"We should leave," Marco the Hangman urged, as the sun neared the horizon. "Emperor Ciro is far enough away now. He won't be able to find us if we flee. Let's sail to the other side of the ocean."

  "Do they both frighten you so?" Lavender the Hangwoman asked, with just a hint of a smile. "The Emperor, I get. But the Painter? He's merely an upstart who got lucky in a few battles."

  "His luck has killed several Hangmen."

  Marco lifted his eyes, peering at the dusky night sky. "And he's not the only one we should fear. The Puppet Prince is probably just as bad – if not worse. Don't you agree, Garen?"

  Can't you leave me out of this?

  Garen had been worried that he would be dragged into their quarreling. He had no business participating in this mission, and even less so intruding upon an argument between two Hangmen.

  Regardless, he mustered up what little semblance of dignity he had left anyway. "If the issue is their war prowess," he said, "then it's the Painter or the Elf who you should avoid. But if it's about cruelty..."

  He shuddered. "Then the Puppet Prince reigns supreme."

  Lavender gazed up at the star-lit sky, seemingly unbothered. "I heard of what he did at the Bloody Crowning. A rather gruesome affair.."

  "I didn't just hear of it – I saw it," Garen muttered. "I was there. Had I not been hungover from the night before...had I drank more of that poisoned wine..."

  His words stopped there. His thoughts did not. Every time his eyes closed, that sight would curse him again; memories of the bloodstained Puppet Prince methodically slaying each poisoned rebel by hand, be they Hangmen, Lords or soldiers.

  "That's something I've been wondering about," Marco said, leaning forward. It was not sympathy that colored his voice, but pure curiosity. "How did you survive? Didn't the Puppet decapitate everyone at his crowning and hang their heads outside for all to see?"

  "I hid amongst the corpses," Garen admitted. "He – he missed me."

  Or so he hoped. At times, Garen wondered if his gaze had met the Puppet Prince's, or if the passage of time had cursed his recollection to darken with time. Try as he might, he couldn't shake the feeling that the Puppet Prince had made Garen watch his friends perish before his eyes, letting him live solely as a form of punishment. "I was wheeled off with the other corpses and managed to escape after they buried me."

  "You mean before they buried you, surely," Marco grunted, raising an eyebrow.

  Lavender laughed. "No. He means what he said. I heard that he spooked some peasant girl as he crawled out of a mass grave, covered in blood and guts."

  That was the least of what he'd been covered in, and the least of his nightmares. After watching the Puppet Prince's massacre and desecration of noble bodies, Garen had only felt relief when dirt finally covered his grave.

  Suffocation was a kinder fate than to be considered a traitor before that man's – before that thing's fury.

  How could he smile as he did it? That thought haunted Garen more than it should, as if witnessing the Puppet feel remorse over his atrocities would've made the sight any less ghastly. Damn him. Even in my own mind, I cannot escape.

  "Poor bastard," Marco said, smirking. "Ah well, it's my fault you're pissing your pants now. Let me offer you a drink to make up for it."

  "NO!" Garen exclaimed. He cast his gaze downward and shook his head rapidly. "No, I...I don't drink. Not anymore."

  Marco tilted his head with amusement. "As you wish. So!"

  He turned to face the Hangwoman. "What of you? How did you survive the Bloody Crowning?"

  "Easily – as I was never there." Lavender shrugged. "I'd planned on betraying Knox from the start. Was already halfway to the Capital when I learned what happened. Good karma, if you ask me. What about you?"

  "Do you truly not know?" Marco asked. "I was in prison."

  This was enough of a shock to bring Garen's gaze back up to the Hangman. "In prison, my lord?"

  "I'm a Hangman, not a – bah! Sure, call me whatever. Yes, I was in the Capital's prison for a time."

  "Why?" Lavender inquired. "Never heard anything about you being sent to jail."

  Marco withdrew a flask from his jacket pocket and sipped at it before flashing a wry grin at the other two. "I challenged Nayt to a duel a while back. Wanted his position at the Emperor's side."

  "Ha!" Lavender laughed with the lack of sympathy that only longtime comrades could share. "Wanted glory that badly, you bastard?"

  "No. Money. I wanted Orbs."

  Marco shook his head. "Didn't think I would win, necessarily, but I also didn't think I'd lose so badly that the Emperor wouldn't think twice of locking me in a dungeon. Kept me there for a year, only freed me when he was out of options."

  Garen had meant to keep quiet when dealing with two Hangmen, to not speak unless spoken to, but curiosity overtook his good senses. "Emperor Ciro is out of options?"

  "They really don't tell foot soldiers anything, do they?" Marco raised an eyebrow. "Lucky for you that I'm so generous. Listen well, as I'm only saying this once. After the western rebellion, Ciro lost all his Hangmen aside from Valente, and his finances are in the gutter. Then, after this last disaster, he went to the dungeons and released me. He quite literally couldn't afford to keep a Hangman locked away, criminal or not."

  "What was the last disaster?"

  "Don't know all the details – just that the Painter survived a duel with Valente. Bloody bastard is practically unkillable."

  Marco blinked. "Well, that, and one more thing," he added, suddenly remembering. "When Ciro came to my cell, he had this burning blue flame on his shoulder. It never went out the entire time he was there, seemed to cause him constant agony. So something tells me Nayt went out with a bang. Good for the bastard. Least he died with his honor."

  Lavender barked a sarcastic laugh. "Funny to speak of honor when you're advocating desertion."

  "And why shouldn't I?" Marco countered. "The Emperor tasked two Hangmen and one common foot soldier with assassinating Adam Arcanjo, the Painter of Penumbria – who, need I remind you, survived a duel with fucking Valente?"

  His own laughter was less sarcastic, more incredulous. "Could you last ten seconds against the Dark Captain? Five? I certainly couldn't."

  "Survival isn't a matter of strength," Lavender confidently answered. "Were that the case, then Garen wouldn't have lived through the Bloody Crowning. There is no need to fear the Painter. The two of us will be sufficient to handle him."

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  You're wrong, Garen thought. We should go with Marco's plan. Sail across the ocean. Maybe there's land on the other side. A land without Rot...without the Emperor.

  Memories of pained death-moans, steel cutting flesh, death filling his nostrils, dirt clogging his senses, and a too-wide smile flashed in his mind once again. Without the Puppet Prince.

  Yet he knew better than to voice those concerns. Best to let the Hangmen bicker. His station was low enough that whichever side he supported would come across as less credible.

  Whatever the case may be, they would reach Penumbria in the morning, and their fates would be decided then, whether–

  "BY THE DRAGONS!" Lavender shouted. She stood up, withdrawing a large two-handed sword and stabbing at the air. Marco had discarded his flask and withdrawn his own weapon, a large scythe taller than himself that materialized in his grip with sacred magic. "GET DOWN!"

  It was an urgent command, and Garen treated it accordingly. Primal instincts seized him, and he dove to the ground head-first, uncaring of the mud or the proximity to their bonfire.

  Lavender stepped forward. She glared at the almost pitch-black forest around them, then demanded, "Show yourself!"

  "No," spoke a new voice, sounding eerily calm.

  "I shall hunt you down," Lavender announced, "and slay you in the name of the Emperor!"

  "You may try," said the voice.

  Garen heard Lavender let out a fierce battle cry, followed by the sound of her footsteps as she charged into the dark forest.

  A moment later, he heard the sound of a blade being sent up in the air, and another cry – this time of anguish.

  "Shit." Marco sounded upset, but not furious. He looked around in a hurry, as if searching for a solution.

  When he found none, he turned to Garen. "Sorry, lad. Meant to have us escape. I really did. Throw down your weapons, and they might take you as a prisoner."

  "No! If it's the Puppet Prince, then...then death is my choice."

  Marco opened his mouth, paused, and nodded. "I shall not disagree. But if it's the Painter, then throw down your sword at his feet and swear you'll shove it up Ciro's ass if he lets you live."

  As if imploring the Hangman to see reason, Garen drew closer. "Then – you too, my lord!"

  With a sad, wistful grin, Marco shook his head.. "Even pieces of shit have lines they won't cross, arbitrary as they might be. Desertion weights not on my mind, but Lavender might yet live. It is my duty to rescue her."

  "But if your opponent is the Painter, you can't hope to succeed!"

  "Correct."

  Marco stepped forward, scythe in hand, eyes shut tight. Garen took note of the moon that had sneakily traveled up through the newly-darkened sky. It was large, bright, and hung in the air just as the Hangman's scythe did.

  When Marco's eyes snapped open again, it was with a fierce declaration of war. "ADAM ARCANJO—PAINTER OF REBELLION—SON OF ASPREAY—LORD OF PENUMBRIA—KING OF THE FRONTIER! I DEMAND A DUEL!"

  The forest answered before the Painter did. A low, cold gust of wind blew softly in the night, singing acceptance of what was to come.

  A figure wreathed in shadow emerged from the woods, its shape gradually becoming that of a man.

  Is this the Painter? Garen wondered. He looks not much older than me.

  The man who was presumably Adam Arcanjo appeared unarmed. Rather than wielding a blade, he held only a paintbrush in his hand. For armor, he was adorned with a thick winter coat of black fur, forgoing the safety of Dragonforged steel.

  Beneath the faint moonlight, Garen couldn't tell his expression. It could have been excitement. It could have been boredom. It could have been any number of emotions, for who could predict the sort of man that took up arms against the Emperor of the World – and won?

  The one thing he knew for a fact that it wasn't...was fear.

  "I accept your duel," said the Painter.

  "And I thank you for it," Marco replied, gripping his scythe. "Let us dance."

  The Hangman advanced. Not without fear, Garen thought, but without hesitation, and that made him all the braver. His scythe grew in size, once, then twice, then three times, until its blade was as long as Marco himself.

  "My Talent as a Hangman—!" Marco shouted, his blade descending on the man.

  "—Never awakened," spoke the Painter.

  How...can this be?

  Garen had heard tales of the might of a Hangman, then witnessed it firsthand as well. This only made the sight before him even more difficult to comprehend.

  The Painter had stopped the downward blade with a single, almost lazy finger.

  Marco must have shared his shock, because the Painter said, "Does this surprise you? It shouldn't." He stepped forward, and without any effort, pushed the monstrous blade out of the Hangman's hand, sending it flying into the snow where it returned to its regular size. "You cannot harm someone whose Talent is superior to yours. It's one of the basic rules of this world."

  "But my Talent is that of a Hangman," Marco protested. "Even if your Rank has grown higher since, you shouldn't–"

  "You have no Talent," the Painter blandly stated, as if it was no more interesting than the weather. "I changed your history. You never awakened to a Talent at all. Your power is no stronger than that stable boy hiding by the fire."

  Marco trembled, studying his own hands in horror. What the Painter said sounded absurd, wrong, yet he did not object. Paleness touched his features, his hands shaking more violently by the second...

  Until at last he nodded. "Very well. Be that as it may." He drew a shorter weapon from his waist – a regular sword. "Our battle is not yet finished. You must kill me. A duel can only end in death!"

  "No." The Painter stretched out his hand, and a dark liquid seeped from within his body. It spiraled outwards like a sort of strange whirlpool, slowly entrapping the Hangman as if it were rope. "It ends when I say it does, and we're done here."

  He stepped forward towards Garen. "What of you? Are you going to try fighting me as well?"

  Garen swallowed nervously. "Will you let the Puppet Prince torture me?"

  "He won't hurt you."

  "Do – do you promise?"

  "I do."

  And so Garen threw down his sword and bent both knees.