, and third priority in life.

Firam was painfully aware of his own short life expectancy should he remove himself from office. Those who held the position in the past never lived long, and their lives always became a lot shorter when they gave up the protection of the palace and returned to life as a civilian.

He was trapped.

A person such as him never ought to have been granted this position at all. One day someone had nominated him and someone else had campaigned for him and before he had any time to come up with a proper rebuttal as to all the reasons he was unsuited for the position, he was being sworn into office. It all felt like a fever dream in retrospect.

Firam felt quite strongly that they’d only chosen him because he looked good on paper. He’d had all the proper education and spent his time working harmlessly as a nameless clerk, sorting through laws and drafting paperwork for his superiors. He’d liked that life. It had been boring. He would like to return to it, but the more he worked, the more this felt like a lifelong commitment.

Firam didn’t intend to die in this position though. Nor after it. Should it be possible, Firam very much wanted to give the entire “death” idea a pass and move into a ripe old age full of boring and uneventful days.

The trouble was that he hadn’t quite figured out an escape plan yet.

He had his advisors and attendants who always seemed to linger nearby. At first they were quite useful, helping him with decisions and his everyday needs, but with time, he’d started to feel like they were more like wardens than anything else.

It was the way that they watched him. As though they were just waiting for the moment he would break into a run and leave all of them behind. As though they had just the plan for him once he’d met those expectations.

It would make sense for them to expect that. If Firam was known for one thing, it was running away. He’d run away from responsibility at every opportunity. He’d run away during boarding school when they attempted to make him class leader, dreading the fate of a scholarship student showing off so blatantly in front of his “betters.” He’d run away when the Oaken Guard wanted him to testify against a dangerous criminal. He’d run away when they tried to make him do a public speech out on a balcony, completely exposed to anyone who might wish him harm. He’d run and run and somehow or another, the diabolical men who campaigned for him managed to reframe his cowardice as something marvelously respectable.

Now, Firam wasn’t at all opposed to others holding his capabilities as a practiced coward in high regard. After all, so far as Firam was concerned, running away was always the best option when in doubt. His issue was that the way that they did just made his skin itch.

If Firam actually had the words to explain why he disliked it so much, he probably wouldn’t have been roped into this mess to begin with. One of the many reasons he’d been selected for his current role was a certain dimness and ignorance to his surroundings.

An easy tool to use and discard. Too cowardly to see the bigger picture but competent enough to look good to the public. Firam was the perfect chump.

About the only thing that they hadn’t accounted for when it came to Firam was that when it came to danger, Firam was as sharp as they came. He could foolishly blunder through a million meetings without the slightest idea what the cabinet was attempting or who was using him but the moment that danger approached, he was quick to avoid it.

This made him a quite frustrating prime minister indeed.

His natural inclination to avoid danger at all costs also meant that he’d become quite good at guiding the palace and even the kingdom to safety. He was far from smart, but his ability to sense impending doom by the way his feet itched to run for the hills always managed to allow him to steer away from danger.

It was quite frustrating for those who worked quite hard to direct the kingdom toward danger, although they might not have viewed it like that. Those who sought out destruction and pain rarely thought in such malignant ways and often framed their desires as the greater good. They were also often adept at persuading others to follow their lead. Such people ought to be watched, preferably from a distance and with some earplugs for good measure. Of course, there were those who were solely motivated by wealth and power, but there was something distinctly disturbing about someone who would commit atrocities in the name of good.

However, a well-positioned fool could provide the stumbling stone for even the most diabolically well-intentioned.

That was Firam’s place in the world. And little did he know, his tendency to intervene at just the wrong time was shortening his life expectancy by the minute. If he had been aware of this, he might have taken his chances with gravity despite his fear of heights.

Firam was once more proving to be a thorn in the path of good intentions. He sat like a barricade while his advisors and attendants stood at his side, whispering to him to persuade him to see things their way.

Firam looked down at the elderly gentleman crouching in front of the throne. His head was placed humbly against the ground as he pleaded for Firam to listen to his pleas.

The man made Firam’s skin crawl.

He couldn’t put his finger on it. There wasn’t a single reason to doubt the elderly man’s intentions. His requests were sensible and his motivations were seemingly pure.

There was absolutely nothing wrong with sheltering the homeless. Using long-abandoned estates that were still in quite good condition was also a nice concept. Firam had no opposition to the idea presented.

Yet every inch of Firam’s inner coward wanted to flee from the old man. His advisors were practically begging him to accept. Firam was faintly aware that refusing would mark him a despotic tyrant rather than a benevolent ruler, a label that was sure to decrease his lifespan.

But Firam had a policy when it came to danger: Avoid immediate danger at any cost and then deal with future danger when it came.

“Bring him to the dungeons for questioning,” Firam said, appalling all of those in attendance. That was fine. Disapproval was not among the many things that Firam feared.

Besides, he’d spent a few days in prison getting questioned back in his day. The jailers were quite humane. The elderly man would fare just fine.

The snake of danger coiling behind the elderly man, ready to strike for Firam’s throat, shrank back with confusion. Firam had that effect on danger at times. It couldn’t understand how he was dodging strikes that would fell a lesser man.

The elderly man trembled as he was taken away, his eyes flitting for mercy toward the one who asked him to do this. He was comforted by the compassion he found in that person's eyes. Surely, that person would never leave him to suffer.

He’d only done what he was told. He would be protected.

It was a mystery to all those present why Prime Minister Degardous was so opposed to relocating the homeless to a shelter members of his cabinet had prepared. It was a mystery to Firam as well. He wasn’t against charity to the homeless, and the proposal didn’t sound like it could personally put him in any danger. But something about the wording made him see that coiling snake, and his feet itched. Ultimately, he didn’t question why he opposed the proposal so firmly.

Firam was going to focus on the more immediate problem of getting out of the palace with the small amount of time that he bought for himself.

Seeing that old man had given him the barest premonition that life in this kingdom would prove fatal in the near future, and he had no intention of being present when that danger reared its ugly face.

★★★

Firam wasn’t the only individual within the Oaken Fortress who could recognize impending danger. It could be argued that those who lived in the slums were far more adept at doing so than even Firam, given the frequency at which their lives were threatened.

Contrary to popular belief, while some danger was birthed from the depths of poverty, the majority of danger for the outcasts of society came from privilege. In other words, the wealthy were the ones who abused the poor.

One of their many privileges was to treat those that no one would miss with a callous disregard for decency.

Although it was a lie to claim that no one would miss them. Everyone was missed by someone. The truth was that no one “important” would miss them. Individuals living in this grime were accustomed to the grief that came with never knowing what happened to a loved one and knowing that any attempt to reclaim them would only result in further loss.

So when two men sauntered through the streets covered in blood and stinking of wealth, the citizens of crime-ridden slums knew better than to engage with them. They also knew better than to look away.

Know where the danger is and know where to run. It was the law of cowards who had no choice but to run and no recourse to fight back. Despite its necessity, it rarely comforted those who survived.

Willow wrinkled his nose as he walked. There was something distinctly wrong about this area. It wasn’t just the feeling of being watched constantly—he was well used to that, given his previous position—but a dreary sense of hopelessness that permeated through the very air and choked him.

It felt like visiting an area after it had come through.

To his knowledge, it ought not to appear for a few more years. Although there was always a possibility for those with those foul intentions to hasten its arrival, he was sure that this place hadn’t been struck.

There would be other signs. There would be a lot less people, for a start.

Still, the feeling was the same.

Willow had once thought that its destruction was unique, impossible to replicate. He had thought that nothing as horrendous had ever haunted the streets of the capital.

Perhaps he had been too naive again. There was certainly more than one way to give people a look haunted by constant danger and pain. Willow also noted that there weren’t any wells or fountains in this area. His thoughts flickered toward the canal, and he hoped that the people here hadn’t resorted to drinking that wretched water.

“You’re familiar with this area?” Willow asked. He determined that he ought to utilize his annoying sheep if he was going to accompany him anyway.

“I live here,” Ny replied, earning a shocked look from Willow. He chuckled. “Where did you think trash like me would live? You’re surprisingly slow.”

Willow clenched his teeth shut. It made sense. Although he was somewhat clean now, the man he’d found in the alleyway would have fit right in with the cowering denizens of the slums.

Although he was certainly quite a bit more gutsy. Perhaps it was his casual disregard for his own survival that drove him to be so reckless.

What had Ny been doing so far from the slums? Willow was struck by the strangeness. How did he get any money for the alcohol he craved? Was he a thief? Willow could think of reasons but dismissed the questions.

“Take me to your abode,” Willow commanded. He winced as he realized that Ny was likely telling the truth that this was his stop as well. The recent accusations of stalking resounded in his ears and filled his gut with embarrassment. He hated being so obviously wrong.

“I’ll never understand the weird kinks of the wealthy,” Ny teased as he strutted up ahead, ignoring the heat of Willow’s glare against the back of his head.

Shameless. Yet, the more Willow watched him, the more he noticed a strange elegance to the way that Ny walked. It reminded him of his etiquette classes, but he couldn’t for the life of him understand why.

“I need a drink…” Ny muttered as he turned into an ominous alley. Willow clenched his sword at his side, preparing for a surprise attack now that he’d followed a suspicious bastard into a confined area.