Author's Preface
"I didn't realize the party had moved out to the balcony," Lady Bradford said, as she stepped through the threshold.
Serenya smiled at her mother. "Just taking a short break from all the noise inside."
Lady Bradford glanced at the Wanderer, before turning back to her daughter. "It is your party, my dear. Where are your manners? Come back inside."
Their conversation faded into background noise as Timothy leaned in close to the Wanderer’s ear. "I think we have a lot to discuss," he whispered, as if he was behind the mask. He laid a hand on the Wanderer’s mechanical shoulder. "It seems our previous gifts weren't quite appealing enough. I'll make sure the next one completely shocks you."
Inside the hall, Lady Bradford began guiding Serenya back toward the dance floor. She called over her shoulder, "Are you coming, Timothy?"
"Right behind you, sister," Timothy called back warmly.
He looked the Wanderer dead in the eyes. "But take your time. No rush. I'm going to need some time to prepare my... gift."
He turned and strolled back into the ballroom.
Inside, the musicians played a melody as loud and chaotic as the Wanderer’s racing thoughts. He watched the three of them disappear into the crowd, his mind spinning as he tried to process what happened.
The rest of the night passed quietly. The faces of the nobles faded into one another, an endless sea of identical fake smiles and aristocratic arrogance. The Wanderer stood silently by the wall, watching it all from the sidelines like any ordinary guard tasked with securing the hall.
As the gathering finally concluded and the guests began to leave, Serenya approached him, with worry cutting through her exhaustion. "I'm sorry," she whispered, looking up at him. "My tongue slipped back there. I shouldn't have said anything." She tried to offer a reassuring smile. "But there's really no need to worry. Uncle Timothy is family, after all."
The Wanderer nodded, his eyes drifting toward the grand exit. "Excuse me, my lady. I'll go get some rest. It’s been a long day."
He gave a short bow and left the ballroom before she could respond.
When he finally entered his room, he sat heavily on the edge of the mattress, burying his face in his palms as he stared blankly at the floorboards.
After a long silence, his gaze drifted across the dim room, locking onto the wardrobe.
Abruptly, he stood up, pulled the wooden doors open, and grabbed the cloth-wrapped blade Harith had given him.
He held it in both hands, not sure what to do with it.
Slowly, he unwrapped the cold steel of Defiance.
His fingers traced the length of the silent blade, as if he was searching for an answer. He stared at it, saying. "I wish you could have told me more. I wish someone could just let me know where all of this ends."
Between his racing thoughts and the silent blade, the Wanderer eventually collapsed into sleep.
A couple of days passed in an agonizing wait. Zero didn't request his presence and The Wanderer remained hesitant to contact Zeek, knowing that any sudden movement could tip off Timothy if he was being watched.
The next morning, the sound of knuckles against wood broke the silence. The Wanderer opened the door to find Serenya standing on the threshold.
"How can I help you, my lady?" he asked, keeping his tone firm and disciplined.
Serenya stepped closer. "Are you still mad about the ball?"
The Wanderer turned and walked back inside his quarters, letting out a sigh before saying. "It's not that. There's just a lot going on."
She followed him inside, closing the door behind her. "You already told me your biggest secret. That means you trust me enough to tell me the rest."
The Wanderer turned to face her. "It's not that simple, Serenya. There is a dark side to this city that I can't talk about, and you already have enough on your shoulders. I also think I should leave Valoria. My stay here could endanger your life."
She gently laid her hand against his cheek. "We share the burden of magic, and the love for this city. Isn't that enough of a reason to stay?"
The Wanderer slowly pulled her hand away. Turning his back to her, he began gathering his few belongings. "That's exactly why I have to leave."
She sank onto the edge of the mattress, looking up at him with pleading eyes. "What if I asked you to stay?"
The Wanderer spun around. "Listen to me! I'm doing this for your-"
His gaze fell on her hand, which was resting on the partly exposed Defiance.
He looked from the weapon up to her face. "Are you a Black Crown?"
Serenya blinked. "You mean the outcast mages in Hosar? No. Why?"
He stepped forward and carefully pulled the blade out from under her hand. "Then how?"
She stood up and smiled. "I can dye my hair black if that's what it takes."
The Wanderer just stared at her, unamused by the joke.
Movement outside caught his eye. Through the glass, the Wanderer glimpsed Roger hanging upside down.
Roger gave a sharp nod for him to come out.
"What are you looking at?" Serenya asked, noticing his shifted focus. But by the time she turned her head toward the window, Roger had already vanished.
"It doesn't matter right now," the Wanderer said quickly, turning back to her. "Listen to me carefully. I need you to find Zeek. Tell him I have been made."
Serenya’s playful demeanor shattered. "Are you in danger?"
He lifted a hand to cut her off. "Just do as I asked." He looked down at the wrapped sword in his grip. "And I need you to keep this sword safe for me, too. No one should know about it. Especially not Timothy."
"What got into you all of a sudden?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"There is no time. Please, trust me," the Wanderer insisted. "Wait for a little while after I leave before heading to Zeek."
She looked at him, seeing the urgency in his eyes, and finally nodded. "Okay. I trust you."
He turned and began moving out of the room.
"Wanderer," Serenya called out gently. He paused at the door, looking back at her. "Be safe."
He stared at her face for a second, carving the image into his mind, before slipping out into the corridor.
The Wanderer navigated the streets of Valoria, heading toward the blacksmith's shop, but as he arrived, he found the shutters drawn and a thick padlock on the door.
Confused, the Wanderer looked around the quiet alleyway, checking the shadows for any signs of a trap.
"You're late," Roger's voice cut through the silence as he stepped out from the side of the building.
The Wanderer pointed at the locked entrance. "Doing renovations?"
Roger chuckled. "You could say so. Come on, Zero is waiting for us at the tavern."
They walked in silence through the city until they reached the Hand of Justice. Pushing the doors open, the Wanderer saw Timothy standing casually behind the counter, polishing a glass. Resting on the polished wood right beside him was the mask of Zero.
The Wanderer looked at the mask, then met Timothy's eyes. "Decided to change jobs?"
Timothy smiled. "Ah, my dear Wanderer. Always snarky." He reached beneath the counter, poured a dark liquid into a chalice, and slid it across the wood toward him. "Try my newest innovation."
The Wanderer gripped the glass, his eyes scanning the busy tavern. The patrons were drinking and laughing, all of them unmasked. "I'm sure you didn't call me here for a wine tasting."
Timothy frowned. "Why not?" He raised both hands to the crowded room. "We are here to celebrate, anyway!"
The crowd of patrons erupted into a loud cheer, slamming their mugs against the tables.
The Wanderer took a cautious sip of the liquid. "What's the occasion?"
Timothy grinned. "Tell me first. How is the wine?"
The Wanderer looked down at the dark crimson liquid in his glass. "It's good, I guess."
Timothy took a cloth and began wiping his hands. "That's a rather underwhelming reaction for such a fine drink. You know, a few centuries ago, the king kept this recipe entirely to himself." He reached beneath the counter, his muscles straining slightly as he lifted a heavy, sealed glass jar and set it down on the counter.
The jar was filled with the same liquid and floating within it was a severed head.
Timothy tapped the glass. "Marinated mages make for an exquisite taste." He paused, slowly turning the jar around. "Especially Black Crown mages."
The Wanderer vomited in his mouth. Staring back at him through the glass, his eyes wide in a frozen expression of terror, was Harith's head.
Timothy caught the Wanderer’s trembling hand resting over the glass, a sadistic smile crept over his lips. "What? Do you prefer something a bit younger?"
He reached under the counter again, lifting a smaller jar with Sunny’s head in it.
"Or maybe..." Timothy said, lifting a third jar, "...some motherly taste?" He set it down. Helen’s lifeless face stared through the glass.
The Wanderer stared at the three jars, the tavern's laughter suddenly sounding miles away. He slowly looked back up at Timothy. "We had an agreement."
Timothy shrugged. "I got a better deal. The Red Crowns send their regards."
A cold sweat broke out across the Wanderer’s neck, his chest heaving as he fought to keep himself from the Spiral's grip.
Timothy tucked one hand under his arm, tapping his chin. "By the way... do you know where Defiance is, by any chance?"
The Wanderer threw away the rest of the drink in his glass and stood up. "You don't know what you just did," he whispered, "I didn't care much for these poor people. But I care about you breaking your promise to me."
Timothy burst into a loud laugh, slamming his palm against the wood. "You know what your weakness is, Wanderer? You always think you're the smartest person in the room. You really thought you could just walk in and play us against each other?"
Timothy leaned over the counter. "We planned for you to get caught on your very first mission, Draemiran."
The Wanderer’s eyes widened in shock.
"We knew what you were from the beginning, you fool," Timothy hissed.
From the side, Roger began laughing loudly, doubling over. The Wanderer snapped his gaze toward him, but Roger just waved a hand, wiping a tear from his eye. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he wheezed, still chuckling. "Continue, please. This is beautiful."
The Wanderer locked his eyes back onto Timothy. "If you already knew... then why continue the charade?"
"And lose such a valuable scapegoat?" Timothy said. "When the city falls, the history books will say it was a Draemiran spy who opened the gates."
The Wanderer’s jaw tightened, but he forced a smile to his lips. "Is that so? I still have cards up my sleeve."
"You mean Zeek and his men, of course," Timothy countered.
The Wanderer hesitated. His confidence took a hit. He swallowed the unease, revealing his final conclusion. "That... and your true lineage. Black Crown."
Timothy's smug laughter died. He stuttered. "That doesn't change anything!"
He quickly looked around the crowded tavern, his eyes darting from one comrade to the other, trying to hide from their piercing gazes.
The Wanderer's smile widened.
"Oh, it changes everything, Timothy. How would the King react? More importantly, how would your new friends, the Red Crowns, think if they found out they were jumping into bed with an outcast mage?"
Panicking, Timothy lunged across the counter, grabbing the Wanderer. "No one will believe a Draemiran mage!... even Zeek"