"I'm aware every healer in Sundale is treating His Majesty, Lieutenant. Surely, one of those spectacled know-it-alls is standing around with his hands stuffed in his pockets, watching while others work. I can't interrogate an unconscious lad."

"Understood, Captain. Where should we take him?"

 The man with the ponytail clicked his tongue against his teeth. He asked, "Are the guests' beds made?"

"A few are."

"Let's put him there."

Fox pretended to be limp as someone rolled him over, felt others grabbed his legs and shoulders before they lifted him off the ground. Oh's and ah's came from the crowd—they were worried. No basket for him, just a hard plank. With each step, he bounced against the wood feeding his headache. Still, they were but minor inconveniences. He was going to the castle!

Compared to Hawk's plan, targeting the General at the military's morning assembly and using the chaos to slip into Sunstone Castle to kill Half-Ear, he would arrive at his destination with delay, but in a city already at sixes and sevens. 

The General and Lieutenants close to the King were gone, Half-Ear would never utter a sane word again, and Seb was at the other end of the world. A confused and grieving Captain would be the one holding the reins. And best of all, the Sundalers had welcomed him with open arms. Their hero! A blessing from the Gods! The King's savour!

Slyly, he peered through his nearly closed eyes. Green uniforms pounded rhythmically, shadowing the otherwise cloudless sky. He slithered across the plank, first from east to west, then his body slid towards his legs, his feet bumping into someone's back. They descended into darkness, but not for long. A deep orange light flickered on the walls. Scented wax dripping from the scones masked the musty smell of old rain.

"I hope the lad's wrong," said a deep voice behind him. "Reg, Sam, Patrick, Peter or the General—if His Majesty survived, one of them ought to be too."

"You can hope and pray, but be prepared for the alternative," said the Captain. "It may well be they gave their lives to protect the King."

That they did for sure.

The man at the front uttered a sigh that trembled with emotion. "Reg and Sam had their lives in front of them. And I've known Patrick since I was but a lad myself. Peter, well, we had our differences, but I wouldn't wish this on him. And our poor General... Captain, what will we do? Young Master Nick is hundreds of leagues from here, and Bart isn't ready."

"Nick will never be our General," the Captain said, his voice stern. "He's less prepared than Bart, and last I heard he has accepted the Ician way of life—we won't see him again."

Captain Stephen was right. By now, Phoenix should be in Bigtown taking care of Nick. Once he had seized the throne, he would give this Bart one chance to pledge his allegiance to him. If not, the new General would suffer the same fate as the old one. Though not the quick mercy of a blaster's death.

The men took a sharp turn. Fox glided backwards, crashing into the officer's stomach, then slipped forwards once more. The light grew brighter. 

A door opened and closed. Stairs. Then another door.

Moments later, the men dropped the plank onto the bed, grabbed his shoulders and legs, then heaved him onto the mattress with a groan. Instantly, he gripped the silk between his fingers, slippery, smooth, and smelling of lavender. His head sank into the thick pillows—all the pleasures of a bath without being wet. Divine.

"Mike, Ward, return to your posts," the Captain said. "Send the people home, let them pray for His Majesty. If any civilian or lower-rank asks, you say you answer no questions."

"Understood," the men said in chorus. They clicked the soles of their boots against each other, then marched out of the room.

The Captain paced around until, all of a sudden, he lifted a bowl and placed it back down. He moved out of the room. "I'm going to need clean water," he shouted.

Fox seized the opportunity to open his eyes, expecting white marble walls to greet him. Instead, a reddish-brown timber stared down from the ceiling and surrounded him. There were paintings, mostly of forests and rivers. A carpet, a shade darker than the typical Greenlander green covered the floor. There was a closet, a chair, a table, and a washstand. No mirror. Was this the famous extravagance of Sunstone Castle? It couldn't be—this looked so... provincial.

His eyes met those of the Captain, who had returned. Fox's muscles tensed as the man said, "Ah, good, you're awake."

"I'm still feeling faint," Fox blurted out.

"A Healer should be here soon."

Soon wasn't specified. Fox laid there for a while, no words exchanged between him and the pony-tailed officer, who kept pacing. He was close to falling asleep when footsteps reverberated in the distance. 

A man in a long grey robe with a green rope-like belt around his waist entered. From his neck dangled a monocle. His face was neither old nor young, neither friendly nor cold. Fox had seen Icians displaying more emotion than the Healer.

"He just woke up—was unconscious for about five to ten minutes."

"Is that so?" the Healer mumbled. Fox winced as he touched the skin just above the wound on his temple. Lifting the monocle to his eye, he hummed. "Though that's quite the cut."

"I fought," Fox explained.

"With the attacker?" the Captain asked.

"Captain, healing first, interrogation later," the Healer grunted.

"I have a headache," Fox said to the man as Captain Stephen sat down on the chair.

"You don't say." The Healer lifted Fox's chin, then pushed his head from one side to the other. "Does this hurt?"

"The wound stings."

"You remember your name?"

"I'm Harry."

"Where you are from?" He droned lifelessly.

"Doe Hill, but I worked in Northmore."

"And where you are now?"

He blinked on purpose, seemingly expecting the room for the first time. Revealing he knew he was in the castle would be too suspicious, especially in a room that looked like a village inn. "In some Sundaler military barrack reserved for the sick and the wounded?" he said innocently.

"Your soldiers would be glad if the barracks looked like this, wouldn't they, Captain?" The Healer said in an equally monotonous tone.

Captain Stephen uttered a brief chuckle. His knuckles bounced against his mouth.

The Healer turned back to Fox. "Before you fainted, what were you doing?"

"Talking to the Captain."

The Captain nodded.

"Nauseous, sensitive to light, feeling confused, blurred vision,..." the Healer rattled off a list.

"I'm not sure," Fox said. His condition had to be severe enough for the Healer to want to keep him instead of tossing him back onto the street. The disappointment of the accommodations aside, staying here was vital.

He didn't react when the Healer snapped his fingers. "You worked in Northmore—what did you do there?" the man asked, which made the Captain look up as well.

"I worked in a tavern."

"How did you end up there?" the Captain asked.

"Captain!" the Healer grumbled.

"No, it's fine," Fox intervened. "I ran away from home, sick of doing whatever chore that was yelled at me and not getting any recognition. The job in Northmore was something temporary. I always wanted to come to the capital to make my weight in gold."

The Healer scoffed. "Is that what people in Doe Hill think of Sundale these days?"

A girl with mouse-brown hair entered the room with a tub and placed it at the foot of the bed. She bowed at the Healer. "Both rag and water have been boiled, Healer Ralph."

"As it should."

"I always believed Healers in the capital poured brandy into a wound," Fox said.

"We used to." 

Unsurprisingly, the man didn't elaborate.

The girl left as the Healer dipped the cloth into the water and gently dabbed it onto the wound. Seven times. He rinsed the rag, paused to readjust the monocle, then repeated the procedure.

Fox wiggled the fingers on his sore hand. "My wrist also hurts," he said.

He continued wiggling as the man eyed him. "Seems bruised—not much I can do about that. It'll pass. The cut concerns me more."

"It concerns me too," Fox said.

The Healer continued working on the wound. When he had finisheded cleaning the cut, he opened the drawer of the nightstand where he fished out a silver needle and a spool of white thread.

"If only I had brandy now," he muttered.

The Captain showed him a flask.

"Captain, a man in your position," The Healer said, appalled.

"It isn't mine—confiscated it from some rowdy Cadets at the assembly."

The Healer took the flask. "Those rascals will soon grow-up. I suppose we're officially at war now."

"Concern yourself with your occupation, Healer. I'll concern myself with mine. There's nothing to suggest the Silvermarkers are behind the attack," the Captain spat.

"As you wish." The Healer's voice conveyed another tone, as though he had wanted to say, "Who else?"

The Healer cut the thread with a knife he had kept beneath his robe, poured brandy over the needle and the thread. Fox pinched his sore wrist, gritting his teeth, as the Healer towered over him to sew the wound. No, the man was no threat, but his instincts saw him as one. Focusing on the pain kept his magic from regenerating.

Halfway through the series of loop-shaped stitches, the Healer stopped. From the hallway resounded the panting voice of someone shouting. "Healer Ralph!"

"In here," the Captain responded.

The man that came in had his black hair tied into a braided knot. A rash of pimples on his face betrayed his youth. "Healer Ralph, Her Majesty the Queen... she can't breathe, and we can't keep her from crying. We think she has an attack of some sorts." Before the Healer could get a word in between, he added, "Healer Ed said to fetch you."

"If Healer Ed said so, I shall obey."

"Goddess bless you, Mike and Dennis are taking her to Lord Sebastian's room."

Four times Healer Ralph drove the needle through Fox's skin. He halted, then added another stitch. "I might need to return," he murmured before addressing the Captain. "Don't send him away when you're done with him. I want to keep an eye on him."

"Understood."

The Healer returned the needle to the nightstand, then splashed some brandy on his hands. Rubbing them, he made for the door. It appeared the Lieutenant was trailing him, but he lingered in the doorway, turned around and faced his superior. Worry lines creased his pimpled face.

"What is it, Finn?"

 "Captain, is it true what the others are saying—that His Majesty is the only survivor?"

"I'm sorry, lad. You and Reg were close."

"We had plans to go to the tavern tonight," the Lieutenant said. 

"Go anyway, have a drink in his name."

"I don't know who to go with."

"You'll find a comrade or two willing to drink away their sorrows."

"Will you come too, Captain?"

Captain Stephen fell against the back of the chair, looked at the ceiling, then at the floor before facing Finn. "I... erm... with Lord Sebastian in Alburkhan, the General... His Majesty unfit to reign, the burden of the kingdom falls onto Bart and me."

"If I may, shouldn't we inform Lord Sebastian?"

The Captain leant over, his elbows on his knees. He kneaded his nose, then pressed his fingers against the corner of his eyes. "Erm... procedures... let me think... by now... we should... send a message to Socota for Lady Alana—she should arrive at King Siga's court in a few days. We'll await the report from Northmore before informing Lord Sebastian."

Finn saluted him. "I'll take care of it, Captain."

"Oh, and inform all Captains to send reinforcements to Sundale. Tell them... tell them General George was murdered."

"By a magician," Fox said. There wouldn't be a better moment to drop that piece of information.

The Captain sighed, briefly closing his eyes. He composed himself as he repeated Fox's words. "By a magician."

"Alright, Captain," Finn said quietly.

Squeezing his wrist, Fox smiled inwardly. The more reinforcements the Greendaler officers sent to the capital, the easier it was for King Storm's troops to cross the border and surround them while he seized the throne from within. Fox wasn't numb to the grief these people felt, but they would thank him in a few moons when he would show he was a better King than Half-Ear ever was, or Seb ever would be. The losses of today would be sacrifices for a better future.

Captain Stephen blew against his knuckles, watching the pimpled Lieutenant leave. With Finn gone, one well-placed flame could reduce the man to dust and ashes, his death increasing the chaos to newer heights. Never in the history of The Greenlands had the country simultaneously been without a King, a General, and a Captain of Sundale.

Fox swallowed the urge to act. Appearing trustworthy would be better in the long run.

Without addressing him, the Captain asked, "You mentioned working in a tavern. Where you still awake or already awake when the attack happened?"

"Already awake," Fox said.

"Did you fall out of bed?" the Captain joked. It was so forced and fake.

"I was fetching milk."

"Doesn't it get delivered at your doorstep?"

"Yeah, but not as early as Kate would like to."

"Is that something you did every morning?"

Fox cocked his head. Such trivialities the Captain wondered about—wasn't he interested in learning who attacked his fellow officers?

"Well... did you?" the Captain asked again.

"Normally not, but Kate was tired. I wanted to do her a favour."

"Why was she tired?"

Fox's jaw tensed. "I don't see the relevance."

"Then you see no cause to withhold this information, Young Master Harry."

"I don't want to waste your time, Captain. The people of Northmore are expecting you and your men," Fox argued.

"Absolutely, which is why I need as much information from you as possible, every detail, every reason or motivation matters. The Academy raised me to disregard coincidences and find the causes behind the consequences."

"I see, Captain." He didn't. "But, fret not, there's a logical explanation for Kate's condition. I arrived at the tavern about a week before the attack. I was hungry, thirsty, out of gold. Kate took me in, but not for Charity's sake alone. Her husband's bedridden—she keeps the place running by herself, but I could tell that even with my help, she was knackered. Diligence's call is there, but age is catching up on her."

"Alright, so you went out to fetch milk. Describe the path you took."

"The main road," Fox said.

The Captain raised an eyebrow. "That's it?"

"There isn't much to tell. To get from the tavern to Farmer Cain's house you take the main road, then jump across the ditch or walk about fifty more yards until you come across a fallen tree trunk, a make-shift bridge. You walk along the edge of the field, and that's it. I didn't get that far."

"You were still on the main road." It was a statement.

"Yeah, the six riders galloped through the town, and suddenly I was caught in barriers of smoke and air I couldn't get through. Around me, the horses whinnied, iron clattered, and men were screaming for their lives." He raised his voice to a higher pitch—a trick from Hawk to seem more innocent. "I had no idea what was happening, so I took my sword."

"You always carry your sword when you fetch milk?"

Fox crossed his arms, well-prepared for this question. "Unlike you, Sundalers, I don't pretend the war only happens at the borders. My sword is the first thing I attach to my belt in the morning, and the last thing I take off in the evening."

"Then where is it now?"

His breath hitched. Puddingbrain, he had tied his sheathed sword to the saddle. "My horse."

"We'll retrieve it—don't worry."

"It's not like I'll use it right away." He had to recover the sword before they discovered the fox-shaped grip and made a connection he didn't want the Sundalers to make.

The Captain continued the inquiry, and Fox replied diligently, answering from the point of view of an innocent bystander. As the man scribbled in a booklet he had fetched from his breast pocket, Fox described the Lieutenants' deaths in detail, told Captain Stephen about the blaster making a deafening noise, and how he had tried to intervene but had been knocked unconscious by a slash of air.

"That was when I was certain it was a magician."

"Did you see what he looked like?"

Fox tapped his finger against his mouth, appearing to ponder. "I... it all happened in a flash... his hair changed colour... fair hair, then black as the night. He was everywhere at once, killing men... I hid more than I fought, afraid to... you know. I didn't want to die." He thought about Katla to look sad.

"You're not a coward," the Captain assured him. "This magician... he controlled fire and air?"

"Perhaps he also knows how to control water? I'm not sure."

"How did he get away?"

"I didn't see. Out of nowhere, cracks appeared in the barriers—I found myself able to breathe again, clean air filled my lungs. I returned to the road—it was a massacre, blood of men and horses alike, Captain. Not to mention the stench. Rich or poor, dead men all smell the same. Then I saw the grey uniforms, and then I knew this was no ordinary patrol. My horse was saddled, so I decided to ride to the capital while the others took care of the bodies."

The Captain grimaced. He didn't explain himself, but he didn't need to. The Northmorians would trample the scene, flattening the footsteps and wiping out any traces of magic. Their sense of duty worked in Fox's favour.

"Your horse was saddled?" the Captain asked.

Change the subject, screamed Fox's mind. He answered, composed yet brilliantly. "I had plans to take her out for a ride after my morning duties. Didn't think it would be her last ride. She worked like a Scorian, but she wasn't one. Don't get me wrong, it was an honour to bring His Majesty to the Healers in the capital, but I lost a faithful companion today."

"You did—I apologise." He stuffed the booklet back in his breast pocket. "Rest, Harry. I'll be back with more questions later, but I know enough to send the first patrols up north."

The Captain rose to his feet.

Fox asked. "Would it be possible to send a pigeon home?"

"My patrols will be in Northmore well before sunset. I can have them deliver a message for you."

"Thank you, but it's my family I would like to send a letter to. That is, if you have any pigeons that fly as far as Doe Hill."

"We have birds that'll fly to Bigtown if you want. Can you write?"

Fox nodded. "Not without mistakes, but well enough for a letter to my family."

"I'll make sure you receive the necessary supplies. When you're done, ask one of the Lieutenants to bring it to the pigeon holder."

"Oh, Captain, you and your men have bigger concerns. Point me in the right direction, and I'll take it myself."

The Captain's mouth opened. Not saying a word, he scrutinised Fox. "Not with that head wound of yours. Ask one of the chamberladies—they'll gladly help you."

"Very well, thank you, Captain."

Fox sank further into the pillows. Captain Stephen's distrust was as inconvenient as his room but no cause for alarm. Not yet. He had wanted to ask for a mirror too, pretending to want to see his wound but to regularly inspect his hair was still black.

Somewhere in this castle, there had to be a naïve Puddingbrain who would do his bidding. Finn the Lieutenant, a chamberlady, or the Queen herself. 

Whoever it was, he would charm his way to their heart.