Without talent for sorcery, Atlan’s seventh prince had to find other means to survive the machinations of the Sovereign’s court. So, he hid his true self—his ambition to be worthy—in fool’s clothes and pretended to mingle with unsavory folk or waste time in drug dens and pleasure houses. Little did his minders know that Bram used such places to shed his disguise, and in secret rooms that few would know of, learned of other ways to challenge his lack of sorcery.

“Should this journey bear fruit,” Bram couldn’t help feeling hopeful, “if I find the ancient power hidden in this land that will give me the means to summon aid from others who could help end Lotharin’s decline…Then I won’t have to play the fool ever again.”

“This great undertaking is a radical plan.” Doubt flashed across Ser Anthony’s face. “Must you go to such lengths as to search for something even the gods feared?”

“When we come of age, each child of the Sovereign must lead one of the twelve kingdoms that make up our mighty Imperium to see which of us is worthy to become the heir,” Bram recalled his mother’s words. However, it was the Sovereign’s expression, her lack of expectation, that was engraved on her son’s heart.

He came of age a little over two weeks ago. Sadly, the Forest Kingdom of Lotharin drew him as their new leader.

“I didn’t ask to be governor, and I don’t want to sit on the Burnt Throne, either. It’s bloody hideous,” he joked. “But since I’m here, I’ve no choice but to do the best I can.”

Ser Anthony spoke no words of encouragement. Instead, he drew his long pipe and pouch of weed from his pocket and then offered them to Bram.

“No offense, but my disguise is good enough. I don’t need to smell like an old man, too.”

“It’s for luck.”

The old knight seemed so sincere that his prince couldn’t help but take the gift and then hide it inside the many pouches lining the inside of his purple coat.

“I don’t expect I’ll use it, but thanks. I’ll give it back to you when I return.”

“And I’ll hold you to that promise.”

Bram made one last check of his gear; the bright purple coat of many pouches he wore, the rations bag Ser Anthony packed for him, his beloved lute, his trusty disguise kit, and the longsword strapped to his thick leather belt.

“Your coat’s too bright.”

“A bard needs to dress flamboyantly to be successful.”

“Can’t you clean that lute once in a while?”

“The smudges help it look cheaper than its actual value.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer a magic sword?”

“I’m magicless. I wouldn’t be able to use one.”

“At least take—”

“Enough with the nagging, Ser Anthony,” Bram sighed exasperatedly. Then, smiling reassuringly at his knight, he added, “Don’t worry. I’ll be back.”

“The Sovereign’s light shines on you, Your Highness.”

“May her radiance never dim.”

With their farewells given, Bram pulled on Renfri’s reins and led the hart toward Lowtown’s outer gate and into the wider world.

***

Bram’s destination was the lonely mountain of Sundermount rising east of Bastille. Near its peak was a cursed cave, which legends claimed was a dungeon with one occupant; an ancient trickster who once defied the gods, who, failing in their rebellion, was imprisoned there by the gods’ champions. In desperation, the prince hoped to meet this ancient malevolence and borrow its power to change his fate and the fate of all Lotharin…whatever the cost.

It would’ve been a day’s journey of hard riding on the Sovereign’s Road to reach the town by the mountain’s foot, but Bram chose a detour to keep potential pursuers off his tail.

Instead of heading east, he traveled south, crossing the Rhyne River and then passing through neighboring Lorraine Shire while avoiding the walled city of Lorraine, whose lord, Eorl Adler, hadn’t yet sent any message of fealty to Bastille Shire’s new eorl, who, incidentally, was also Lotharin’s new governor. To be fair, Bram had heard no nasty rumors about Eorl Adler either. Still, the prince would rather camp out in a grove of trees skirting the southern banks of the Rhyne rather than spend a night in a city whose allegiance remained ambiguous.

“I know it reeks…”

Bram watched Renfri turn its nose away from the stick of incense he planted on the ground.

“But it’ll keep unwanted guests from catching our scent tonight…”

He did more than simply mask their scent. Once Renfri was settled on a blanket he’d hidden behind a thick wall of thorny bushes, the prince erased all traces of their campsite. He went as far as to make fake hoofprints with a tool he’d had forged in Bastille’s smithy days ago. These new tracks led southward, toward Lorraine, a likelier destination for a prince who’d never learned to explore the wilds…or so people thought of him.

“Ser Anthony used to sneak me out of the capital so we could camp under the sky.” Bram caressed Renfri’s neck. “All so I could rest in places where others couldn’t judge me for dreams so otherworldly I often remember them, even in my waking hours…”

A wistful look appeared on Bram’s face.

“He taught me nature craft, hunting, fishing, and even how to read the stars, though it was another who taught me how to stay hidden.”

Bram shared stories of his childhood and his strange dreams of strange lands with his new friend, and Renfri listened to him as if he could understand human language. That’s how they spent the early evening.

Later, as night deepened, Bram didn’t light a fire, choosing instead to snuggle next to the hart that lay on its blanket. He took warmth from Renfri’s fur while he gazed up at a night sky half-veiled by a canopy of pine needles.

Of the twin moons that lit up the night, the blue moon, known as the eye of Phoebe, Goddess of Prophecy, was already far into its waning stage. In a few nights, it would disappear from the sky, leaving only its sister to guide those foolhardy enough to travel under her reddish light. For while the blue moon was known as a portent of possible fortune, the red moon was its exact opposite. The eye of Pandia, the Goddess of Vengeance, brought woe and misery when it flew across the sky without its twin.

“You’d think with all the misfortune I’ve received, fate would at least spare me some luck when I need it…”

As if to prove Bram’s luck was truly terrible, there came a sound from far off. It was the beating of many hooves across the hard earth. Renfri heard this too, and it stiffened underneath Bram’s touch.

“Hush now.” He caressed the hart’s neck. “Let’s not draw attention to ourselves.”

It didn’t take long for them to appear; six figures mounted on harts wrapped in the same white mist that clung to their riders like hooded cloaks.

What sort of sorcery turns men into ghosts…?

The magic that hid their features also veiled their purpose, though Bram could guess at what sort of reason brought these ghost riders into these woods so late at night.

Are they looking for me…?

Their appearance here, coinciding with his departure from the safety of Bastille’s walls, seemed too coincidental. He could have been wrong, but it didn’t matter. Whatever their reasons, Bram stayed hidden. He stayed low while keeping Renfri quiet.

Silently, as if they were actual specters, the ghost riders searched the woods, combing it thoroughly, with one of them coming close enough to Bram’s wall of thorny bushes that he, who watched through a space between brambles, couldn’t help reaching for his sword’s hilt.

The rider sniffed at the air like a beast, though it would only catch the earthy aroma left behind by the incense Bram lit earlier, for it was meant to confuse pursuers from catching a person’s scent.

Just more greens here…so go away.

Renfri fidgeted at Bram’s side, making a barely audible sound—but the ghost rider’s head turned toward the tall bushes, anyway.

Bloody hell.

It urged its mount closer, coming within ten feet of the thick wall of bushes. Another step and it would see over them, revealing Bram and Renfri lying low behind it.

Bram’s fingers tightened on his sword’s hilt.

The rider drew closer.

Bram readied himself to barrel through the bushes, because surprising his foe was the only way to escape. However, just before he threw caution to the wind, the rider turned away as if alerted by some unheard call. Only then did Bram remember to breathe.

The ghost riders converged on a spot south of the campsite, leaving Bram to guess they’d found the fake trail he’d left there. His guess proved right when he watched them ride south toward Lorraine, proving they were indeed chasing after him.

‘Ping!’

Bram’s nerves were so frayed by his close encounter with strange foes that he couldn’t help looking at the otherworldly message that appeared in the air that only he could see.

[CONGRATULATIONS! You’ve used what you’ve learned to successfully hide from your pursuers, earning you the achievement [Apprentice of the Delightful Troupe]! This beginner title increases the chance of success for Stealth and Deception when creating disguises, hiding in covered areas, or moving under the cover of night.]

“I don’t need you to give me a title I already possess.”

[ALERT! Your body is unsuited to receiving the system’s boons. Canceling activation of [Apprentice of the Delightful Troupe].]

“Hah.”

[ALERT! [Administrator Lv. 1] prevents you from earning experience.]

Bram laughed ironically.

[ALERT! You lack the magic to use the system to your benefit. Progressing in your job-exclusive quests may help to remove this penalty.]

Bram didn’t bother being angry at the false hope these otherworldly messages brought him. He didn’t need false hope, though. He decided a while ago that he would grasp success tightly by the balls without this otherworldly system’s help.

“Just like tonight.”

Bram grinned. He couldn’t help it. Thwarting those who meant him ill was a satisfying pastime.

“Still, if they’ve tracked me to these woods, they must have come from Bastille…”

He frowned.

Only Ser Anthony knew of his departure, but Bram never told the old knight his route through Lorraine. Besides…

“Ser Anthony would never betray me.”

Being certain of this left Bram with only one conclusion.

“They’ve been watching the road, which means they don’t know where I’m going yet.”

He was nearly certain of this deduction. For if they knew his mad plan, they would have ambushed him when he climbed the mountain. It would be easier than chasing him across the countryside.

“What do you think, Renfri?”

The hart let out a hearty grunt that he assumed was its answer.

“Yes, if they’re really after us, then we’ll have to be even more careful.” Bram grinned again. “Luckily, we don’t need sorcery to hide in plain sight…”