He cast a downward glance—a five of shells, a five of stones and a two of shoes. Candlelight reflected in the glass as Cain peered through the monocle. His opponent had three different suits and three different numbers; a worthless hand. Cain added a bronze coin to the bank. Fox answered the call, then grabbed the remaining four dice off the table and shook them. 

He tossed the dice—five of stars, one of stones, four of shells, and six of shoes.

"Your turn," Fox said to the bearded man.

Cain folded his upper lip over his lower and set his knuckles to his chin.

This was Fox's fifty-third game with the man, the eleventh of this evening. Cain was Northmore's cowman. He came to the Regal Sun Tavern every day around sunset and stayed until there was nobody left to play Four of S's with. Fox gladly volunteered to keep the man occupied and his tankard of ale full.

Cain scratched at the scar that ran across his eyebrow, the result of a mishap involving a young bull a few springs ago. Finally, he took the six of shoes, allowing Fox to claim the five of stars.

"That was a snap decision," Cain remarked.

"You gave me time to think, old man."

There came a deep, guttural guffaw. "You, young lads, are all the same, Harry. Blessed with the prime of your youth, you find yourself invincible. Everything has to happen swiftly. But time will weaken your muscles, blind your eyes, and cloud your brain. You'll see—none can escape but those who die young."

Fox slid a copper to the pile forming in between their tankards. "Which is the worse tragedy?"

Frowning at him, Cain added two coins. He mumbled Fox's question to himself as if pondering about the answer. Fox raised the stakes to three coppers, to which Cain replied by adding four, so Fox increased the bet to five.

Cain shoved all of his remaining coins to the bank. "Neither. The worse tragedy is that of the man who keeps waiting for a better tomorrow to live, who trembles in fear, afraid of what could go wrong instead of praying to the Gods that all will be well."

"I'm not sure the God of Patience would agree with you there." Fox went all-in too. 

The corners of Cain's mouth quirked up at one side. "Seems like you aren't either." 

"A little defiance goes a long way." Fox set an elbow.

As Cain snagged the two remaining dice, Fox took a long gulp of ale. He had obeyed the God all week, waiting for the bruises on his ribs to heal, taking orders from Kate and bonding with the villagers. The day of Soil was hours away. 

At sunrise, he would strike.

The dice were cast. Cain hunched over the table as the first one halted at five of shoes. The second was making for the edge. Half an inch from plunging to the floor and an obligatory re-roll, the die came to a standstill: six of stars.

There was a spark of bliss in his bleary, red-rimmed eyes. He looked up to Fox, grinning like a fool. "Take a pick, lad."

A pause. Fox tapped his mouth, blowing on his fingers. "Should I even play? Seems like the Gods answered your prayers."

"I can still lose, but only if you had a better hand to begin with."

Fox touched his nose. He could easily take the five of shoes and win the equivalent of a gold piece, a fortune for a simple cowman from Northmore. But what was a single gold coin when Sunstone Castle held a million times as much?

"I've got nothing." He curled his hand around the three dice in his possession and threw them back into the bag. "Good game—you win."

The man held up his tankard, shouting for all of Northmore and the animals in Regal Sun Wood to hear. He downed the ale in a single swallow, then banged the iron vessel onto the table.

With a burp, he said, "Fill 'm up, lad. Tonight, we celebrate—it's my treat."

Technically, it was his.

Fox finished his own ale before picking up the tankards and went behind the counter where Kate was wrapping a piece of pie for a young pregnant woman to take home. The two women were discussing strange midnight cravings and something about milk and breasts he wished he had never heard.

He poured ale into one cup, then into the next. 

After paying, the woman left.

Kate turned towards him, blinking and yawning. She had been up since before sunrise. "I'm knackered."

"Go to bed," he suggested. "I'll kick Cain out and close up."

She touched her chest. "Harry, you sweetling, the Gods really did send you from the Heavens."

"And to think I almost wanted to rob you."

"I hardly call stealing a pie when you're starving 'robbing'."

"Drizzle and downpour both drench a coat, Kate."

Instead of laughing, she cocked her head. "What did you say?"

"You know—drizzle and downpour can both leave you soaking wet. They're not the same, but the result is." 

"I know what the saying means—where did you learn this?"

Damn the Gods, it was a Silvermarker expression. Pretending like he didn't realise he had made a mistake, he lifted his shoulders. "I don't know—must have picked it up somewhere. Doe Hill used to see many traders when I was little."

"Right, of course... you lived along the river Faith." After tapping her forehead, she reached into the pocket of her brown-stained apron, then put a few coins on the counter. "Here, your wages for today."

Four coppers. One more than yesterday.

"Kate..."

"It's only fair. You've been working a lot, entertaining the regulars and fixing things around the tavern." She glanced at the chair he had attempted to mend—it was three inches shorter but didn't wobble anymore. "Or tried to. I can already tell that your father was wrong. You're a nice young lad."

Fox's stomach filled with a fuzzy feeling. His cheeks grew hot. "Thanks," he mumbled.

"Oh, Harry, am I embarrassing you?"

"Just a little."

Her chuckling ended in a yawn. She patted his arm. "I'll get out of your way. Don't forget to lock the tap and the doors."

"I'll remember." He nodded. "And Kate, you can sleep in tomorrow. I'll take care of the morning shift."

"You will?" She sounded relieved. "I can't remember the last time I—"

"Yeah, so when you hear me stumbling down the stairs, just ignore me. Turn around and doze for a little while longer. I've got this."

"Heavens, Harry. Please never leave."

That was a promise he couldn't make.

After two more rounds of ale during which Cain told him every Four of S's trick he knew, Fox eventually got the man out of the tavern and on his way home. He turned the key and hung it on the hook by the door.

On the counter stood seven empty tankards. He dipped them in the bubbly, soapy water, then walked back to the other end of the tavern to grab his and Cain's mugs and washed those too. He wet the old rag, then went from table to table to rub out the stains, pick up the crumbs and rearrange the chairs.

Hushed bickering came from the room above. While Kate practically worshipped him, her husband—in the brief moments that they had met—always glared at him. A few days ago, he had made it very clear that he didn't mind strangers spending their coins in his tavern, but he didn't want them working for him.

Fox grinned, recalling his answer to Miles. "I don't work for you. I work for your wife."

He cleaned the rag, put it on the sill to dry, then lifted the sturdy iron-reinforced wooden basin and went through the backdoor to cast out the dirty water.

"I wouldn't have hired him if you did something but lie in bed all day," Kate grumbled. Through the open window, her voice sounded louder.

"It's not Sloth holding me down, woman. I would give all the gold we own to walk again as I used to."

"You don't even try, Miles."

"I do. It's too painful."

"You should see a Healer."

"And make those sons of Greed even richer than they already are. I'd rather cut off my own toe."

Fox had heard enough. He closed the door. The past few days in the tavern had been... well.... pleasant. The work reminding him of that winter long ago in The Antler with Doe and Phoe, Leo, and Falcon. There was something peaceful about preparing food and serving drinks while playing a game or ten. But he was no serving boy. He was a Prince who had to move on to bigger, better things. He wouldn't wait for a better tomorrow, not when tomorrow was the better one.

Leaving the coins on the counter, Fox climbed the stairs and headed for the small room in the far right corner of the building. The tavern had many rooms and could be used for an inn if Kate and Miles wanted. Perhaps it once had been—he hadn't asked. He didn't even know if they had any children, and if so, how many.

The quibbling had stopped. He unfolded the too-short but otherwise too-wide pyjamas, then placed them on the table, as though he had worn them. Tonight, he would sleep in his own clothes.

He gathered all his belongings, which wasn't much. A spare shirt, some socks, a waterskin, and a now-empty bag where his rations had been. He stuffed them all into his saddlebag, then laid his sword next to it and used his hooded cloak for cover.

Then he went to bed.

Sleep came to him in waves, with him each time checking the sky for any sign of imminent daybreak. He had drunk enough ale for his bladder to wake him up before the rest of Northmore woke, but he found himself twisted and turning in his bed, nonetheless. Soon, The Greenlands would be a different place. Their King would be dead. Long live the new King.

Morning came as a block of fog rolled over the town. A chill rose from the ground. Under a cloudless night, diligent birds were already courting and tussling in the leaves.

Fox changed his sword's hilt to that of a fox, then attached the scabbard to his belt and sheathed his weapon. On the table, next to the unworn pyjamas, stood a bowl. He splashed water on his face, rubbing the crusts from his eyes.

After visiting the outhouse, he saddled his mare and attached the bag to the saddle. Out of his hand, he fed her some oats. "Pray to Patience, and you shall be rewarded," he told her.

She snorted a neigh.

"I'll be back soon."

After pulling up his hood, he took the crate of empty bottles by the back door and began to walk. 

At this hour, the town was deserted. Normally, Kate would visit the farmhouse to get the bottles filled. Cain was a frequent customer, but the delivery of milk didn't occur as early as Kate wanted. Right now, he was the one heading towards the cowman, providing him with a justification in case someone wondered why he had been sneaking around town when the King and his companions had been attacked.

The week in Northmore had given him time to plan out various scenarios. He knew where the loose sand was that left little trace, where the strongest winds blew and where he could attack without another soul seeing what he was doing.

Excitement coursed through his veins, pumping magical energy to the core of his heart. He passed the house of the pregnant woman and used a passing wind to close their bedroom window. Any risk was one too many.

He picked up the shovel, then the axe, and threw them behind a bush. Both tools contained iron—he couldn't have left them lying around to be used as an emergency weapon.

Then it came, much earlier than expected, the first thunder announcing a storm. The rumbling, then slowly trembling earth.

Galloping hooves echoed through the forest; running for the sheer joy of riding as fast as they could. Voices of men who believed they lived in virtuous bliss as the first beams of sunlight crawled over the fields.

Ditching the bottles, Fox ran. The glass cracked. 

He needed to them on the other side of Northmore, not at the heart of the town where the noise of dying men would wake up the villagers, where they would see him.

Faster than his feet could carry him, the thundering closed in on him. The mist cloaked the riders. 

What could he do? Every scenario he had thought of, he was sure to get out of the village.

He breathed heavily, thinking of using Air Magic to catapult himself out of town. No, it would cost too much energy. He wasn't that desperate.

Then what?

The horses pounded the stones.

They were here.

Lie low. Hide while you play with the rats. A memory of Katla's voice reminded him.

Fox dived behind a broad-leaved shrub, into a small stream that separated the lower-lying field from Northmore's houses. Cold river water seeped into his boots, feeding the anger of the God of Wrath flowing through his veins.

The shadows appeared out of the mist.

Morning light flashed against the iron of their armour and blades.

Fox latched onto a gust of wind rolling in from over the field. He caught the force, then swept it across the ground, destabilising the two horses at the front. 

As the animals neighed in panic, he cast a bubble of soundproof air around the uniformed men buckling forwards and getting thrown off their saddle. It would be hard to main this dome-shaped barrier, but it muffled shrieks and shouts.

The King and the General tumbled off as they stumbled over the carnage at the front. The horses at the back staggered, their force too strong for the men to hold them.

In the tumult, Fox latched onto the wooden handle of the blasters. He buried them beneath the earth, just as he had planned. The Greenlanders had been so eager to catch up in the technological war that they believed the iron bullets would be enough to stop magicians. The Puddingbrains!

Fox ducked, relishing in the chaos he had created. The Lieutenants at the front scrambled up, sword in hand. The horses that had fallen first—a white stallion and a brown mare—whinnied in pain. Their legs were broken—the majestic Scorian beasts would never ride again.

"Your Majesty, are you alright?" asked one of the Lieutenants. He held his hand out to the King.

"The horses, what happened, Patrick? Did you stumble?"

"There was a sudden wind."

"That was no ordinary wind." The Lieutenant who uttered the words had a boyish voice. His pants were ripped. Blood was streaming down his fingers and the hilt of his sword.

"Circle around him, you fools!" The second man in the grey uniform shouted—the General. He was still in the saddle, only half thrown off. His leg stuck in the harness. He was tugging at his knee in vain.

The two riders on amber steeds flanked the King. The boyish Lieutenant and the man called Patrick closed access to King Thomas respectively at the front and at the back. 

"The mist has surrounded us, General," said one of the riders.

"Magic," King Thomas uttered.

"Magician," the General confirmed. With a loud groan, he yanked his leg out of the strap.

"I don't see anything," one of the riders said.

"Or anyone," the young Lieutenant added.

The horses thrashed, screaming in pain. The black mare and stallion belonging to the King and the General were sniffing at their fallen comrades, comforting them but unable to help.

The men kept glancing at the creatures instead of looking at him.

Fox formed a tiny green flame in his hand. He would end their suffering, shift the focus to him. He shot one flare at the white horse's head, just above her armoured nose, then a second at the brown mare's side, where her heart was.

As the green beam of fire hit, the horses yelped once more. Then the trashing and the excruciating neighs stopped.

The black mare staggered in panic. She dashed off.

"Farah!" King Thomas yelled.

"He's there!" shouted the young Lieutenant. "Behind those bushes."

"Reg, Patrick, get him!" the General ordered.

As Fox unsheathed his sword and focused on the men storming towards him, his grip on the bubble slipped. The King's black mare jumped through a hole and thundered off in the direction of the forest, away from the village—luckily.

He had barely restored the shield of air when the young Lieutenant popped up on his side, ready to strike his flank. Slightly caught off guard and with the second, older man approaching, Fox stomped his foot into the water.

Mud rose up, swinging the young man off his feet. 

Before he landed in the stream with a plunge, Fox coiled a rope of fire around the golden hilt of the Lieutenant's sword and flung the weapon a dozen feet away.

This would be an easy kill.

"Hands off my son!" hollered the older Lieutenant.

Fox was quick to turn on his feet. He met the incoming attack with a slash, then struck back with a flame he conjured in his palm. He hit the man's face.

The Lieutenant didn't budge as flesh burnt off his skin. He aimed for his side with a strength Fox had hardly encountered before. With well-aimed bangs, he forced Fox to seek replies instead of turning the battle into his favour.

Behind him, the boy was clambering out of the stream. 

Fox couldn't use too much Earth magic, not when he needed to maintain the dome of air. Fire, then. This man had to die.

Fox did the unexpected and dodged under an approaching blow. While the tip of the sword sliced into the fabric of his hood, Fox's focus was on his next move. He conjured fire underwater, heating up the stream.

Simultaneously, he swung his sword. Bright yellow flames erupted on the blade. He merely brushed the edge against the man's trousers. The fire died instantly, but the damage had been done.

Smoke rose from the stream. Boiling water entered the wound.

Fox turned to his side as the man lunged towards him, screaming. The pain made him sloppy.

He managed another cut.

"Father!" The young Lieutenant screamed as Patrick fell forward into the water.

Fox stabbed his sword in the man's back, his eyes on the blubbering, trembling excuse of a Lieutenant.

"Reg! Patrick!" came a shout from the road.

"My father fell!" the young Lieutenant replied. "He's a monster! Evacuate His Majesty and The General!"

Fox yanked his sword out—blood and all; he didn't care. He couldn't let that happen.

Eyes on the young man, he stretched his arm and clenched his hand into a fist. Playtime had only just begun. He envisioned a coil of rope, not of fire, but of air around the General's throat. An invisible noose to slowly strangle the head of the Greenlander army.

Fox jerked his wrist.

There was a moment of silence, then the choking noises came. Between the smoke and the broad leaves, Fox caught glimpses of the General grabbing his throat, clawing for air. He fell down on his bad leg.

"George!"

"General!"

"It's the magician," Reg said. He took a step backwards, as though he expected Fox not to notice he was planning on retrieving his sword. 

"Fight him—deplete him of his energy, Reg. It's our only way out of here," said one of the Lieutenants.

"I don't know how."

"It's gonna be alright, George." The King crouched next to him. 

"Reg, do something!"

The young Lieutenant glanced at his sword, lying in the field, in between the fingered leaves of the potato plants. He shuffled a little closer to his weapon, then looked at Fox. "Why?"

Fox decided not to answer. "I bet the Academy of Sundale never prepared you for this, did they?"

"They did. You won't win." There was little confidence in his voice.

"You'll stop me."

Fox allowed Reg to take a few more steps. As expected, the young man grew cocky, too cocky. Pride held him in his grip as he leapt towards his sword.

Just as Fox broke the connection to the General to save energy for the next battle, Reg snatched his weapon.

General George was coughing loudly, almost vomiting.

"Now what?" Fox said.

Reg took a stance. "I vowed to protect my King and my General. I'll die if I must as long as they live."

"Then you had pudding in your brain when you made that vow."

"Silvermarker! He's a Silvermarker!" Reg sprinted towards Fox, his sword in front of him, ready to strike.

Fox didn't grant the young Lieutenant that pleasure. He thrust his sword towards the running man.

 Magic propelled the weapon; the blade pierced the fabric of his uniform and struck him in the heart with such a speed that he fell backwards.

A wave of exhaustion wafted over Fox. His cheek felt sticky—not from sweat but blood. He had been hit. Around him, the bubble was slowly disintegrating. 

He panted, trying to renew the shield. When it didn't work, he used his energy to retrieve his sword.

He grabbed the flying sword by the hilt.

On the road, the Lieutenants had given their horses to the King and the General. One of the Lieutenants was assisting General George with his leg. 

Damn the Gods, the young Lieutenant had stalled him with his gibberish. He couldn't let them get away. The crown of The Greenlands was within reach. Soon, he would be able to rule. 

Magic sparked through his fingers. He would force the men out, cut them down one by one, singling out King Thomas before killing him. Instead of a shield of air, he built a small wall of fire around the men. With their iron blades, the Lieutenants hacked through the inferno.

For every hole they made, Fox added another layer. Using fire magic was easy, comfortable even. His heart palpitated with renewed energy. With the bold ambition that he would achieve what his Master had dreamt of.

"Show yourself, coward! Fight like a real man!" The King was getting scared.

But not scared enough.

While he couldn't wait to reveal himself, the battle was still four against one. He couldn't beat them by sheer strength, so he had to be cunning.

Keeping up the flames, he searched for General George. The two remaining men would gladly abandon their post in a fool's attempt to save their General.

Fox snapped his fingers.

Through the cracking, sputtering fire came the retching sounds of a man in need, followed by the shaking and whinnying of a trapped horse.

"George, no!" Was that a tremble in the King's voice?

"Not again—we'll get him," said one of the Lieutenants.

"No, don't leave me, Peter... don't leave me and George." Then the King yelled, louder than before. "Coward!"

Fox said nothing, letting the General's gasping for air speak for him.

"Your Majesty, Sam and I—we'll make it through the fire. At the slightest opening, you kick the horse into a gallop and ride back to Eastpond."

"I won't leave George."

"You must." The Lieutenant trying to reason with his King was entertaining. He knew the General was beyond saving, perhaps he even knew that all was lost. But the man had courage, an unwavering sense of duty—he wasn't one to give up without a fight. "Ride as you have never ridden before, Your Majesty. Ride for your life... for The Greenlands. It was an honour serving you."

"I'll tell my wife she should never have pushed me to get out of the castle more often. I always knew it would backfire... I shouldn't..."

"But we had fun, didn't we?"

"Aye."

Fox released the General but maintained the wall of fire. King Thomas was his.

The two Lieutenants leapt through the fire. Red flames danced on their already ripped, soot-stained uniforms while they ran towards him, one man shielding the other.

Out of the flames appeared the King, flat on the amber horse.

Fox threw a beam of green fire. 

The horse neighed; hooves flailed. A groan as the King clattered to the stones.

The first of the Lieutenants came with his sword high and brought it down at him. Fox pushed back the slash. He swung at the man's head, but he raised his hand to push Fox to the ground. 

He smacked the Lieutenant with an invisible force of air. The man fell just as his comrade approached, and Fox barely succeeded in parrying the attack.

The King was limping away from the horse.

Fox's sword vibrated as he blocked another blow. If neither fire nor air could stop the King, then earth was his last resort. He imagined the ground spiking up, cobblestones and all.

The ground obeyed. But his move had slowed him down—a sharp sting cut his side. The Lieutenant had hit him!

He nearly dropped the blade as the pain seared through him, but he lurched, once more feeling the God of Wrath taking control over his mind.

The first Lieutenant aimed for Fox's feet. 

He jumped into the air, out of the men's reach, and landed deeper into the field. He shrouded himself in a cloud of twisting smoke. 

The men never saw him coming. Like a ghost of fires and flames, he incinerated the men. They were but ashes when he was done.

With the little energy he had left, he stumbled back to the stream. Now that the King and the General were alone, he had to finish what he had he had trained for all these years. What he had waited for all this time.

Every step hurt. His head spun. He felt his blood pounding through every vein as his vision blurred. Choking the General a third time wouldn't work—his magic was almost depleted. He needed happy memories. 

Katla, look at what I'm doing to these rats.

"Show yourself, coward!"

Fox blinked. 

Out of the dirt and the stones he had stirred up, stuck the wooden handle of a blaster. He sheathed his sword.

Gathering all his strength, he curled air around the blaster. The wind jerked the weapon loose and brought it to him. He caught it mid-air.

His finger on the trigger, he walked through the steam, through the bushes and came onto the road. The smokey remnants of magical fire and air still created a visual barrier between them and the sleepy village of Northmore. 

His plan had worked, for the most part.

The greying General had staggered towards the King, his body as a shield. They looked like frightened children in a bunch of rags as Fox aimed the blaster at the General. His face was crusted with soot and bloody sweat, his lips blue.

"Is this how Storm wages war?" he said.

"No, it's how I play the game."

Fox pulled the trigger. 

The bullet hit the man right in between the eyes. As he fell, his slumping body crushed the King.

A trickle of blood streamed down the General's nose, then onto the ground.

"George." The King's breath hitched.

Fox gloated as he saw King Thomas whimpering like the coward he was. He dropped the blaster, then moved closer.

The King reached for a sword that lay on the ground. 

Before he could take it, Fox stepped on the blade.

There was only fear radiating in his eyes as he stated. "You're gonna kill me, aren't you?"

"I thought of turning you into a cabbage." Fox grinned.

King Thomas gaped at him in a silent, confused moment. Then he whispered, "Show yourself."

Fox lowered his hood. "Hello, Uncle. It's an honour to meet you, at last."