The morning of the ceremony arrived with a loud knocking on Valak’s door.
Valak opened it to find two soldiers standing stiffly, holding a high-collared ceremonial uniform in their arms. "Where is the Wanderer?" one asked.
The Wanderer stepped into the light of the hallway. "Who’s asking?"
The guard ignored him, his eyes fixed forward. "General Skida has requested your presence. Attendance is mandatory."
He took the uniform reluctantly, the fabric feeling heavy with badges and metallic symbols in his hand. He retreated into his room to change, and Valak followed, leaning against the doorframe with a look of quiet concern.
"Listen, son," Valak said softly. "Don’t cause any trouble there. Let Skida have her publicity, take the medal, and leave. That’s all you have to do."
The Wanderer looked at his reflection in the mirror, grief masking his face. "And let the dead stay unrested? Just let her use their ghosts for a show?"
"It wouldn’t change a thing," Valak countered. "The dead are dead."
"I believed those words once," the Wanderer said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I even recited them to Kuma. It didn't change anything then, either. Maybe doing the opposite will."
He left the room without another word, gesturing for the soldiers to move.
The soldiers escorted him toward the king's central plaza. Skida’s voice, amplified by mana, carried for miles, praising the conquest and empire. As they entered the grounds, he saw row upon row of soldiers in clean uniforms, facing a massive wooden stage.
High-ranking generals stood in a semi-circle, but his gaze was drawn to the figure in the center. A young man sat there in extravagant silks: Joven.
The guards gestured for him to join a line of soldiers at the front, all wearing the same medal-ready attire.
He got a closer look at Joven. Joven looked far too young to be a king. His hands were smooth, untouched by a blade nor exercised on sand, and his expression was a fragile mask of projected strength, his frail frame hiding behind the oversized garments of his office.
The Wanderer’s thoughts were interrupted by the sudden applause.
"And now," Skida announced, her voice high tone filled with pride, "all welcome the heroes of Draemir!"
The clapping was thunderous as the first soldier in line climbed the steps. Skida began to recount the man’s supposed heroism in the recent massacre, painting a picture of glory over a canvas of slaughter. The Wanderer looked at the men beside him; they were strangers, faceless tools in Skida’s hands.
He glanced back at the standing ranks of the army. For a moment, he gasped seeing a familiar face. Kuma, standing there with a smile. The Wanderer stepped out of line, about to call out Kuma’s name.
"Wanderer!" Skida’s voice boomed.
He snapped his head toward the stage, then immediately looked back to the crowd. The space was empty. There was no Kuma, only the faceless soldiers staring at him and the reality of his own grief. Realizing it was a ghost born of his own desperate wishes, he turned and began the long climb up the wooden steps.
Skida smiled at the crowd. "The Wanderer single-handedly..." She paused, looking at the empty sleeve pinned to his side, and continued with a laughter. "Literally... killed the snake’s head who opposed our assimilation, securing our victory!"
The applause erupted. Amidst the roar, Joven stepped forward. He moved with his theatrical pride, lifting a heavy gold medal. He reached out to pin it to the Wanderer’s chest, saying. "Draemir is proud of your heroism, soldier. Keep your head high; you are the pride of our empire."
As Joven was pulling his hand away, the Wanderer’s fingers snapped shut around the King's palm, catching the medal between both hands.
"And what about the lost souls, my King?" the Wanderer asked.
Joven froze, his eyes widening in shock. The royal mask fell, revealing the terrified boy beneath.
The Wanderer's voice rose, cutting through the fading cheers. "What about the people who suffer for the dream of this empire? Those who die because of your own weakness!"
Skida jumped in, her hand clamping onto the Wanderer’s shoulder. She leaned in whispering. "Stand down, maggot, or I’ll break you here. You feel the chains?" She tightened her grip, the pact curse grinding against his mana circles.
"Then kill me!" the Wanderer roared, the sound echoing to the very back of the military ranks.
Skida’s eyes flared with a rare flicker of hesitation. Seizing the moment, the Wanderer shoved her hand away. He yanked Joven’s arm upward, the heavy silks sliding down to reveal a thin pale arm.
"This is your King?" the Wanderer shouted, holding the trembling arm high for every soldier to see. "This is the Lion of Draemir?"
Skida yanked Joven’s arm back, shielding the trembling King behind her cape. She gestured to the guards, who surged forward to seize the Wanderer.
"Forgive him!" Skida’s voice boomed over the silence of the plaza. "Our hero is unwell. The trauma of the front lines has taken its toll on his mind."
As the guards dragged him away, the Wanderer scanned the ranks of the soldiers. He saw the doubt surfacing in their eyes, the seeds were there, even if fear kept their mouths shut.
The guards threw him into a cell, ironically it was the same cell he occupied the first time. He stood in the center of the room, breathing hard. Using his teeth and his one remaining hand to tear the buttons of the ceremonial uniform, stripping the uniform away until he was back in a simple grey shirt. He leaned against the stone wall, sliding down until he hit the floor.
That was when he saw them. Faint patches of black were across his forearm. He stared at the marks, his heart sinking. Mana poisoning is coming back? Why?
"You fucked up big time."
The Wanderer’s head snapped up. Standing in the corner of the cell was his own reflection, the version of himself that belonged to the Spiral.
"Again with the hallucinations..." the Wanderer rasped, closing his eyes.
"You can't divert from the prime directive," the persona said, stepping into the dim light. Its voice was like strings talking.
"To hell with you," the Wanderer spat. "To hell with the Spiral."
"It’s not an option, Warden."
"That is my body! You can't force me!" the Wanderer roared, standing up and lunging toward the figure. "And I’m not a Warden anymore!"
"You will always be."
"So, you’re playing the madman now? Talking to yourself in the dark?"
The persona vanished as Skida’s voice cut through the air. She stood behind the bars.
The Wanderer stepped toward the iron. "I don't need to explain myself to you."
Skida reached through the bars, her hand clamping onto his shirt and pulling him forward until their faces were inches apart. "I own your life," she hissed. "I gave you techniques everyone wishes a glimpse of, and I can unmake you just as easily."
He reached out grabbing her clothes in return. "I dare you to take it then. Do it."
A concussive blast of magic erupted from her palm, slamming the Wanderer backward into a wall.
"And make you a martyr?" Skida asked, smoothing her uniform. "You’d like that too much."
She turned to the guards. "He is to be discharged from military service immediately due to mental instability." She paused, pointing at him."Take this madman to the arena’s pit. Since he loves the crowd so much, let our'hero entertain the masses."