Jackal Among Snakes

Though Argrave felt greatly emboldened (and somewhat psychotic) after learning that he was indeed looping through time, he wasn’t quite ready to toss his mortality to the wind quite yet in reckless pursuit of answers. On his second run through things, he checked to be sure some things were really restored. The old woman’s life, for instance—and indeed, when Argrave checked, she was alive again. Argrave could see her soul, still persisting anchored in her body.

Argrave attempted to confirm that anyone trying to speak about the prince and his name died. Nearly all citizens in the city, however, coldly rebuffed him and did not engage. They ignored him, walked past him, and one simply pushed him away. After a time, though, Argrave made headway.

“You mustn’t speak of something that Good King Norman forbade us from speaking of,” a kind market-stall owner informed him. “The curious do not last in Sandelabara.”

“But it’s just you and I,” Argrave leaned over her produce and smiled. “I just need to know some of the situation. No one will know.”

“We’re never alone,” the trader whispered. “A man like you, a foreigner, whispered to my brother, once. ‘The king will never know, he’ll never know,’” she imitated. “He’ll never know… unless you tell him. The walls have ears, and the lampposts’ eyes are all watching us.”

After giving that warning, the woman dismissed Argrave. He uneasily checked the lampposts for signs of life, but thought it a metaphor when he failed to find some. The only person that seemed willing to break this rule of silence was the old woman whose name he had not learned. Knowing her survival seemed guaranteed, he asked her the question again: what was the prince’s name? This iteration, he gave special attention to how she died. He felt rather like a hypocrite after rebuffing the Alchemist for casual murder while now doing the same thing himself. Still, he felt it necessary.

The weaving connection binding all things in this distortion to Sophia acted as the old woman’s killer. It was a wave of pure energy passing through the crimson silk-like strand of power entrapping the world. Her death was eerily quick and haunting. Argrave saw her very soul shatter within her body. He followed the attached strand for a long while afterwards, ignoring the distraught son despite the pangs of guilt he felt doing so. As long as I feel guilty, I’m still human, right? Argrave told himself this again and again as he attempted to follow the power to its source.

‘Attempt’ to follow was the operative word, because Argrave miserably failed in said attempt. The command came too fast, the weave of power was too long and entwined, and Argrave simply lacked the pure mental acuity of someone like the Alchemist. He could not divine a pattern from this network of energy—a network he, himself, was now thoroughly involved in.

As Argrave walked through the city, he overheard a conversation while hidden with [Chameleon].

“—tall, black hair, gray eyes, yessir. Really, very tall. Must’ve been up to here, sir.”

Argrave turned his head when he heard himself being described. There, one of the people he had talked to earlier spoke to an ominous-looking figure in faded red armor.

“And he was asking questions?” the knight asked. “Questions the Good King forbade?”

“Yessir, yes indeed,” the man nodded furiously. “I told him nothing. Everyone else I saw pushed him away.”

“Thank you for your time,” the knight said, then pulled out a scroll to write upon.

“Will… will the Flayer Knights come?” the man asked.

The knight looked over at the man. “Praise the Good King Norman.” It seemed a command as much as a declaration.

man bowed obsequiously

realized. Did I ever see

follow this mystery figure. The man headed back to the castle despite Argrave’s expectations, but did not enter inside. Instead, he walked near a grain silo. There, he opened a well-hidden hatch and headed down inside, closing it behind him. Argrave stared at the hatch a long while afterward, fearing to go inside. In the end, he took a deep breath and opened it up. A long

was a bittersweet fortune as Argrave climbed down the ladder. The sound of his descent was blocked out by constant whimpering deeper within the cellar. When his foot met the ground once again, he turned and watched what was ahead. It looked like a jail of some kind—perhaps oubliette was the better term, considering most of the cells looked old, forgotten, and helplessly bloody. Argrave followed distant light and sound, still masked by magic. Ahead, a central

discussed, barely audible over the echoing whimpers of pain. Argrave could barely see

matter. Once we catch him, he’ll

his black velvet outfit, stepped

the two knights kneeled at

if I’m to endure the presence of that fragile thing. But what were you speaking of?” He walked closer

to subdue. Extremely tall, black of hair, wearing ornate armor and a coat… we peg

and grabbed their shoulders. Argrave saw that strange power within him surge, strengthening his grip. “Even the tallest trees sprout from the smallest seed sewn. Bring him here. I wish

cell in the room where the whimpering came with a smile on his face. Soon enough, all of the knights had left, and only Argrave and the king remained in the

was uncanny how much the two kings resembled one another, all the way down to child abuse. To that end, Argrave tried to get a good view of the person

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my boys already had their fun with you? No,

son. The wounds were too gruesome to properly identify things, but Argrave saw neither red eyes nor brown hair. Then again, perhaps the prince took after his mother. He’d have to

continue. If you’d like…” the king grabbed a chair, slowly scooting it forward as the chained prisoner shrunk away. “I could go to the clock shop, buy you some time. Another day. Another week. We’re born

from me?” the man croaked. “Good

your bones, and then your soul shall grace my stroll. And though I shall again be alone, never a greater gift have I known…” the king sang as he rhymed. He had a melodious, yet terrifying, voice. He lunged forth and grabbed the prisoner’s toe, then squeezed hard enough it popped

information just by listening in, but it seemed that he would simply be witness to heinous acts henceforth. No—it was time to become the questioner, it would seem. Argrave positioned himself at the open cell door, then cast [Bloodfeud Bow] by himself and with two echoes. Ten seconds passed as he allowed the

Domain of Law took effect even here, and he faced the king squarely while

boys were describing. King Argrave? A rat who would claim the title of king?” He wiped the blood off on his pant leg, then walked around the cell casually with his eyes fixed ahead. “Are you yet another that hates my golden throne, yet wants it for their

staying calm while remaining unblinking. “But see, I’ve some things I’m dying to know. Who’s the prince? Why

but you seem a fly, buzz buzzing so. Are you willfully ignorant, or stupidly so? You must know me, know what I’ve done. The babes wept as

them? So, you know

looked displeased when Argrave said that. “Who fed you such sugary piss? I suppose that’s for me to know. Well then, rat king… prepare, resist, or tear your heart out in

questions, but he knew how to read body language well enough to see the king was preparing to attack. It was time to answer another pressing question—just how strong was King Norman, and what

clothes were partially destroyed where the bolts of blood magic

the king rubbed his hand. “How darling. You’re a darling, a prize to