Amid a terrible storm, blood and bone splayed over Ojin. The first attack on a Token citizen was avenged. Hundreds among the Red Pact army lie wasted over the muddy ground, and General Foretta’s wyvern crashing into a momentous tumble was the icing on the cake. Unlikely Guds had won.

  In the center of it all, with red-inverted vision and an unforgiving expression, Alan knelt over General Foretta in position to stab, begging his Soul Collector to give into his dark desire. Durger, Afarus, none of the souls inside could stop him now.

  He would kill her for what she did to Irana.

  The weight of his blade lessened in his grip, allowing him to finally plunge.

  “Die!” he shouted.

  “Alan, stop!” a distant voice grew closer. “Stop! Please!”

  Inches from cleaving Foretta’s neck, a thunderous heartbeat pulsed through his eardrums, flashing his vision back to normal.

  The voice… it was Neesha.

  His tense arms quavered as the point of his blade nicked the general’s neck. They stared at each other with wide eyes, the feral moments of battle consuming them both. One ready to kill, the other ready to die.

  “Rgh,” he grunted, tensing again as the darkness tried to creep back in. Only, the anger was gone, giving Alan the peace needed to drop the blade.

  Neesha wrapped him with ribbons of Green Saro to sooth his rage. “God. Foretta.”

  The general seethed. Her arms robbed of strength, leg broken from the fall.

  “Alan, what’s become of you?” Neesha cried, attempting to push him off of her sister. “You saw her in the frogs’ vision, same as I did. You know who she is. How could you?”

  Alan exhaled a deep sigh, staring at his bloodied hands.

  “Snap out of it,” she begged.

  His minions slowly stomped up to them—all blood-spattered and singed from the elements. Their walks were solemn, knowing dark Saro cycled their keeper in the worst way.

  “He is a warrior, little sister.” Foretta coughed through a laugh. “Something you would never understand.”

  “Glad to see your personality is still intact through death,” Neesha scoffed, wrapping Foretta’s broken leg in soothing Green, gradually cracking the bone back into place.

  “Mmph—” She held back a groan. “When did you find the courage to mend life that moves, little sister? I thought all you were good for was raking leaves and watering plants.” She cackled through a cough.

  “Still a bitch too, I see.” Neesha smiled sadly. “Get off her.” She continued to push until Alan finally unlocked his legs and let the general breathe.

  Pmf!

  Flint pressed down his staff in the mud, standing solemnly in front of all Alan’s minions. The Token army spread farther behind them.

  “I do not like what battle does to us, friend.” Flint frowned.

  “Nor do I,” Alan said, slapping molten Orange shackles around Foretta’s arms.

  “Stop!” Neesha complained.

  “She is an enemy general of the Red Pact. I spared her life because she’s your sister. But rest assured, Neesha, she murdered Irana of the Fate Chasers.” Alan gently guided Neesha away from her sister, then yanked Foretta by the collar, taking pleasure at her wincing from her broken body. “That’s enough with the mending. We don’t need someone this dangerous back at full strength.”

  Neesha shook her head at him.

  “It’s her you should be angry at. Joining a god as evil as Sar’fidius,” Alan said.

  “He is our reward for dying a warrior’s death,” Foretta growled.

  “I expect that from her, Alan. She is thick in muscle and in skull. Always has been. But you? You’re better than this.”

  “Lady Neesha.” Yogi bent to all fours. “Noble Alan protects his people. Had he not acted, many would have been slain by Lady Foretta’s patrol.”

  “Listen to your Borai, little sister.” Foretta grinned angrily in Alan’s grasp. “I would’ve put an arrow in each and every scout that flew over these lands.”

  “Keeper, there are enemy soldiers who flee,” Gardstrife’s celestial voice resounded as he sharpened his blades. “A Patrolgod’s duty is to ensure no danger to his realm. Give the order and I will cleanse the land of enemies.”

  Alan looked to Flint, who stared solemnly at his staff, then to Neesha, who looked like she was about to whack him with her stone. “Cut them down.”

  Neesha gasped, glaring at the others, then at Alan. “This is not what I signed up for.” She pointed an angry finger in his face.

  “’Atta boy, dummy.” Itsy strutted up to the group, poking her boomerang into Alan’s chest. “Can’t have these death-walkers poking around our territory, ey?”

  “They’re my people, Alan,” Neesha scorned.

  “Not anymore they ain’t.” Itsy got in her way, but Neesha kept trying for Alan’s attention.

  “My mother would bring them to feast at our farm. They fought valiantly for King Kiar, and for the prince. Just because many of the Cerrain are misguided in this universe doesn’t mean they’re lost.”

  Alan sighed as Strife readied to charge, noting the desperation in Neesha—clenched fists and jaw, short, angry breaths. Even if she was strategically wrong, she did just stop Alan from completely losing himself. Flint was right… battle turned the Saro dark.

  “Take Ufanda with you, Strife. Round them up and take them alive as prisoners.”

  “It will be done, Keeper.” Gardstrife lifted his blade arm and accepted the flying gown as a cape he fastened over his shoulders.

  “Hah! Jail’s going to be stuffed tighter than your mountain houses soon.” Itsy put her hands on her hips. “What you going to feed ’em, our hard earned Strangey Town spices?”

  Alan puckered his lips. “They’re prisoners of war. Gray essence for them.”

  “Aye. Tastes like rocks. That’ll do.”

  Neesha walked up to Alan with mean mug intact. “Even though I’m furious with you… Thanks, I suppose.”

  Durger stepped out of the Soul Collector and patted Neesha’s shoulders, Sir Ooman running figure eights around her feet. “War does hard things to good people, Neesha. We need you to keep us all balanced.”

  She glanced at the ethereal soul floating over her. “I know it was you who stopped him. I saw Alan fighting the blade.”

  “Irana was a good, hardened soul. Know that the pain isn’t just yours, my lady.” Durger whisked back into the blade.

  A prompt suddenly blanketed Alan’s vision.

  VICTORY!

  WAR-TIME BATTLE *WON*

  General Foretta Sans of the Red Pact has been defeated.

  Access to Sar’fidius’ stash of stored weapons granted.

  “Slaying my scout was a huge mistake, General.” Alan tightened his grip around Foretta, scanning the enchanted weapons now floating midair with glowing outlines. “Now I’ll raid your god’s closet and make sure his armies are a little less prepared the next time they strike.”

  Foretta bared her teeth when she realized Alan’s words were true. Projections of each weapon materialized, leaving Alan to dive into trances at his heart’s content.

  A wide blackened axe with long red strings dangling down the handle was forged in the mountains of Grolon under the crimson fog. Alan had a front row seat watching the fiercest hunter he’d ever seen wield it like it was weightless. In the hunter’s dying breaths, after being mauled by a hairy tiger-looking monster, he prayed to Sar’fidius.

  Once he returned from his trance, Alan plucked the axe out of the air, which materialized in full as soon as he grasped it:

  Fogrin’s Pride

  Original Saro—Black

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Original Saro—Gray

  “Here you go, Itsy.” Alan tossed it to her. “Have fun taking the heads off of Cerrain scum.”

  Neesha elbowed him hard, but Alan was in no mood. Hopped up on adrenaline and flirting with the darkest parts of Saro, he relished in stripping the Red Pact of invaluable objects.

  He took a few trinkets that would be handy in battle—an orb that manifested an ethereal stampede, a trap that could pull a warrior ten layers down into the ground by an ankle, and an amulet that reversed poison.

  The stash kept giving, so Alan kept taking. He tossed each item to new Token warriors, hoping they would kick-start more trade in his realm.

  “What do we have here?” He walked right up to a familiar black-gold bow pulsing with Orange Saro. The general’s defeat set her own weapon up for grabs, which was very telling for future battles if Alan was ever brought to his knees. “I always said I needed a ranged weapon. This might be the best place to start.”

  “Bastard,” Foretta spoke through gritted teeth.

  “Let’s see how twisted you really are, General.” Alan fell into a trance, to an underground city of amber-lit caves and sweaty bodies sparring on clay cliffs. This must be where Sar’fidius summoned them from the cracks of his realm. The image was impossible. Spears of fire lit beneath each cliff, drumming up sweltering temperatures.

  General Foretta stood at the center of a one-foot-wide bridge, wooden blade in each hand as Cerrain forces surrounded her on either side. Watching her evade and disarm, shackle with a stray rope and hang her soldiers by their tied-up wrists, use her foot to prevent a body from rolling off… it was impressive. She was as talented as she was deadly. And when the last body fell to be hanged by his ankles, her wyvern came roaring from the depths of the cavern and the entire underground applauded her show.

  The soldiers groaned back to their feet—bowing to their general—making way for some ceremony Alan didn’t understand. A tattooed forger emerged from a side cave, sweating and ugly, holding a bow too pristine for the conditions they trained in.

  Windthistle Prime

  Original Saro—Orange

  Original Saro—Black

  Ability: Split-arrow Rain—A single arrow splits into twenty with interconnected Saro flowing through each.

  Note: Ability best used from aerial view or high arc to attack multiple targets at once.

  Alan grabbed the bow out of thin air and twirled it to test its shine, all while Foretta twitched in her shackles. “You impressed Sar’fidius to receive this. Twenty-six versus one, without a War Title. You kicked and slashed and applied throwing techniques without letting a single one of your army fall to their certain deaths. Impressive.”

  “Clairvoyant scum,” she seethed.

  “I’ll be sure to take down many Cerrain with this weapon,” Alan promised. “For Token!”

  “For Token!” the warriors shouted.

  Alan side-eyed Foretta as they marched away from the corpses. They were dissolving into essence before their eyes, which gave Alan hope no one would be the wiser about a tiny hidden realm waiting close by—no evidence of a grand battle.

  “The gargoyle will have his way with you, Alan Right,” Foretta promised. “And I’ll be laughing when he does.”

  xxx

  Once stepping foot back into Token, Alan commended Flint and the former Brack warriors for their first victory as official citizens. His first order of business was building out the prison and using his most talented Wizards to confine them using Variant Saro. Mardonnus had the most experience with city protocols, so he used her as oversight. The last thing they needed was one of them breaking out in the night and causing a stir.

  Trish watched curiously at Alan’s side, gushing over his talents and using Neesha’s fury against her. The whole thing turned Alan off. He wanted nothing to do with a catty love triangle, especially since he had countless warriors’ blood freshly on his hands. What was he becoming?

  The funeral that night reignited the fires of war. Watching Irana’s body burn atop a pyramid of sticks was solemn, with many tears from the starkest of warriors—Elkire among them. Speeches were grand and full of sad chuckles as they poked at Irana’s tough character. Talk of “brethren” and her disdain for the word made the Fate Chasers cry harder. Alan learned that she chased her Peg deep into the mouth of a frigid beast, where it was swallowed in the hands of another warrior. She was legendary, and so too was the support for her.

  The ceremony kept Neesha quiet. This wasn’t all about her Cerrain people. Alan was building a community here, and her sister had just struck a mighty blow against it.

  Alan used his prompts to construct his first shop in her honor—Irana’s Crossroads—which would be for rent in the coming days. He used whatever inspiration he could from Lord Osmi’s trade city, trying to recall all the intricacies that kept the place running. This was a little different, since the realm existed outside of Ojin’s danger, but these days? Nowhere felt safe.

  Weeks went by. Nastaf returned from his first successful mission in Hightower Brack, rescuing four castle lords and sixty warriors who were doing their best to hide from Junos. The chief Stalker explained that peeking into the realm again so soon would cause the god to detect them. He’d find out soon enough anyway when his other Ufanda-like gowns realized the population had decreased again, but hopefully that would be after Nastaf’s next two planned missions.

  His success bolstered confidence in the Token citizens. Reuniting warriors thought to be trapped was a great win, but the Stalker wanted no part in their praise. He brooded in his cave with his crew, running scenarios and letting Trish watch.

  Alan’s nights were cold and lonely atop his gryphon throne room. Neesha was still giving him the cold shoulder since he’d nearly killed her sister, and he wasn’t about to let Trish share his bed. Finding her sleeping outside beside the entrance on more than one occasion might have tugged at his heartstrings, but he knew her well enough to understand what she was doing—playing the damsel. It may even be working too.

  He shared his berry cakes Flint brought him from Strangey Town—the ones with foam portraying crazy cloud emoji faces—but that was as far as he was willing to go.

  Now he stood atop the gryphon statue, watching the sunset, waiting for Elkire’s scout report to learn if he could travel north to his next potential ally, Hutten Fie, Figro’s realm.

  As the wind caressed his hair, he thumbed the coin with a massive shield on it and flipped it onto the mountaintop grass beside the statue. The giant golem formed amid a red lightning bolt, carrying his giant shield like he was shouldering the weight of the universe.

  “Have you summoned me to enjoy the sunset? What have I done to deserve such an honor?” He swung the shield onto the grass and sat cross-legged atop it, receiving the wind as if he wasn’t made of solid rock.

  “You are always free here, my friend,” Alan said. “But today I have a tough favor to ask.”

  “Anything, wielder,” Figro said, closing his eyes in a meditative state. “You renewed my purpose when I thought I was meant to travel the black forest for the rest of eternity.”

  “We all deserve second chances.” As soon as Alan said the words, he felt a pang in his gut. Seeing Trish night after night trying to win him back activated the empathy he thought lost.

  “You are too forgiving.”

  Perhaps to some.

  “What is this favor I can assist with?” Figro asked.

  “When I first met you… walking these very grounds… you told me of a realm that stays out of politics and focuses solely on Ojin armies.” Alan was careful to scan his expression. He didn’t want to cause the former nameless one pain, but a realm of such caliber was something Token needed direly as its ally.

  “My old home. Hutten Fie—realm of the Rigor.” Figro sighed deeply. “They would be a powerful ally.”

  Alan clenched his jaw. “They would, wouldn’t they?”

  “Indeed.”

  “They are a far journey northeast, with a portal pocket so miniscule I’d have to spend days just to find it. Figro… I could not take such a journey without being certain they’ll accept us.”

  The stone golem turned his head. “What you ask, wielder, I cannot deliver.”

  Alan averted his gaze. “Do you think they would bend to the Red Pact?”

  “Never. Hutten Fie’s walls are high and formations ironclad. As a former upper echelon defender, I can vouch for their ability to resist.”

  “And the god that rules?”

  “Lady Orevella, goddess of patterns. We have appeased her for decades with our formations. As for her vessel form, I cannot say. Your travels have proven to be stunning in outcome. Gods behave in ways a mortal mind like mine cannot fathom.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if you forget what you’ve become.” Alan smiled, and Figro did too. “If you can’t find it in you to aid, would you at least be able to share the deep disgrace you say you caused? If it’s not too much for you.”

  Silence came between them.

  “Perhaps it could ease some of that burden you carry so dutifully,” Alan went on. “I’m sure you’ve come across enough of my secrets hiding in my pouch.”

  “Indeed, you harbor much too, wielder.” Figro bowed his head solemnly. “As for me, you ask me to delve into a story that purged my namesake.”

  “Only for the good of the realm, Figro. You see our numbers growing, and you see the threats that loom.” Alan looked in the direction of the giant prison peeking far below in the distance. “Anything that could shed some light so I can make a decision, anything at all would help.”

  In truth, Alan’s mind raced to formulate a plan. The only thing he could offer a goddess of patterns was some war protocols—but marching an entire army in that direction was out of the question. Though there was another option… The Legion of Fate. Their gryphon flying is superb. Maybe…

  “I disobeyed my superior’s direct order against a deep-blue minion in the Cranjara Depths.” Figro looked to the sky. “We swam beneath the impossible canal hoarding our armor and weapons, and when we reached the fabled Vana Air Pocket, a beast loomed larger than a full-grown Helldraken. The Leviathan. A seasnake with the power to spit bubbles that, if touched, petrify flesh to stone.”

  “Ironic,” Alan said.

  “Indeed. Our formations weren’t fluid enough to avoid such an attack in such tight quarters, and my superior refused to retreat after the long journey to get there. We attacked, and pivoted into long-range defense, and pivoted again to straight spear offense. Nothing worked. Even with unity group divisions. The Leviathan’s scales proved tougher than enchanted steel, and the petrifying orbs gained in speed.”

  Figro squinted, his crow’s feet causing pebbles to roll down his giant body. He was envisioning pain, no doubt, giving Alan guilt for asking.

  “Low tide… low tide.” Figro held his head, his voice reducing to a whisper. “Low tide formation.”

  He rocked forward onto his knees and pulled his shield overhead, reliving some terrible nightmare.

  “Figro… I’m sorry. I—”

  The golem huffed steam out of the cracks in his skin, then peeked from his shell. “I knew my soldiers would perish had we listened, so I called for retreat at the top of my lungs, breaking formation for the first time in my tenure at Hutten Fie. I leapt to the forefront, staring the Leviathan in the face. Staring my second death in the face. There was nothing left to do but make myself as wide as possible. ‘Return with your lives!’ Those were my last words to my brothers and sisters of the Rigor before my body was cast in stone.”

  “Sounds like anything but a disgrace to me, Figro.” Alan shook his head.

  “Duty of the Rigor is life, Alan. Every Hutten Fie soldier believes it to be true.”

  “I’m sorry you find dishonor in your heroism. I think that’s the biggest shame of all. You should be celebrated. And to me, you exude the utmost honor.”

  “Thank you, wielder. You have given me much throughout this second chance. I wish I could do more…”

  “If I were to make this journey to Hutten and visit Orevella, what would I hope to gain?”

  “One hundred thousand strong. Soldier types. Not individual warriors like what we’ve encountered thus far,” Figro assured. “These are disciplined fighters specialized in unity groups.”

  Like that group of Beige Saro wielders. The first warrior’s life I took back when…

  “What does Jaeger or any of the dark realms know about Hutten Fie?”

  “To turn away if they saw us.” A sense of pride filled Figro’s posture. “Although admitedly, I must admit… I’m not so sure.”

  “Again, my apologies for burdening you, Figro. I’ll meditate on this deeply and perhaps try my luck with the goddess of patterns.”

  “You would be wise to. This peaceful realm deserves to stay that way, wielder. What better method than a strong defense?”