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The Skill Thief's Canvas - Chapter 69 (Book 3 Chapter 8)
🕑 Added 2025-02-26 03:50:15 +0000 UTCElder Lorival was known to the elves as a folk hero – and as nothing to the world at large.
His living legend was as simple as it was captivating. A survivor of Greenisle and untrusting of humans, he had refused Vasco's offer of life in Gama, taking like-minded survivors into a haven created with his own skill. Some spoke of his impressive Talent or his high Rank. Others pointed at ancient Elven magic that went beyond mere Talent.
Rarely did the whispers and rumors agree on any one thing, but they did converge on a singular truth: Elder Lorival's Talent of Stealth was damn near impossible to break through. Even Emperor Ciro – even the Rot itself – was unable to find the Elven Village in plain sight.
It was because of him that just knowing of the Village meant nothing, said the myth.
'He swore an oath, my lord,' a nervous young Elf had told Adam, kneeling before the throne, and sweating profusely as guilt flushed his face red. 'Only pure-blooded elves that don't speak with humans can see past his illusions...oh Mother of the Forest, I'll never be allowed there again now that I've told you this!'
The truth was likely something much less impressive. Adam's research into the Penumbrian Archive indicated that there'd been a particularly-skilled elven man among the list of casualties from the Butchery of Greenisle. Had he truly been as skilled as the legends portrayed, chances were the massacre never would have happened in the first place.
Nevertheless, it was still impressive that he'd evaded Ciro's prying eyes, as the Emperor's Realm spanned the full breadth of the Empire. However, Divine Knowledge weakened the farther one got from the core of their domain; in this case, the Imperial Capital itself. That was enough leeway for a powerful Talent to elude detection.
The elven folk hero was probably a master of his craft, with a Talent of the fourth or perhaps the third Rank. It was even possible that he'd imposed some sort of restriction upon his ability to make it stronger under certain conditions. Talents rarely worked in such fashion, yet rarely wasn't never – the Lord Talent was stronger the smaller the Realm one ruled over, after all.
Elder Lorival's folklore was so exaggerated that Adam suspected the legend itself was as much a shield as whatever magic he'd cast on the Hidden Village. And while some rare folk had overheard the elves whispering myths and fables amongst themselves, none took them seriously.
If I do take them seriously, though...the Village should be easy enough to find, Adam had reasoned. Especially since there's refugees in Penumbria that have been told of it before.
Yet against all logic, his assumption was proven wrong.
"You can't find anything?" Adam asked.
"No," answered Esteban, the once-guard and now-treasurer of Penumbria. "We have men looking for knowledge of the elven Village, but their search has yielded nothing!"
Gregorio Montefrio, Lord of Nevoa, huffed and smiled. "Allow me then, my...king." The word appeared uncomfortable for the man, perhaps out of unfamiliarity – or perhaps due to a lack of respect.
Couldn't care less which one it is, Adam thought, so long as he serves me.
"Mayhaps, Your Highness," Gregorio continued, "you'll allow me to investigate myself? Nevoa has a fantastic information network, you see."
His eyes lit up. "Though of course, the cost of such an arrangement would be...ah...you see, my men might need to spend many Orbs finding it, and..."
The Painter sighed. Should he punish the man for such an overt display of greed?
No. If Aspreay was the hammer, then Adam was meant to be the honey. Which means I'm stuck dealing with people like this...kinda wish I had Aspreay's job.
"Fine – but only if you get results," Adam warned him.
"Of course," Gregorio replied slyly. "Consider it done."
His greed gave him both the motive and ability to see the task to completion. Out of all Frontier Lords, he was not only the oldest – but also the most financially motivated. While the others had bent the knee out of belief in Adam's cause, or fear at what he would do to them, Gregorio's negotiation had been...slightly different.
'My loyalty can be bought,' he had said, upon hearing of Edmundo's facsimile of death. 'And the Emperor's pursestrings feel tighter than usual, what with your war and all. Siding with you is a risky investment – speaking plainly, you're unlikely to win – but surely you can compensate me for the risk, Your Highness?'
Money controlled lives in the Painted World even moreso than on Earth, but Gregorio was the first man Adam had seen here so openly enslaved to capitalism. In a way, it was almost respectable...with a mild emphasis on the words 'in a way' and a heavier one upon the word 'almost.'
Regardless, the Painter trusted his competence. Gregorio had once been given a city in the Frontier, a land so dangerous and infertile, so poor in resources and close to the Rot that generations of Emperors had mostly neglected it – and turned that money pit into the profitable trading hub known as the city of Nevoa. This was a man used to getting what he wanted, even if he had to build it.
And yet, four days later, when he returned...
"I...couldn't find it, my king," Gregorio confessed. His head hung low in both shame and apparent confusion. "I sent my best men, paid for the best, but there is nothing! Nothing!"
He shook his head. "I even hired spies of the Fourth Rank! It's as though the place doesn't exist. How could that be? Could this Lorival–" he spat the name out in indignation "–be of the First Rank? No! Only the Dark Captain, the Emperor, and the Puppet Grandmaster have achieved that!"
Beatriz das Ondasfrias, Lady of Serramar, offered to work next. "If there are secrets abound," she said, in a low, sly tone, "then rest assured. Even Elven lips loosen the morning after."
The provocatively dressed Lady was rumored – rumors that she'd somehow both denied and hinted at – to have led her small frontier city's revival by investing in its pleasure houses. And it was not merely the companionship that Serramar sold, either.
"Her courtesans are trained to collect information," Aspreay had once said. "I scarcely think you'll be indulging in her businesses, but should you ever find yourself in one of her beds, do not allow the whore's whores to flatter you into speaking of noble business."
"Sounding pretty venomous there, 'father'," Adam had replied. "What, did she get some information out of you? Is that why you dislike her so much? Also, we need to talk about how you speak of women, it's a little–"
"Me? Be outwitted by that harlot? Ha! No. I bought information from Beatriz plenty of times, though. Rather useful in threatening the likes of Gregorio and Edmundo. Despicable viper, that woman."
"Aspreay, you can't talk shit about her business when you've used it."
"Painter, do you think being my business partner does not imply something terrible about one's morals?"
"Okay, that's fair."
Serramar was the land of pleasure, vice, and information. The remote location of the Frontiers worked in Beatriz's favor. Western Lords often made the long journey for the sake of visiting a doomed land where whispers of their sin would never reach the Imperial Court – or worse, their households.
The doomed nature of the land simply heightened its allure. People assumed that the Frontier would be swallowed up by the Rot at some point in the near future...and with it, all evidence of whatever nefarious acts they'd committed in the city.
Which made the city – and by extension, Lady Beatriz – the ultimate providers of information in the Empire.
"Allow me to use my abilities," she said to him. "I only ask that you reward my city when I prevail."
"See it done," Adam ordered. Perhaps she could succeed where Gregorio failed.
Four days later, Beatriz returned with a sheepish smile on her face.
"Nothing," she admitted, shrugging and taking a sip from her wine. "My courtesans charmed those elves, believe me, but it was all for naught. Even the elves who'd actually been to the Hidden Village didn't seem to know how they'd gotten there – or how they'd go there again."
Adam sent her off with conciliatory words and a suppressed sigh. It's fine, he thought to himself. I have more avenues to pursue.
Eventually, something had to work.
Least confident, yet not least of all, came the proposal from Helena Terraforte, Lady of Almarades. "Y–Your Highness." She didn't need to be reminded to kneel when addressing him.
A first for my supposed subjects, Adam thought.
"I...I don't have an information network or anything of the sort. But my family," Helena said, with the slightest of hesitations, "my sister, she – she is the ruler of Rio de Outubro, in the Western side of the Empire."
Aspreay had described her as the most normal among the lords, and watching her conduct noble business helped Adam understand her a bit better. She's from a very rich family in the West. Should've been set for the easy life. Unfortunately, since her elder sister inherited the claim to their ancestral city, Helena got saddled with a consolation prize in the Frontier.
That was important to remember. Because while she'd been the first of the Frontier Lords to swear loyalty to him...Adam couldn't afford to forget that Helena's family still resided within the empire. Out of everyone here, she was the most likely to have conflicting loyalties in the war to come.
Still, her family's monetary influence had caused her city to see a modest financial improvement. Perhaps those ties would yield at least some information privy only to the most rich and powerful in the Empire.
Two days later, when she returned...
"I'm, I'm so sorry," Helena stuttered. "I tried my best but – please, give me another chance!"
It took Adam more than a few minutes to get her to relax. For some reason, the woman seemed to think that any mistake meant the world was doomed.
"The Frontier Lords thus far have tried their very best," Gaspar das Cinzas declared solemnly, rising to his feet. "Allow me to do the same. I shall contact every man, and every resource I have at my disposal."
"Very well," Adam agreed. "See it done."
Four minutes later, when Gaspar returned...
"I asked your barkeep," he said, in a tone of dead seriousness, as he set down two wine glasses before Adam. "The man had no idea what I was on. Told me I was either too drunk or not drunk enough. I said probably the latter. He sold me this."
The Fallen Lord looked him dead in the eye. "That's it, tried all my sources. Afraid I've got nothing, King Adam."
After several moments of contemplation, the Painter accepted his wine glass and downed it immediately. What else was there to do at this point?
The Hidden Village was beyond them. Not beyond reach, not in the way of a distant fortress or an uncharted ruin – beyond comprehension, a land in defiance of all logic. Tenver's sources, well-placed as they were, had found nothing as well...
Except for an interesting, if disquieting, tidbit of information: even Emperor Ciro, whose Divine Knowledge stretched across the entirety of the Empire, had gained no foothold in its pursuit.
Every search party returned empty-handed. Every lead fell apart upon pursuit. Maps marked its general location, but the moment scouts approached, they found nothing. Those who'd once known the way found their minds slipping, forgetting the paths they'd walked, as if the village itself was rewriting their memories.
It was a gap in reality itself – a place determined not to exist.
We have to find it, Adam thought stubbornly. There's no way the Emperor won't find it, even if he's having trouble for now. His Divine Knowledge is too strong and widespread.
The fact Ciro had been struggling, however, didn't inspire Adam with the confidence that Penumbria could locate the Village at all. And if we don't reach it before the Emperor does, he'll subjugate the elves and establish a supply outpost there.
So far, the only thing that had slowed Ciro's invasion was the financial matter of how bloody expensive feeding an army would be. It was what had kept the Frontier alive. If he rectified that issue...
Adam didn't even want to think about it. They needed to find the Village first. But how did one find a place that chose to vanish?
You didn't, evidently.
Elder Lorival, Hero to the Elves, would forever be consigned to their imagination – a mystery none of them could solve.
Until she arrived, of course.
"Apologies for my tardiness, my lord." Valeria, the world's greatest detective, stood in the doorway.
Her coat was draped over her like a war banner, its crimson edges kissed by the cold. Golden eyes gleamed under a wide-brimmed hat, tilted just enough to cast a shadow over half her face. A smirk curled her lips; lazy, knowing, just short of mockery. "The Grandmaster was hesitant to allow me to–"
"Leave the city?" Adam asked.
"Leave the dungeons," said the Detective. "He hasn't been happy with my commandeering of his ravens."
The Painter winced, then sighed. "Does he know you escaped? I mean, I imagine it's obvious."
"It isn't the Grandmaster's job to know things, even if others find them obvious."
"Well, I'd have to send someone to rescue you if you had trouble escaping. Actually, I have to ask, how did you escape?"
"The Mines' cells have a secret way to unlock them without a key. The Grandmaster built them that way in case he was ever imprisoned there."
Adam drew a deep breath. "And how did you know about that?"
"Because it is my job to know what others don't."
Valeria Araja, was the second Puppet to swear loyalty to Penumbria, after Tenver. She often made Adam feel like she lived in a different world than him – even the Rot seemed secondary to her goals. Not that I have any idea what those goals are.
Still, she had never betrayed him, despite her constant amusement at acting like she could. And if Solara's guess was correct, Valeria's goal wasn't anything involving Gods, Emperors and Painters...but rather something much more personal.
'Valeria was an Elf from Greenisle,' Solara had once told him. 'Before she died. Somehow, her corpse was brought to the Mines, where she was brought back as a Puppet. She has no idea why, and she wants to find out.'
Adam had to admit the point was curious. The Puppet Mines were an underground set of caverns, with a single underwater entrance – very few people could get in there. How had her corpse moved from a massacre to the Mines?
Don't think I'd ever be able to find that out, Adam thought, even if I investigated for years. Sounds downright impossible.
To him, anyhow. As for Valeria...
"Time is of the essence. Would you like me to take you to the Hidden Elven Village?" the Detective asked.
Adam smiled. "I'm glad you know where it is. Was starting to wonder if nobody did."
She stepped forward, slow and deliberate, boots clicking against the wooden floor. Her coat flared slightly as she moved, a deep red shining against the dim light. The smirk on her lips was effortless and confident, the expression of someone who had already solved the puzzle before anyone else saw the pieces.
Yet when she spoke, it was with a barely contained fury. "My lord – ah, is it king now?"
"It...is." Adam narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. "What's on your mind?"
"Did you truly believe nobody would know something when I still draw breath?" Her eyes burned with pride and indignation, wrapped in an amused disbelief. "Please understand, my king, I do not ask you to care much for my person. I am but a mere commoner, without titles or mighty Talents that can slay gods."
"I do care!" Adam quickly said. "I'm not a monster, I care about everyone who–"
Valeria's hand shot up, fingers stiff, halting him mid-sentence. The air grew colder and sharper, the breath between them curling in the dim light. Her grin stretched too wide, her golden eyes unblinking, burning like twin lanterns in the dark.
She wasn't just looking at him – she was dissecting him.
"I ask you that you remember only this, my King of Arts, if nothing else." Valeria's breath curled into the air, slow, deliberate, a ghostly mist that invoked an unnatural chill. A single minded obsession radiated from beneath the Detective's expression; the amused face of a genius whose mind ran faster than reality itself.
"There is no such thing in this world like a mystery I cannot solve."
–
Vasco awoke alone.
The Lord of Gama forced his eyes open and grunted as if the sound would banish away his drowsiness. His throat felt dry on the inside and pained on the outside, his skin still raw from the bites and strangling. Can't have been asleep for that long, then.
A pile of warm pillows remained to show where Aspreay had sprawled over a few hours before. Good fortune that the two of them were lords – the wounds could be healed easily enough, and there would be no indiscreet comments made.
Had he just thought of his Lordship as a blessing? Strange times.
He rarely thought of it in that manner, and even more rarely said it aloud. Every complaint he spoke would spawn a voice wiser than himself – a wagging finger to remind him of the countless commoners who had perished to either starvation or the Rot.
There were many times in my life where I would have taken either of those over being a Lord.
That thought he never dared to speak. Half out of the noble ideal that the Lord of Gama ought to act stoically, and half because refusing to give his desire a voice made it feel less real.
Though it wasn't a common desire these days. Being Solara's father gave him reason enough to live, and Aspreay's return had let him experience a sense of joy he hardly felt deserving of.
Yet...
"Oh, come on now," said Aspreay. He'd been sitting on the windowsill, one hand lazily resting his chin, the other holding open a book he appeared only mildly interested in. "Don't go besmirching my hours-long effort to make you forget your troubles."
Vasco laughed and sat up on the bed. Dragons of Old, I need water. "It was fun, Aspreay," he admitted with a hoarse laugh. "But no diversion will make me forget what is to come."
"Say it one more time and I'll take it like a challenge."
"Don't. I haven't the energy." Vasco sighed. "We must soon travel to a village...an elven village."
Aspreay snorted. "Why does it feel as though you're saddened by the discovery? I thought you'd be thrilled to hear that there's more of the tree fuckers around. Plenty more for your daughter."
He paused thoughtfully. "Then again, I suppose marrying her off to a human would be the best way to keep your citizens from rebelling to an elven leader, eh?"
Had it been anyone else, Vasco would have gotten angry. With Aspreay, he knew better. Do you really believe that if you upset me enough, I'll forget all about what I fear?" he asked.
The former Lord of Penumbria chuckled. "My tongue usually does, one way or another. Pity that I appear to have failed. Must be out of practice."
He sneered and raised an eyebrow. "And who is to blame for that?"
"Oh burn you, Aspreay. Stop trying to make me not take anything seriously." Vasco gave an annoyed shrug. "It can be tempting at times."
"Then why not indulge? Why not celebrate? The elves have a city, after all! You'll shake hands with their Elder, forge some bullshit promise of a brighter future, and–"
"It can't be easy to exist as a hidden village."
Vasco spoke in a quiet mutter, knowing that he didn't need to raise his voice. Aspreay always shut up and listened when it was important. "Trade in such a place would be nearly impossible, and rumors be damned, they cannot resist the Rot without a Lord. Every second of that village's existence must have each of them dancing on a knife's edge."
Aspreay frowned in deep concentration, then raised both hands with disinterest as he leapt from the windowsill and onto the bed. "And what of it? They appear to dance quite well."
"Elves sought the hidden village instead of Gama." Vasco shook his head. "It means I failed. I didn't make a proper home for them. I could never make the elves feel safe or respected, to the point they engaged in near-suicide to avoid living under my rule."
He grit his teeth. "And now! Now I have to look the survivors of the Greenisle Butchery in their eyes – the ones who spurned Gama, the ones who didn't forgive me. What will I say, Aspreay? Are there any words someone like me can give?"
There was a brief silence followed by an amused, uncontrolled laugh. "Vasco," Aspreay began, voice gentle, his hands brushing the side of the Lord's face. He inched closer to him. Then he said, his voice even gentler and lower:
"You're such a fucking idiot."
While Vasco had the most experience out of anyone alive in handling Aspreay's refusal to engage in matters seriously, this was, admittedly, unexpected. He blinked twice, staring blankly. "Please elaborate," he replied, in a dull tone.
"What do you have to apologize for?" Aspreay asked incredulously as he gripped the man's shoulder. "You saved their lives. Stopped the Butchery. Cut off your father's head and shoved your sword up his ass."
"Patricide I am guilty of, but I did not desecrate his corpse."
Aspreay smiled. "Now that you should apologize for. It's not as if you had any love for the man. He was the one who led the Butchery – and most of all, he's the reason you dared to isolate yourself from me."
That wasn't true. Vasco had betrayed Aspreay's trust and failed to stop the massacre at Greenisle. His father hadn't been the reason he distanced himself, he just...
Couldn't bear to see Aspreay after everything that happened. Felt like he didn't deserve to.
"I...appreciate your unorthodox approach to soothing my nerves," Vasco started. "But I must take responsibility for–"
He was pushed down so quickly that it felt like an attack. Vasco tried to sit back up, but before the motion was even half-finished he'd been pushed down yet again, a hand covering his mouth, and Aspreay's long hair stroking against his sides.
"Quiet now," the man growled in a low voice. "You have already taken too much over the years. Your punishment is that you're not allowed to take anything for a while – you just give."
Vasco's throat felt dryer. With some willpower, he pulled Aspreay's hand from his mouth. "As you wish," he relented. "I did tell you that, didn't I?"
One would think that with age, you would learn not to promise things on the passionate night someone saved your life, but alas. Vasco knew that wiseness was not amongst his own qualities. "Many sins I have committed, and many I will commit still–" he ignored Aspreay's pleased expression, "–but my promises shall be kept. I will take nothing you do not wish for me to."
"Good," Aspreay fired back immediately. His voice was raspier than before as he started climbing on top of him. "In that case, as we have a few hours before we need to depart."
"First, I shall give you one more thing," Vasco whispered.
Aspreay grinned. "Oh? And what is that?"
Vasco smiled back at him, lifting his neck up just enough for their eyes to meet. "Advice."
"Nope."
Aspreay stood up and jumped away from the bed. He trembled as though he'd just sipped a mouthful of spoilt wine. "Nope." He started pacing around the room, fumbling as he looked for his clothes. "We shall not speak of this yet again." Nervous laughter accompanied his frantic gestures. "We need to get ready, it will be a long journey and–"
"You've grown fond of Adam, have you not?" Vasco asked, in an even tone. "Despite your best attempts."
Aspreay turned to face him with a look of disgust. "I have not! I'm simply doing my part – we need to pretend he's my son!"
"You have stopped speaking ill of him to others." Well, as much as Aspreay could stop himself from speaking ill of anyone, really. "One does not need to be a loving father to share blood with them."
Vasco turned over his pale wrists and traced his veins silently. "My father is proof of that. You needn't act as kind as you have been."
The Penumbrian Noble laughed hysterically. "Kind? You think that's kind?" He seemed on the verge of an outraged breakdown. "That's the problem with you people! You take this as ordinary! There's no enjoyment in throwing wine on the brat's face if he smiles and thinks it a normal part of the parental charade! He's supposed to be furious with me! Hate me! You will not convince me I'm the strange one!"
"Never dreamt of it," Vasco deadpanned.
Aspreay's manic laughter continued as his pacing resumed, his shirt half-pulled over his torso. "I should've known," he muttered. "Back when he served me as a Painter, I drunkenly restrained him with a Royal Order and threatened to kill him."
"As one does," Vasco said, his voice still unimpressed.
"At the time I thought he was just committed to his weasley ways, meaning to act weak until he could steal my throne, but I didn't realize how easy it was for him to do that! Unbelievable." Aspreay shook his head and began to sigh – until apparently deeming the gesture too passive, opting for a screech instead. "I haven't grown fond of the Painter, I only..."
He hesitated. "There's no sport in hating him when he doesn't even perceive half of it as dislike. It feels like mocking a child."
"Aspreay, he is a child."
"No! He's a man over twenty!"
"Did you not just call him a child mere moments ago?"
"Why must you have this good of a memory?" Aspreay shouted in exasperation.
Vasco smirked. "As promised, I will not take anything in the years to follow. This includes taking shit from you, Aspreay."
He sat up, rising from the bed. "You've clearly started to care for the kid. Why not quit the act and show him some affection? He could certainly use it."
"Why would I–"
"Because doing things halfway has never been your way of handling things."
"He stole my throne!" Aspreay shouted. "My soul! My city! He took everything from me!"
Vasco stepped closer. "But he brought me back to you," he said. "And you never gave a shit about your title, anyhow. Tell me that isn't enough."
Aspreay's lips parted – then closed again. His gaze flickered to the side, eyes rapidly wandering. A faint redness crept into his face, unnoticeable to anyone who didn't know the shade of his skin as well as the man cornering him right now.
The Lord of Gama threw his open palm on the wall behind Aspreay, draping himself over the hunching man like a cape. "Will you be honest for once?" Vasco gently asked. "For fuck's sake?"
"No."
Vasco grabbed his throat. "Will you–be–fucking–honest?"
At this, Aspreay smirked. "Well, if you ask me like that...I guess I'll consider it."
–
The carriage moved like a blind man feeling his way through a treacherous, unfamiliar dungeon.
Adam didn't object when Tenver closed the curtains. "Being unable to see should test your nerves less, will it not?" the Painter asked.
The carriage went over a bump, nearly making all three of them fall from their seats. Rather, Adam and Solara nearly fell, tightly holding on to each other and throwing their legs at the door in a desperate – if successful – attempt at keeping their balance.
Tenver merely sipped his tea, barely moving as the carriage wobbled harshly around him. "One of the blessings of this Puppet body," he proudly said. "I'm quite stable."
Adam grumbled, keeping his thoughts to himself. They were on their way to the Elven Village now – he preferred not to waste his energy on idle arguments.
"Would be great if your head was stable too, you nutcase," Solara muttered, pulling herself back onto the seat with Adam's help. "Is that a thing for every Puppet?"
"No. The Grandmaster specially rebuilt my body to account for the giant bow attached to my arm." They'd seen it in action several times; Tenver firing monstrous arrows that seemed as tall as a person. "My Talent just lets me shoot arrows and – as of my recent Rank update – create them. The 'giant' side of things comes from my unique Puppetry."
"So someone like Ferrero wouldn't necessarily get the royal treatment?" Adam asked. "I imagine most people like him don't have superpowered bodies."
"Correct." Tenver folded his arms and squinted his eyes in deep thought, ignoring yet another bump that almost sent the other two flying. "It's too bad the good swordsman won't be coming with us."
"We need someone to remain in Penumbria in case of a surprise Hangman attack," Adam noted. And I also want to keep the number of Puppets we bring to a minimum, considering how the Elves might see them. Taking along Valeria and Tenver is already pushing it. "I agree, though. It's a shame – for him especially. He hasn't gotten many chances to spend time with Valeria lately."
Solara shifted in her seat, trying and failing to find a more stable spot, before suddenly looking up with great interest. "You mean the Duelist has a thing for the Detective?"
"Mmhmm." Adam tilted his head. "Really, you didn't notice?"
"Adam, we've only ever seen them together once aboard the ship, and they barely talked there!"
"Yeah, but...come on. Wasn't it obvious?"
"Adam, I was locked in a tower for a year, and all my peers hate me." Solara gestured wildly in the air, as if that summarized everything. "We're also heading to see my people who aren't my people right now – ring any bells?"
His mouth was halfway open before he remembered that maybe, just maybe, he should give his reply some more thought first. "Okay," he eventually said, "but you can't use that as an excuse every time you don't notice something."
She sneered. "Ha. Watch me. If there's anything positive I can take out of my past, I will. Even if it's just winning arguments with you."
Tenver looked back at them. "Hold your blades – you mean that's an option?" He gazed at Adam with wide eyes. "Your Majesty, my dear best of friends, how can I use my trauma to win arguments with you?"
"Figure that out yourself."
After the three shared a long laugh together – or as long as the uncomfortable bumps allowed them to – Adam drew a deep breath. "Let's make sure we get out of this alive, alright?"
Solara tried to wave it off. "I don't think the Village will be dangerous."
"But what comes after it will," the Painter insisted.
Their plan had been solidified a few days prior. After they met up with Elder Lorival at the Hidden Village, Tenver would travel to meet with the Western Hangman and attempt to sway them to their cause – or at least minimize whatever danger they represented.
It's dangerous sending him alone, Adam thought, but the leader of the Western Hangmen is Tenver's old friend. He's the only one with a shot at convincing them.
Meanwhile, Solara would go to the Puppet Mines to ensure the Grandmaster's loyalty in the coming war. Tenver would have better odds of persuading him, but he can't be in two places at once.
Adam hoped that her Genius Realm would serve as a bargaining chip of sorts. The Puppet Grandmaster possessed the Talent of Communications – he was surely aware of how devastating her power was by now. Even the Emperor had seemed cautious of her, or at least that was how he appeared in Edmundo's memories.
Finally, Adam himself needed to investigate rumors about the First and Second Painters. Gaspar gave me some interesting information...including things even he didn't know. Peering inside someone's mind had that quirk sometimes. We aren't at odds with just the Emperor – we can't afford to ignore the Painters, either.
It was a four-way war.
Adam and Penumbria – Adam and the Kingdom of the Frontier, rather, sought to be free of Imperial tyranny and protected from the inevitable encroachment of Rot.
The First Painter wanted the Rot gone, but he also wanted the world to be frozen in a cursed stillness that would arguably be worse than death. He supported the Empire, supposedly.
The Second Painter, who was no fan of the Empire, had been responsible for bringing Adam into the Painted World. He'd also been responsible for bringing the Rot, considering it integral to the world itself.
As for Emperor Ciro...
Who the hell knew? His goals – and the goals of the Empire as a whole – were an enigma. He'd killed Tenver's father to obtain his title, and for what? Did he want the Rot gone, or for it to Stain the world in corruptive decay? Did he simply crave power for power's sake, or was there some lofty higher ambition locked tight within his mind?
There were too many unknown variables. Adam's inner circle couldn't just sit back and take it easy – they needed to get as many things done as quickly as possible, defend on as many fronts as they could, attack any openings they spotted. He didn't doubt his decision to split their trio and send them on individual solo missions.
It was a little sad though, when he remembered that he and his friends could die before ever seeing each other again.
"Don't worry – we'll have plenty more chances to annoy each other after this is all over," Adam said. He managed to not make it sound like a question. "I'm certain of it. Because..."
Because what?
What did you say to your best friends, the ones you wanted to spend the rest of your life with, when you might not see them again after the war started in full?
Have to make this count. "I'm certain of it, because–"
WHAM.
The carriage door flew open with a violent jolt, nearly unhinging from the force of the impact. "Wha–" Adam silenced his own cry of confusion upon recognizing the intruder.
Aspreay stood in the doorway, wind howling around him as the carriage raced onwards, his coat billowing like some self-important warlord. His long hair whipped crazily in the cold air, yet his expression remained deadly serious – far too serious, enough to feel comical given the circumstances.
"Painter!" He thundered as though making an official proclamation in Penumbria. "I want you to know you have not been as disappointing as I feared. Your incompetence is far more limited than I previously assumed."
With that, he closed the carriage door.
A dull thud echoed through the rushing wind, followed by a sharp rustle of fabric. Aspreay had vanished, landing somewhere beyond their sight, thought not their imagination. Probably back onto Vasco's carriage. Probably.
The carriage swayed, wind still howling through the cracks of the wood. Adam blinked, processing. Silence stretched. He looked at Solara. Then at Tenver.
"Do you guys have any idea what the fuck that was?"
They shook their heads.
"Okay." Adam sighed and sank into his chair. "Glad it's not just me."
--
Thanks for reading!
Comments
Zachary Sloan
I can't get over how great the pacing is in this story, especially for a web serial. There's just a constant progression from each "scenario" to the next, with the exact right amount of time being given to each one (and character + broader plot development being maintained throughout).
