Half-Ear jerked away. All colour drained from his face as the darkness in his eyes widened.

"You," he said.

"Yes, me."

Before Half-Ear could even think of lunging for the sword beneath Fox's feet, Fox kicked back the blade, flinging the weapon out of reach. No more surprises. He needed to preserve his strength for the next phase of the plan.

Fox rolled his neck, then stretched his sword arm. Warm liquid trickled down his cheek. The muscles in his chest spasmed and clacked—the battle had forced him to the edge of his abilities, but not his magic. Sparks of energy surged through him.

King Thomas flinched.

Except, the ball of misery and despair could hardly be called a King. Not as he sat there, trembling amidst the twisted corpses of those who should have protected him. All dignity stripped off his torn and dirty uniform. Blood and ashes had deepened his wrinkles and greyed his flattened hair. An old, defeated man.

Fox grinned. Glory was upon him.

The General jerked, to which the King shot a sideways look.

"George! Lords and Ladies in the Heavenly Halls, you're alive."

The hope in Half-Ear was short-lived. He slumped forwards and cradled his head in his hands. The sudden twitch had been but a dead man's reflex, the last act of the body before its soul embraced the inevitable call of the Gods.

"All alone," Fox said, his voice as deep as he could. "Too late to send for help. Too early for anyone to miss you. Even your horse has abandoned you. Only you... and me."

The King swallowed visibly. "Gods, I should have done more to get you killed."

"Can't blame your lack of trying. For years, I had to move from town to town, find shelter with another Lord or Lady. Never stay long enough to form friendships. Always chased... hunted." As Fox twisted his wrist, the King shrunk towards the General's body, as if bracing to join his friend. Around them, the holes and tears in the wall of smoke shrunk. Fox tightened his grip on the sound barrier to assure it remained intact. "I got away. Outsmarted you and the mercenaries you paid dearly, and now the honour is all mine."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

Fox tutted. "Heed the God of Patience, Uncle. We've hardly had the chance to get to know each other. So much to talk about."

"I have nothing to say to you, Magician!"

"Come now, I'm as much your nephew as Seb is. Your brother's son."

"You're no son of Bran... you're a mistake."

"I'm not a mistake!" Fuelled by a jolt of Wrath's power, Fox hooked a thin string of fire around the obsidian stone on the King's ear and yanked him up. The man squirmed and writhed in pain as Fox continued, "Since you claimed to have nothing to say to me, you can listen to me, Half-Ear. I am blessed. The Gods have made this journey so easy for me. They not only intended my birth but crafted me to become a hero. To claim what my father wasn't allowed to claim—what you stole from him. Your reign has come to an end. All the years of shutting out me and my kind, criminalising us, persecuting us, executing us. No more. One by one, I'll take everything that is yours—your castle, your men, your title. I'll be the Magician King of the South."

Silence. The King dangled a few inches above the ground, limp and lifeless save for his gritted teeth.

Fox snapped his fingers. The stone exploded into a thousand pieces.

The King yelped as he plummeted to the ground, landing on his knees in a pool of blood where he twisted and thrashed. Shallow breaths left his lips. 

Holding his head low, he mumbled Seb's name over and over.

Fox rubbed the throbbing wound on his temple. After years of hiding, moons of planning, and a long week stuck in this backwater town, he was the predator playing with his prey. He was the hunter. The pawn who had become the player.

"Speaking of Seb, I should thank you for getting him out of my way." Fox smeared his blood on the collar of the King's uniform, tainting the sycamore leaves. It felt better than kicking the already hurt dog. "By now, he's on the other side of the world, getting married to some Scorian lady of Greed, isn't he? Bravo! Now, he'll have to come to me to avenge you. And I'll be waiting for him in Sunstone Castle. Heavily fortified. Rations to last moons. Impregnable."

"You won't get that far," the King said. He sniffed, then looked up to him with newfound courage. "Kill me, for all I care. Take my body home, pretend to be a hero while you mourn with the rest of my people. But you won't take my castle. My men won't allow it. You'll never be King."

"I'll be the best King that ever lived!"

The urge to shoot the man down with a spike of green fire was strong. Fox remained composed as he sank to his knees, meeting his opponent, man to man. There wasn't a crack in the walls of smoke and air—all good. King Thomas looked everywhere but in his direction; he was still shaking, but otherwise appeared at peace with his fate.

The fool had no idea what was awaiting him.

As Fox grabbed the King by his sticky cheeks, he let out a gasp. 

"People tend to underestimate me, and you're no different. Of course, I won't be able to take Sunstone Castle by myself—I am no Puddingbrain." He leant towards the man's left ear. "You'll help me take it, Uncle."

Just as dazed look appeared on the King's face, Fox pushed him into a magical lock. While the man stiffened and shivered, Fox concentrated on the surrounding air, on the whispers of the brain so silently that only true Masters of Air Magic could latch onto them without causing damage.

A few summers ago, Hawk had tried to teach him the ropes of this subtle art. After a frustrating week, she had called him a donkey in a glassblower's workshop and had ordered him to never use the technique again unless he wished to turn his victim into a shell of flesh and bones.

When he was done, the King would be dead in all but his core bodily functions. His lungs would draw air. His heart would pound. By the grace of the Goddess of Kindness, he would be able to swallow food and water and soil himself a few hours later like an infant. The people of Sundale would gather for a candlelight vigil as they prayed for their beloved King until the Silvermarker army arrived at the gates, allowing Fox to end the war and take what was his.

Fox's pendant burnt against his skin as the airwaves turned to a buzzing noise. He focused until he made out the words:

...in the Heavenly Halls, forgive me for my sins, for the people I have wronged, for the war I leave behind. Oh, Seb, it was I who took the unnecessary risk, who listened to Pride instead of Humility. Blame no one but me. So much I wish I coul—

King Thomas groaned and moaned as Fox clawed through the dull, predictable prayer. He dug deeper into the King's mind, mentally banging the walls containing rows and rows of men in green uniforms saluting him.

Fox's head stung. He smashed through a door to find Seb as he remembered him sitting on his window sill in a fort of pillows and blankets. The figure blurred and faded. On the same sill, now bare, sat a young man with the same black hair, but with a rounder face. A young Lord Brandon?

A copperish scent hung in the air. Fox tasted something salty and metallic. Blood. He grew light in the head. An older Seb with a haircut that resembled a duck's tail sneered at him. He was shouting, but the conversation was too garbled to make out the words.

Suddenly, a young, feminine voice called the King, "Papa".

Before he could focus on the little girl in the green lace dress with the long pearl earrings and rosy lips, he had been transported to a desk stacked with parchments and scrolls. He held a quill in his hand. Ink dripped down. The features of the woman in front of him were sharper. She had a deep neckline, her skin mostly covered by a giant pearl necklace. She wore a diamond tiara and a different stone on each finger. The Queen.

A mixture of anger and sorrow washed over him as she too yelled.

A warm, sour liquid spilt onto his leg as King Thomas heaved and retched. A quick eye on his defences—still intact—then Fox continued.

Now that he had come so far, he needed to find Katla, to witness his master's final moments. To see what had happened all those years ago and who was responsible. Most of all, he wanted to experience what King Thomas had felt before sending him off to an eternal sleep from which only death would wake him.

Fox's quest through Half-Ear's mind was endless. He found banquets and dinners with so much food no Silvermarker would ever have to starve again. There were promotions and executions of men and women, young and old, lonely nights by candlelight, and afternoons in the garden with the General, Seb and the two women by his side. He tasted a hint of the crisp and sweetened wine before taking a sharp left turn towards cheering, clapping, pounding noises.

There it was. Young uniformed men were fighting in an arena, all show and no real danger. They were circling each other in the middle of a sandy field, but the focal point was on a girl with curly brown hair sitting high in the stands. Alex.

Fox blinked. What he saw next was two figures covered from top to toe in iron armour standing side by side in the arena, in the same spot where those men had fought their pathetic duel. A boy and a girl. Alex and Seb—the thoughts flowing through his mind confirmed.

He shivered as his disgust clashed with King Thomas' satisfaction.

Against a pole stood Katla, bound by thick iron chains. Dark crimson patches on his shirt. There was an arrow in his stomach, and another in his windpipe. Blood bubbled up from his mouth. He was choking. Gods, the pain, the cruelty. All for the Greenlanders' entertainment.

Alex handed the bow to Seb; she was talking to him, casually, as though there wasn't a man drowning in his own acid and blood.

Excruciating moments later, Seb stretched the bow. 

Fox crushed the image and tossed it aside. He had seen enough.

A sense of conceit lingered, but mostly he felt empty. A wave of nausea washed over him. Caracal had told the truth about Alex, only she hadn't been alone. Seb had aided her; he had shot the final arrow. He had killed Katla.

Fox ground his teeth. They would pay for what they had done. He would torture them both until they begged for the sweet relief of death, and then he would torture them more. For his entertainment!

Burning streams of fire raged through him as he released King Thomas.

The light in the man's eyes dimmed. He plunged down like a scarecrow knocked down by the wind. Blood splattered around.

Fox spat.

Then he stared at the man. Had he...? His battle to Wrath hadn't killed him, had it? 

He pushed the tip of his boot under the body and rolled over the King. To his relief, the man's chest rose and fell. He hadn't been the Puddingbrain who had messed up the most pivotal moment of his life.

Time for the next phase. He twirled a strand of hair between his fingers—bits of red were still showing. Nothing a dash of magic wouldn't fix.

After burying the sword with a snap of his fingers, he stepped through the smoke and broke the sound barrier. One image flashed before his eyes—Katla slowly choking on his blood, gasping for air that was no longer there. That would keep his hair black.

A group of half a dozen people had gathered by one of the houses. They were murmuring. He recognised the woman with the budding belly beneath her white nightdress and three people he had seen previously in the tavern. One man, with a messy circle beard, had an axe in his hand; others were carrying whatever iron object they had been able to find. Even a kettle.

Cain was there too, holding a pitchfork. He lowered the tool as Fox stumbled towards the crowd, exaggerating the pain in his chest and head. 

The cowman hurried towards him. "Harry, what were you doing there? What happened?"

"An attack." Fox forced a shake to his voice. "A magician—he came out of nowhere when the riders appeared. There was nothing I could do."

Cain pinched Fox's shoulder, then touched the wound on Fox's head. "Did you see him?"

Fox winced. "There was a lot of smoke. I tried to shout."

"He must have done something to the air—I couldn't get through, had to go round. There was a lot of noise. Then, suddenly, nothing—not even the wind or birds singing."

Perfect.

"It was so scary, Cain. I was on my way to you for milk, then suddenly I was stuck. I thought... I thought I was going to die." He had practised the lies so much, they rolled off his tongue.

"It's over now, lad."

The smoke cleared. Three men and a woman rushed passed him and Cain, heading towards the massacre while the pregnant lady approached him, mumbling something about bandages.

Fox couldn't help but gloat as they went from surprise to surprise. The mangled horses. The General with a bullet through his head. And then Half-Ear.

"It's the King!" the woman screamed.

The two men that had been following the traces towards the field returned instantly.

"His Majesty?" Cain asked. "Harry, did you know?"

Fox faked a shiver and sob. He put on the hood of his cloak—he wanted to enjoy this moment. The four people practically threw themselves at their monarch, finding a pulse and the man breathing. They couldn't make sense of the stare in his eyes.

"He's alive!" one man shouted.

"He has been bewitched," said the woman.

Then came the expected accusation from the man holding the kettle. "How do we know it wasn't the lad who did this."

"Yeah, he pops up out of the blue. And a week later, this happens," said Circlebeard. He had dropped his axe but picked it back up.

The four turned to Fox.

The pregnant lady raised the iron crowbar to her face, slowly backing away from him, still mumbling about bandages.

"Me?" Fox whimpered. "Cain, I was... I wouldn't... I... I..."

"You're all a bunch of Muttonheads," Cain said. "I played cards with this young man all week long. He's pure of heart. Helped Kate and Miles without complaining once. A rascal who says what he thinks like all youths of his age, but neither a magician nor a murderer. Just look at him—he's shaking like a leaf. He's hurt too."

The man with the kettle nodded in thought, but others weren't convinced. The woman standing next to him pointed at Fox. "Then, how did he get wounded if he just happened to be there?"

"I couldn't see anything. I tried to hide but fell," Fox said.

Cain showed Fox his hand. "I have seen cows smarter than the lot of you. Five dead horses, three corpses—likely more. The King barely alive—and you lot question a minor head wound. You should be ashamed of yourself."

The pregnant lady lowered the crowbar. "Cain's right. A man capable of this carnage is capable of leaving without a trace—it's what magicians do. We shouldn't accuse Harry because he's a stranger. Bless the Gods that His Majesty has survived." 

"We should take him to Forthworth to see a Healer," said the other woman.

"I'll take him. I was heading for Forthworth anyhow," Circlebeard said.

"Wait, Forthworth may be the closest the village," Fox argued, "but Sundale's only a good twenty miles further. It's where the best healers in the land are, where his men are. The Queen—his wife, and the Captain. They'll need to be informed. The bodies have to be retrieved and united with their family."

"And then you lot thought this lad was the perpetrator," Cain said.

A chain of hesitant glances and stared followed. Kettleman opened his mouth, but Circlebeard shut him down.

He had wasted enough time. "I see I'm not wanted here, but I do want to help. My mare is old, but she's fast. I'll take His Majesty to Sundale."

"Harry, you can't be serious about this—you're wounded!" Cain shouted.

"Another reason for me to leave. Besides, it's my duty—I'm the one who saw most of what happened, even if it's not a lot. The Captain will want to talk to me."

"Can't argue with that, Phil," Kettleman said to Circlebeard.

Circlebeard glared.

"It's decided," Cain said. He patted Fox on the shoulder. "Speed of the Gods, lad. Tell Captain Stephen we'll take care of the fallen men, wash their bodies and prepare them for a proper burial in Sundale. We'll meet again. You, me, Kate—all of us."

Fox smiled. "Your King won't forget Northmore's help, Cain."

Oh, no, he wouldn't.