Alan swiped his Soul Collector in a half circle, signaling their first formation atop their gryphon pack—arrowhead dive. He squeezed his hand tight around the saddle as Ara dove straight down with a kaw!

  His stomach flew up to his throat—that sensation of a rollercoaster drop would never get easier. Swinging his sword again initiated their first trick, sending Ara in a full rotation with the others close at his back. He hoped the synchronization was up to par for the goddess of patterns watching from far below.

  Mentally counting down, he tugged the saddle, signaling Ara to pull up into their next formation—alternating diamond.

  Whoosh!

  The gryphons smoothly crisscrossed into position, moving carefully on a defined path as practiced, and when Alan sliced the air, they crisscrossed again in unison.

  Ting! Ting! Ting! Ting!

  The sound of weapons tapping against armor felt an awful lot like an applause. Had Orevella given the order? Was she pleased?

  “Cloud form!” Alan shouted, tapping Ara’s left side to begin the formation of a Strangey Town cloud with a small smiley face in the middle. Alan watched carefully as Elkire and Tenger made the eyes, and the bottom three Chasers formed a mouth. It was a bit abstract, but he hoped it would amuse a quaint old lady.

  The performance went on for another three minutes until Alan decided to activate the finale. “Spear ascent!” he shouted with a full circle rotation of his blade, then sheathed it. This one always killed him.

  Ara cawed, and when the other gryphons rushed to line up under her, she flapped her wings with intensity, accelerating at speeds that made Alan’s cheeks flap.

  They flew directly skyward, sunlight blinding and Helldrakens huffing far above.

  Hold, he told himself, gripping the saddle tight with both hands. Hold.

  They had to soar long enough for the formation to look like a hurled spear. And just as the last gryphon hit max speed at the bottom of the shaft, a Helldraken roared, sending the gryphons into a mad scramble.

  “No! Ara! Stay!” Alan yelled.

  Too late. The concentration was broken at high speeds, sending each Chaser spiraling in opposite directions to avoid crashing.

  The applause down below stopped dead, and a low hymn took its place. They were disappointed.

  “Shit.” Alan gritted his teeth, taking stock to make sure all the Chasers were alright. This was a terrible embarrassment, especially while in the midst of a realm that moved like clockwork.

  “Piece-of-shit dragon.” Tenger flew and halted beside Alan. “What do we do now, bruh?”

  “Tornado down and try to save face,” Alan said, drawing his blade one last time. He spun it in a high circle, knowing the crew was disoriented, but he had to try. “Tornado to land! Tornado to land!” Alan dug his heels into Ara and gripped the saddle tight.

  His eyes immediately dried up, air rushing to clog his nose as the view of ten thousand soldiers staring up at him grew closer and closer.

  Fshew!

  Two gryphons swirled at his back. Then three more. Four more. All descending in wide rotations like they practiced. The ground was closing in.

  Faster.

  Faster.

  Until, whoof!

  All of the gryphons beat their wings with one powerful motion, creating a brief windstorm to announce their arrival. Alan let go of his held breath the second they succeeded, looking around to the soldiers tapping their armor again.

  Ting! Ting! Ting! Ting!

  He smiled, nodding to the others, who were similarly taken aback. That Helldraken had nearly derailed everything. When his gaze landed on Orevella, he realized something had changed. Her cheeks were no longer rosy, and her pleasant smile had turned into a nasty scowl.

  “Have you come to dishonor the realm we have worked so hard to build?” Her nose crinkled in anger.

  “Ma’am. Of course not.” Alan refused to make an excuse. She’d surely witnessed the Helldraken interfere. “We apologize if we have offended you.”

  “Bah!” She waved her hand in disgust, looking to her two gloves to roll her away. One of them gave Alan the finger when Orevella wasn’t looking.

  “Ma’am?” Alan felt like the wind was punched out of him.

  “Bah!” she exclaimed again. “Riling me up like that, only to fall flat on your face. Don’t think I missed it, sonny. Clumsy little shits,” she muttered under her breath. “C’mon, Gizmo, Gilfa, get me out of here so I can quickly forget the monstrosity I just saw.”

  “We landed nicely for you,” Alan protested. “Increased the speed just so you could see how much we appreciate your hospitality.”

  He hated gods more than ever in this moment. The flip-of-a-switch personality changes were exhausting, and to think he might’ve just blown his final chance.

  “Yes, great!” she yelled with her back to them. “You made a shit sandwich.”

  “Ugh,” Alan sighed, looking at the Fate Chaser. They all shrugged.

  The old lady rolled away, sealing the last time he would see her if he didn’t try something drastic. It was hard enough to gain her presence in the first place. He had to try.

  “Hey, old bag!” he called, earning a gasp from Kablo.

  “You dare!” Kablo puffed his chest.

  “Shut up,” Alan said, then directed his attention to the wheelchair, that stopped abruptly. “Yeah, talking to you, Orevella. If you’re going to be a snide bitch, I’ll be one too. Answer me one question before you run back to your cabin and knit yourself to sleep.”

  When her gloves spun her around, her eyes no longer had irises. They were pure red, and her teeth turned into metal spikes.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Goddamn. Now I know why your citizens are so nervous,” Alan said.

  Kablo dropped to his knee, his arms trembling as he bowed. The soldiers surrounding them all held firm with weapons pointed their way.

  “Is this what you do, Orevella? You create life, just to have them live in fear of you? One misstep is all it takes?” Alan shook his head. “What a shame. The nameless one said you were someone they would die for before the war. I guess being summoned to life showed your true colors.”

  She knitted with gritted fangs, laughing insanely as she toiled. “I do not create life, Alan Right. I imitate it.” She tossed up a knitting that finished stitching itself as it stood facing them.

  Alan’s eyes widened as he slowly dismounted from Ara. “No.” He walked toward what appeared to be a carbon copy of himself. Variant Saro cycling each limb, expression angry like he imagined he looked fighting Foretta.

  “You will make a fine specialty group for my army, once I get the faulty kinks out, of course. Knitted to perfection.” Orevella cackled. “Meet Nalathgir.”

  “It’s your name backwards, mate,” one of the Chasers called.

  “I got that, thanks.” Alan tensed.

  Nalathgir stepped forward, turning his Saro Red, starting from his eyes. “I’ll make you a deal, Alan. Offer your gryphons and these puny allies you call friends, and I will allow you to lead our ranks to defend this realm.”

  Alan drew his double-bladed staff. “I’ll defend them to the death. And you… you’re just an imitation.”

  “Oh? Not willing to negotiate? How unlike us.” He drew his bow.

  “I’ll throw you a counter.” Alan bent into ready stance. “Bring back the sweet old lady who graced us with our scarves, and I’ll forget the manners your realm lacks. I only wish to talk.”

  “Yet you draw your weapon first.” Nalathgir nocks an arrow.

  “Look around you.” Alan presented the thousands of soldiers with spears trained on them. “I think you’ll find that statement ridiculous.”

  “Give them space.” Orevella shooed away the Fate Chasers. “I’ve seemed to have found interest in a new dance.”

  Alan narrowed his eyes. “This is what you want, isn’t it, old bag? Take in my abilities so you can replicate them into your soulless army.”

  “Clever Merchant, aren’t you?” She began knitting, then blinked a flash of red light, commanding all her soldiers to take a step back. The Fate Chasers drew their weapons in response.

  “It’s alright,” Alan said. “If this dance is what will return this goddess to some form of sanity, then I’ll partake.”

  “Alan. We can flee together.” Elkire stood defiantly.

  “The portals out are guarded with ridiculous mazes.” Alan eyed Kablo. “And this goblin, although cowardly, is probably more afraid of the wind bag than us.”

  “Right. We trust in you, always.” Elkire stamped his spear and backed off with the others.

  Alan pointed the top blade of his staff at Orevella. “You’re no better than a conqueror in this state.”

  “Whatever do you mean, Alan? We only want to be left alone, to enjoy our rituals.”

  “Even if the universe falls?” Alan said.

  “It’s fallen before.” She shrugged. “It will get back up.”

  “Not this time.” Alan clenched his jaw.

  “I’ve thought of a new offer.” Nalathgir stepped between them. “You give me your head as trophy, and I let your friends live. I think that appeases all parties, no?” His eyes flashed a slithering black mixed with red.

  In that moment, Alan saw the worst of himself. Is this how darkly he’d evolved since Trish’s return? Is that what Orevella was? An elderly woman who’d been warped by her past?

  “I have a home to protect. That’s something a puppet wouldn’t understand,” Alan said.

  “I am you, remember?” Nalathgir reminded. “All I’m doing is protecting mine.”

  “Enough talk.” Orevella bared her fangs. “Punish him for his crimes, Nalathgir. Do it now.”

  “With pleasure, ma’am.” Nalathgir raised his bow and loosed the arrows in quick succession.

  Alan’s vision inverted red, allowing him to trace the incoming blurs in slow motion.

  Shnk! Shnk! Shnk!

  With an ostentatious flip of his staff, the projectiles flipped uselessly into cracked pieces dripping with Saro. One arrow had Pink, the other White, and a third Yellow.

  Alan furrowed his brow. Yellow was supposed to be out of his color wheel. He recalled the flash of Green he experienced on the battlefield when hope resumed. Was it possible that his lost Saro wasn’t truly gone?

  Now wasn’t the time to dwell. He’d just technically blocked three attacks, building his Counter-dash ability. He Title-swapped for Forebidden Merchant of the Shade, turning his form ethereal black as he swam away from the next storm of arrows, swerving into a spin ready to cleave his own back. The sight gave him goosebumps, like he was trying to kill himself.

  Clang!

  At the last conceivable moment, Nalathgir wedged his own Soul Collector between his back and Alan’s blade, catching it and swinging it far off course.

  Alan drew his Soul Collector while dashing back, swinging out Durger and Sir Ooman. He breathed life into their forms, using vast amounts of Black Saro that was in no short supply. “I should’ve called you sooner, friends.”

  Durger clapped the stem of his forging hammer into his grip. “This is the weirdest of them, Sir Alan. And that’s saying something.”

  Woof! Ooman agreed.

  “We charge together.” Alan readied.

  “Ah!” Orevella interrupted. “You scold me for imitating life, yet you cage it. You are no better than a jailor, Merchant!” She shook an angry fist at him. “Break your worse half, Nalathgir. Show no mercy.”

  “Don’t listen to the wench, Alan. We are behind you no matter what.” Durger’s hammer swirled with Black Saro.

  Woof!

  Alan dashed forward into a triple-flip, landing blade against blade, breaking the clash, just to find himself in another. It was like fighting a mirror. Switching Saro was matched with the opposite color. Matching his own speed and strength required total concentration. Increasing reflexes didn’t slow time at all in this case. In fact, there were moments where his imitation might have been a tad faster.

  Sllth! Fsshiing!

  They spun and clashed again.

  “Now, Durger!” Nalathgir called, knowing the soul wouldn’t be able to tell them apart.

  “No!” Alan called back.

  They disappeared into another tornado of galactic strength, whooshing to a stop, kicking up gravel and dust all around. Now locked in an epic stand of sparking steel, Durger took the opportunity to slam his hammer into Nalathgir’s side.

  Rrraf! Ooman bit his ankle, tearing at it, until, with a White wind rotation, Nalathgir knocked them all back.

  Alan used his hand and heels to scrape himself to a stop, eyeing Durger and Ooman beside him. “How’d you know?”

  “We always know who we follow, Sir Alan. You are our keeper. He’s clever like you… so do not let him fool you again.”

  “Right.”

  Alan exchanged sword for bow, letting a quad-arrow strike fly in one twang.

  Nalathgir smiled as he effortlessly deflected the arrows. “I’m a better shot.”

  “Probably true. But I have more friends.” Alan reached for his coin pouch, only for an arrow to strike through his hand.

  Shit.

  His fingers quivered in place as the arrow sat there, sticking through bone and dripping blood. What’s worse, a puff of Pink Saro popped from the arrowhead into his face, disorienting him.

  Laughter plagued his hearing, the sweet scent of cotton candy sticking straight up his nose, drying out his mouth.

  His tongue felt like a slab of sandpaper he no longer had control of.

  “Alan!” a hilariously high-pitched voice broke through the laughter. “We will guard you!”

  Alan waved his hands around, then concentrated hard on activating the Black. He breathed in all of the fog disorienting him, inhaling it, digesting it, consuming it.

  I am everything this universe needs to survive, he proclaimed to himself, his vision clearing.

  Nalathgir was about to cleave Durger in half, so he vacuumed them back into his blade and swiped out a more formidable fighter—Afarus Soh, his mentor.

  As he pressed an Orange Saro finger over the wound on his hand to cauterize it, he Title-swapped again to Merchant Warrior, drawing his dark blade to wield it identically to his mentor. If nothing else, this was a chance to break the goddess’s spell. He and Afarus were a practiced dance—a perfect pattern.

  “Sorry, Nalathgir. You’re just a cheap imitation,” Alan growled. “Go back to your maker.”

  He focused every dark thought from his past, of his present, his first unintentional kill, Ricktus—the Beige Knight—and those thereafter. He’d become everything he hoped never to be. A murderous warrior who would do anything to keep his people safe. And he’d use that anguish now to empower him.

  Afarus looked over at Alan, his white arm wraps flapping in the wind. He matched Alan’s Saro perfectly. A master, even in death.

  As Alan readied to cut himself down, he twirled a pinch of clairvoyant Blue into his blade, witnessing every angle Nalathgir would attempt to defend. The charge would be legendary. It would be swift. And, deadly.

  He never stood a chance.

  Afarus and Alan rushed in a perfect crisscross pattern, blending through one another at the intersection point, and when they converged again nearly as fast as Gardstrife’s attack, Nalathgir turned his head to stare Alan dead in the eye as he was about to be cut down.

  “You are destined to become what you hate. I have seen it.” Nalathgir’s eyes flashed blue.

  The moment was eternal and fleeting all at once. It happened so fast, he wasn’t sure if it was a fa?ade of clairvoyance or an actual mumbling. Either way, the puppet that was Nalathgir was cut in two, unraveling to yarn, and then to Saro mist.