Craven did not even look up from his study as the doors to King Goorm's quarters flew open with a resounding clang and the ruler of Solden himself stomped inside. To say the monarch was in a foul mood would have been the understatement of the century – fists clenched, face red, bull-neck swollen with veins – everything needed to perfect the picture of the proverbial "Mad King" was vehement shouting of "Heads will roll!"

Who knows, they might once he realized how Craven had spent his waiting time. Overall, the king's state came as no surprise to him. Who wouldn't be angry after spending hours with the other esteemed leaders of the Grand Crusade? After all, there was a reason why the once mighty Realm of Kemdor now went by the name: the Scarred Empire. Ever since the disappearance of the Eternal Emperor close to nine hundred years ago, there had been a bloody succession war raging between the heirs, the rulers of the Empire's thirteen kingdoms. Untold millions had spilled their blood in this senseless war. The land was littered with battlefields upon which nothing grew any longer, so salted was the ground with the blood of fools and heroes. Though Craven could never quite make the distinctions between the two...

Maybe heroes died while fools lived on?

There certainly seemed to be enough of the latter around these days, most of them in a position of power that allowed them the maximum amount of shenanigans. The initial all-out war between the heirs of Kemdor had lasted for over a century, with alliances as quickly forged as they were broken. Even after things had calmed down, an endless sequence of wars between bordering kingdoms had become the norm; great business for marauders and mercenaries, but rather short and miserable lives for pretty much everybody else.

It was rare that there was not at least some war going on in the Empire. Border spats and raids were so commonplace they touched on the banalities of weather. Even without open bloodshed, a cold war always raged behind the scenes: assassinations, betrayal, and secret alliances common practice of the Empire's everyday politics. Was it really a surprise that after a millennium of war the rulers of this land couldn't even play nice when their life depended on it?

Craven sighed, muttering to himself. "It will all end in tears..."

King Goorm's eyes went wide. "What... What the hell are you doing?"

"Reading," Craven replied casually, flipping another page in the heavy tome. "The language is archaic and sometimes quite hard to understand. Amazing how such a thing as language can change over the centuries. By my honor, if not for the training in the monastery my father forced upon me, I would not understand a single sentence." He flipped back a few pages. "The illustrations and maps are exceptionally well done, however. You'll also find the book is lacking much in the department of iconized and highly stylized golden squiggles that are all the rage today in priest school. Then again, one would anticipate no less than a practical no-nonsense approach from a warrior-chronicler of none other than Kemdor, the Eternal Emperor himself."

The king's eyes went wide as saucers, his face going rapidly through an unhealthy assortment of colors: from red, to pale, to red again, moving into a spectrum that made his skin look almost black in the firelight.

Craven smiled nonchalantly before returning to his lecture. "I have to admit though; it is quite thought-provoking to read a first-hand record of the life of such an enigmatic being as the Eternal Emperor. A man praised by the church as an avatar of Ahn himself." He flipped another page, sucking his teeth. "According to this, however, he was actually rather human—and he died like one."

Craven looked at the king, giving him a lopsided smile. "Boy, I guess all those priests that shouted his divinity from the pulpits will feel pretty stupid should word of this report ever see the light of day. All those prophecies heralding his return when the end-times are upon us... I would not like to be the one who needs to rewrite all those passages in the Good Book. There must be thousands of the bloody things, thousands upon thousands, upon thousands."

Craven looked up as he heard knuckles crack. The king's ham-sized fists shook in omnipotent fury. His face was so contorted a broiling thunderstorm came to mind, even his thick black beard was bristling and Craven could see thick veins throbbing on his temples. If ever there had been a man looking like a volcano about to erupt, it was King Goorm at this very moment.

"Uttermost digression," the king growled, laying a hand on the hilt of his massive broadsword on his hip, taking a heavy step forward. "No questions asked. Weren't these the words you used when I bought your services, mercenary?"

Craven nodded and leaned back in his chair. "Aye – and I remain true to my word: I asked no questions and I am the very epitome of discretion, though I never said I would not satisfy my curiosity given the chance. I hope you won't begrudge me that. After all, have I not made sure that this book found its way to you in one piece? No simple accomplishment, trust me, for your nephew, whom you forced upon me in your infinite wisdom, almost lost it along with his leg. How is young Ferdinand by the way?"

The king glared at him, moving towards him as slow and unstoppable as a glacier. "He's alive but my mender says his mind retreated. He may never wake again."

"Hmmm. Or walk for that matter... How unfortunate, but then again, he might be better off considering what is going on beyond these walls. Then again, what is actually going—"

The king stormed forward and the sight alone would have many men cowering in fear or taking up a defensive position. Craven did nothing of the sort, remaining as calm as the stone below his feet. That did not mean he was not ready though. It would only take a snap of his wrist and a poisoned iron-bolt would shoot from the device hidden in his armguard and end the monarch's life. That would be a rather regrettable development, but Craven had killed more than his share of kings in his time and figured he could get out of these quarters and away before anybody noticed his death. Luckily, the monarch did not go for his throat, but instead for the tome, slamming it shut with so much force that the wooden table sprung a large crack.

"No!" he barked, spittle flying from his mouth and into Cravens face. "I will not give report to you, cur! You will tell me everything that happened on your little mission, and then I decide if I let you live, or have you and your men impaled through the ass, skinned alive, gutted and hung over the main gate so that the undead can feast on your flesh!"

Craven merely smiled. "That seems a bit excessive, but if that is what your lord commands..."

"I fucking do!" the king barked, turned, and sat down heavily on the divan opposite of Craven, almost crushing it under his immense weight. "Begin!" he all but shouted.

Craven smiled and obeyed.