#guild: the five commanders

[ohpollenpowder]

/o/ Everyone together!

[teriri-sayes]

Reactions to The Light's Chapter 466

Brief summary: DK finds Cale very interesting. Cale continues to provide more interesting content for DK.

=========

Cale and DK's conversation was fun. Cale spoke disrespectfully to DK, shocking DK's vassals that DK was allowing it or that DK himself was smiling despite being disrespected.

Cale realized he misjudged DK. DK never cared about his position. He left everything to his vassals. He deliberately ignored problems because he thought it would make things more interesting.

KRS had met people like that in his past. One huge guild leader and one company CEO had eyes full of boredom. But when they met KRS, they were relieved of their boredom as they found him interesting. 😂😂😂

Cale said that DK was fighting boredom itself, that it was the reason why DK wanted chaos and war, surprising DK that he was seen through. But DK also saw through Cale. He said Cale desperately struggled to achieve a peaceful surrounding for his slacker life.

Meanwhile, DK's vassals were having strange thoughts. DK's strategist had already lost it at DK's strange behavior. General Mol was slowly siding with Cale and not DK whom he was supposedly loyal to. The 1st Army commander was wondering if Cale was a god or a god-like being because DK called Cale strong. 😂

The Demon King looked at Cale and declared. You are strong. “But your enemies are stronger.” Cale knew that too. “Yet you are fierce.” And within that fierceness, his desire was simple. “But you just want to rest.” I hate this boredom. This guy just wants to finish everything and rest. I can see that in his eyes. He is the Demon King of Boredom. “How interesting.” He and I are opposites. The Demon King desires chaos. He desires to eliminate chaos. It is not that he desires to eliminate chaos to maintain power like the God of Balance. Nor does he desire to eliminate chaos for the greater good. He simply desires to eliminate it for his own peaceful days. He wants to rest. The Demon King could sense that feeling well. He felt as if he would suffocate from boredom.

The comparison between Cale and DK was good. One wants to live in chaos. The other wants to eliminate chaos. But in the end, both of them thought of the other as... crazy. 🤣🤣🤣

Since DK wanted chaos, Cale served it delightfully. He told DK about the Celestial Realm's plan to trample on the Demon Realm. That the God of Chaos and the Celestial Realm had joined forces. That the Five-Colored Bloods wanted to place the Celestial, Demon, and God Realms under them. And that the Five-Colored Bloods found a way to kill gods.

Of course, DK was shocked at the info dump. Cale asked if he was still bored when his life was threatened, that his allies were stabbing him in the back.

In the end, DK smiled and agreed to make a deal with Cale. He would actively cooperate with Cale for the peace he desired. In return, Cale must entertain him until then. Apparently, his boredom was his shackles, a bondage that prevented him from becoming the Demon God.

Somehow, I feel like you might give me the key to escape this shackles. Even though you’re gasping for breath and your whole body looks exhausted. If you’re the kind of person who struggles desperately to achieve your own peace of mind. If you’re the kind of person who plunges headfirst into chaos and confusion for that purpose. I feel like you might give me the answer to escape boredom. And the other person… He didn't hide his sneer. “What nonsense? Why should I entertain you? I don't have time to play with you.” Cale's confident smile caught the Demon King's eye. “Instead, I'll cause chaos nonstop.” I'll make the rules. I'll set the stage. “Come play if you're bored.” Find your own fun. “Of course, if you get beaten up while playing, that's your problem.”

Ah, trash Cale is so good!!! 😂😂😂

The Demon King was satisfied. Cale thought to himself. 'This bastard is crazy.' The Demon King is crazy. Let's make the Demon King fight the Celestial Realm who might target Choi Han and Heavenly Demon. Or have them fight the God of Chaos. Or make them fight the Five-Colored Bloods. Instead of being bored, wouldn't it be better to create a situation so terrifying that he worry about when he will die? When crossing the line between life and death, he will feel like taking a break for a moment, rather than feeling bored. “Pfft.” Cale, who dreamed of being a slacker and rolling around in his blanket, couldn't help but laugh. -Human, your smile looks really sinister right now! He ignored Raon's words. “…” He pretended not to notice the Demon King's hesitation. Cale just smiled. He didn't know that the Demon King thought he was quite crazy.

DK hesitating at Cale's sinister smile, and thinking Cale was really crazy. 🤣🤣🤣

Ending Remarks Cale gained another crazy ally. 😂 Next chapter would be the aftermath of the deal. Perhaps Cale would begin his purification of the Gray Disease.

[bookished]

Can you make some girl dad headcannons for our beloved liege? (I mean Sung Jinwoo hehe)

Let’s bring you the softer side of Sung Jinwoo, because under all that lethal Shadow Monarch power, he’d be the most terrifyingly overprotective, secretly soft, absolutely wrapped-around-her-finger girl dad.

Sung Jinwoo as a girl dad headcanons

Doesn’t matter how tired he is, he holds her until she’s out, then keeps holding her like she’s more precious than any treasure in any gate.

Sometimes you find them napping together on the couch: her curled against his chest, his arm protectively around her, shadows silently guarding them both.

She gives him sparkly tiaras and calls him her “shadow princess.” He wears them all.

You once walked in on him fully decked in glitter stickers and bows. “I’m… Queen Jinwoo now,” he mutters, sipping tea from a plastic cup.

His shadow soldiers follow her around in secret when she starts walking — hiding behind furniture like spooky bodyguards.

Jinwoo will deadpan stare any other toddler who tries to take her toy like: “You really wanna do this, little man?”

And when she’s older? God help the first boy who tries to hold her hand. The look on Jinwoo’s face alone would summon a dungeon.

She rides on his shoulders like a queen. Constantly. Even at home.

She sits up there with her little hands in his hair, making him her personal horse, dragon, or “shadow bossy.” “I have to go to a guild meeting—” “No, you have to play pony.” And he plays pony.

The man who commands armies of shadows, who’s feared worldwide, goes completely soft when his daughter babbles and reaches for him.

She has him wrapped around her chubby little finger from day one. If she so much as coos, he’s dropping what he’s doing like it’s an S-Rank emergency. “She just blinked at me. Did you see that? She likes me.” You: “She blinked, Jinwoo. She’s two weeks old.” “She blinked with purpose.”

Would absolutely threaten a toddler who made her cry. With a smile.

Sparring lessons when she’s older: but he lets her win. Every time.

Panics more over her scraped knee than a dungeon break.

Trains her to summon tiny shadows for fun: she names them things like “Fluffy” and “Mr. Wiggly.”

Builds her a dark, magical shadow unicorn when she asks for a pony. It neighs in Latin. She’s obsessed.

Teaches her how to say “Back off, I have a scary dad” in five languages.

Once let her sit on his throne during a guild meeting. No one dared to say a word.

Lets her doodle on his paperwork: tells everyone it’s “classified monarch scribbles.”

Calls her his “light” when no one’s listening.

Loses every argument with her because she does the “please, daddy?” voice. He never stands a chance.

Keeps a small, wrinkled drawing of them taped inside his Hunter license. Won’t admit it.

Would burn the world for her and everyone knows it.

[wispitty]

mihawk x reader | “venus & mars” {ch.3}

summary: you're a member of the cross guild. one night, in search of a quiet place to fall apart, you slip into the garden—only to end up in the arms of a certain swordsman... however, despite the way your heart aches for him, you refuse to fall in love with dracule mihawk. you know it could never work. you're venus, and he's mars. you were never meant to be what the other needs.

...right? tag list: mihawk/you, slow burn, mutual pining, soft angst, made from mihawk brainrot, cosmic metaphors, enemies to lovers (kinda) chapter list:

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

Chapter 3: Five Minutes

Later that night.

You’d just finished showering.

Mihawk’s words had plagued you all day, leaving you pouting and frowning ever since. Moaning and grumbling. Petulant. Whiny.

You sat at your vanity, dragging a brush through your hair with a pout still stuck to your lips.

“That intolerable man… ooh, I can’t stand him!”

You threw yourself onto the bed, letting your weight sink into the mattress as you buried your face in the pillows. But the cold of the sheets only reminded you of the warmth of his arms from the night before.

A softness crossed your face, uninvited.

The quiet settled in.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that makes your heartbeat sound too loud. That makes the words you mumble into your pillow echo like confessions.

Go catch someone else, you jerk. See if I care.

But you do care.

And that’s the problem.

You care in the way the sheets feel wrong—too cold, too empty. You care in the way your thoughts wander without permission—to the way he looked at you, listened to you, saw through you without asking for your weakness.

And most of all… you care because part of you still hopes he didn’t mean it.

That he wouldn’t catch someone else.

That he wouldn’t want to.

Outside, the moon hangs low again. Same sky. Same orbit. And somewhere in the depths of the Guild… he’s still awake.

Still reading, maybe. Or polishing a blade. Or thinking of you, with that same maddening stillness he wears like a second skin.

And then—

A soft knock.

Three slow, measured taps against your door.

Not hurried.

Not nervous.

Just… intentional.

Like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.

You glance toward the door.

“At this hour?” you murmur to yourself, rising from the bed in your nightgown.

You hesitate… then open the door.

The hallway lamp casts a faint glow behind him—framing him like a shadow made flesh.

Mihawk.

Still dressed, of course. As if the night couldn’t touch him the same way it touched others. But his coat was unfastened. His sword was nowhere in sight. And his hair—though only slightly—looked tousled, as if he’d run a hand through it more than once tonight.

His gaze swept over you once—taking in the nightgown, the faint crease in your cheek from the pillow, the slight flush in your skin.

And he said nothing of it.

Only—

“May I come in?”

His voice was quiet. Low.

Not commanding.

Not questioning.

Just… asking.

As though, for once in his life, the world’s greatest swordsman wasn’t here to fight.

But to see you.

You arched a brow, half-pouting already.

“To a lady’s quarters at this time of night? I think not. I’d rather not give Buggy more to talk about.”

Your cheeks burned even as you said it.

Mihawk’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly—not in annoyance, but in that unreadable, calculating way that always made you feel like you were the subject of some silent analysis.

Or perhaps…

Admiration.

“Buggy talks whether or not he has material,” he replied simply.

A beat. A glance at your flushed expression.

“And I’ve long stopped concerning myself with the opinions of jesters.”

He didn’t push the door. Didn’t cross the threshold.

But he didn’t leave either.

He just stood there—like a monument to stubborn, inconvenient attraction.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

The words settled in the space between you.

Casual. But not really.

“Too much wine, perhaps.”

A subtle curve of his lips.

“Or maybe I was waiting for a comet from another planet that never passed by.”

A pause.

“Venus, was it?”

He tilted his head.

“…Or shall I leave you to pout in solitude a little longer?”

You frowned, arms crossing.

“And, pray tell, what do you want me to do about your wine-induced insomnia?”

That nearly-smile returned—dangerously subtle.

Like your irritation was the exact thing he’d come for.

“I thought you might offer me a distraction.”

He leaned, just slightly, against the doorway—arms folding lazily across his chest like a man who already knew he’d be let in.

“A sharp-tongued debate. A dramatic glare. Another attempt at pretending last night never happened.”

His gaze dropped slightly—not with heat, but with something quieter. Gentler.

Something that made your stomach twist despite the chill of the floor beneath your feet.

“Or, if that’s too much effort…”

He tilted his head again.

“You could simply let me sit with you. Until it passes.”

A breath.

“No swords. No wine. Just some loaned time.”

And then—his brow lifted, just a touch.

“Unless, of course, you’re afraid you might fall to pieces again.”

You scowled.

“Hmph. Nice to know you come to me to be bored out of your mind. You hold me in such high regard.”

You heaved a loud sigh, glancing up and down the hallway before muttering.

“Five minutes. And I’m kicking you out.”

With a glare, you stepped aside and held the door open.

Mihawk entered slowly, his boots making no sound on the floor.

His gaze moved across the room once—sweeping, silent.

The walls were painted a soft pink. The bedding matched. Coquette and warm. The lights dimmed to a soft feminine glow. Your rose perfume lingered in the air.

Undeniably, unapologetically, a woman’s room.

Undeniably you.

He turned toward you, expression unreadable.

“I said sleep, not boredom,” he murmured. “You’re many things. Dull is not one of them.”

He approached the nearby armchair, but didn’t sit yet. His eyes traced the shape of the room again—lingering on the blanket draped at the edge of your bed. The slippers on the floor. The book on your vanity. The light catching in your brushed hair.

“This is… unexpected,” he said softly.

“Soft, even.”

His gaze lingered too long.

“It suits you.”

“I’m a woman. I like pink. And I like cute things. That’s all there is to it.”

You huffed, brushing past him with a pout, the hem of your nightgown skimming your thighs as you returned to your vanity. The brush was still warm from your grip earlier as you resumed combing through your hair—pointedly ignoring the man now taking up space in your very pink, very soft, very not-for-men room.

Behind you, Mihawk watched.

He didn’t smirk.

Didn’t mock.

His golden eyes followed your reflection in the mirror—quietly, intently.

“I didn’t say it was surprising,” he said after a beat, his voice lower now. “I said it suited you.”

He leaned a shoulder against the armchair but didn’t sit just yet. That sharp, stoic presence of his had softened—not dulled, not tamed—just… folded inward. Like a sword sheathed but still deadly.

“I’ve seen you command a room of mercenaries,” he continued. “Threaten generals. Debate Crocodile like you were born to ruin his patience.”

A pause.

His eyes stayed fixed on yours in the mirror.

“But this,” he said, with a faint gesture to the room, to you—bare-faced, flushed, dressed in softness—“is the first time you’ve looked completely real.”

You didn’t reply.

You just kept brushing.

Slower, now.

The kind of slow you didn’t realize until your hand stilled halfway down a strand of hair. Your brows furrowed faintly. You refused to look at him—but the heat in your cheeks deepened all the same.

And he noticed.

Of course he noticed.

Mihawk let out a slow breath—less a sigh, more a shift. A subtle yielding.

“I won’t stay long,” he said, finally lowering himself into the chair. He didn’t sprawl. Didn’t lounge. He simply leaned forward, forearms on his knees, fingers loosely interlaced.

“I meant what I said.”

His voice dropped even quieter, nearly a murmur.

“No swords. No wine. Just… this.”

A pause.

“If it’s not too much to ask.”

You pouted deeper, trying to look annoyed as you flicked your hair over your shoulder.

“Hmph. Enjoy your fill. You’re not allowed back in here tomorrow.”

Mihawk exhaled through his nose—not quite a laugh, but something close.

“I’ll savor it, then.”

He studied the room again. The ribbons on your vanity stool. The soft glow of the bedside lamp. The worn copy of a book on your nightstand with a petal tucked between the pages.

Then back to you.

Still brushing your hair.

Still pretending not to notice him watching you.

Still glowing pink and warm and lovely under candlelight.

“I’ll take the silence, too,” he murmured. “Even if you fill it with glaring.”

Another pause.

“I prefer it to pretending you don’t want me here.”

That earned him a glance. A sharp one.

“I don’t,” you said flatly. “That, I thought, was perfectly clear. Hmph.”

Still, you rose from your chair and crossed the room—feet brushing against the floor with that same soft defiance—and reached for the teapot resting near your windowsill.

You poured two cups.

The porcelain clinked gently.

You handed one to him without ceremony.

“But I suppose I’ll be a hospitable host, at the very least. Here. Tea. If you don’t want it, don’t drink it.”

And then, without looking at him.

“And before you ask, no. I don’t have wine.”

He took the cup when you offered it, his fingers brushing yours—purposeful.

Brief.

Enough to make something flicker in your chest if you weren’t careful.

“I wasn’t going to ask for wine,” he murmured, cradling the cup in his hands like it was something worth more than it seemed.

“You’ve already given me something warmer.”

His gaze dipped to the teacup. Then lifted—back to you.

“No poisons? No hexes?”

The corner of his mouth twitched—barely.

“…You’re soft,” he said, “but you’re still you.”

He takes a sip.

His gaze never leaves yours over the rim.

And somehow, in this quiet moment—with you flushed and pouting in silk and candlelight, and him sipping your tea like it’s the rarest thing in the world—it feels dangerously close to something like intimacy.

Something neither of you dares name.

“I should’ve poisoned it, you’re right. I missed a good opportunity. Then again, I wasn’t expecting company.”

You climbed onto your bed, curling your legs beneath you as you reached for your book—finding your page like nothing was different. Like your heart wasn’t thudding against your ribs.

He watched you move beneath the blankets, the silk of your nightgown slipping soft along your skin as you folded yourself into the pillows with perfect, practiced composure.

His chest pulled taut.

He didn’t move.

Just lifted the teacup again.

“You’re the only person I know who can insult someone and serve them tea in the same breath,” he mused, sipping. “I can’t decide if that’s generosity or violence.”

You didn’t look at him.

Didn’t have to.

He could see it in the subtle twitch of your mouth behind your book. In the way your brow furrowed just enough to show you were still listening.

He watched you flip a page.

Watched your eyes scan the words.

Watched the slight shift of your legs beneath the blanket.

“Five minutes, wasn’t it?” he said quietly.

He set the cup down.

“I hope your timing’s flexible.”

You didn’t look up.

“Hmph. You’ll be bored to death soon enough. There are no swords in here.”

And his reply came immediately—low, unflinching.

“There’s you in here.”

No flirtation.

No tease.

Just… truth. Plain and sharp and completely disarming.

Like everything else he said when you least expected it.

“I’ll survive the lack of steel,” he added, resting deeper into the chair. One leg crossed at the knee. Arms stretched comfortably along the sides.

“You’re sharper than most blades anyway.”

A pause.

“And you’ve drawn blood with less than a sentence.”

“Shush,” you muttered, eyes locked on your book. “I’m reading.”

That smirk—small, smug, satisfied—curved his lips again.

He didn’t press.

Didn’t tease.

He just leaned back into the chair, letting the hush settle around you like dust in a sunbeam.

The room went still.

Peaceful.

The only sounds: the rustle of your turning pages, the faint clink of sipped tea, and the steady rhythm of your heartbeat—louder than it should’ve been. Because he was still watching you.

Watching like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

And for once, he didn’t need to say anything.

He just stayed.

Then, after a while—

“What are you reading?” he mused aloud, the question too casual to be innocent.

Your shoulders stiffened.

“N-None of your business!” you snapped, lowering the book just enough to glare over the top.

Mihawk raised an eyebrow, utterly unbothered. “A romance novel, by the looks of it.”

“Then stop looking!”

He chuckled—low, amused, entirely too pleased with himself.

“I’m only confirming a hypothesis,” he said, settling deeper into the chair. “The flushed cheeks. The wide eyes. The death grip on the page… very telling.”

His gaze flicked lazily toward your hands.

“Is it the brooding type this time? Or the charming rogue?”

You said nothing.

Didn’t need to.

The way you buried your face deeper into your book said plenty.

He tilted his head slightly, feigning curiosity.

“...Both?”

Your ears turned pink.

His smirk widens just slightly—dangerous, but amused.

“A love triangle,” he murmured, almost thoughtfully. “How classic.”

You still didn’t answer.

He didn’t expect you to.

Instead, after a few seconds of quiet, he leaned back and closed his eyes—arms resting crossed against his chest—voice just soft enough to hit your spine.

“Tell me if either of them wins you over. I could use the strategy.”

The book snapped shut with a thwap.

You let out a frustrated groan and launched the nearest pillow at his chest, your face completely flushed.

“Your five minutes are up! So shoo!”

The pillow hit him with a satisfying thud—square in the chest.

And Mihawk didn’t flinch. Merely opened his eyes.

He caught it as it fell to his lap, dusted off a nonexistent speck of lint, and lifted his gaze back to you with maddening calm.

Like you were the most ridiculous—and most endearing—thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

“So violent for someone reading about love.”

He stood, slow and deliberate, walking the pillow back to the bed.

He didn’t toss it.

Didn’t joke.

He placed it gently beside you, smoothed the edge of your blanket like it was ritual, then leaned down—just slightly.

Close enough that you could smell the warmth of his cologne mingling with the faint trace of your rose perfume in the air.

“Next time,” he said, voice low and impossibly certain, “I’ll bring my own copy.”

A pause.

“And stay ten minutes.”

Then, without waiting for your response, he turned—quiet and unhurried.

Heading for the door.

No swagger.

No drama.

Just the kind of composure that made it impossible to tell whether he’d won… or just left you breathless on purpose.

He didn’t look back.

But he knew you were watching.

“T-There won’t be a next time, you lout!”

You huffed behind him, clutching your book like a shield.

And at the threshold, he paused.

Didn’t turn. Didn’t smirk.

But you saw it—the subtle rise of his shoulders. The tilt of his head. That stillness he wielded like a weapon sharper than any blade.

Then—softly, silkily—

“We’ll see.”

The door clicked closed behind him.

And just like that—

He was gone.

But his presence lingered.

In the half-empty cup of tea. In the faint scent of his cologne. In the crease of the pillow where he’d placed it beside you.

Like the place in your chest he’d quietly—shamelessly—staked a claim to.

There might not be a next time…

But you knew damn well there would be.

[commanderyes]

The Commander Says Goodbye

I’m not going to lie, I’m extremely anxious as i’m writing this, out of what these news could mean to a lot of people, and my heart feels heavy enough it could drop down my ribcage any minute from now and squish all my other organs. But I’ve been dancing around this topic for a long time now, and I think i’ve finally reached a point where i can’t ignore it anymore, for my own sake.

I hereby announce Commander Yes has come to an end.

As I’ve mentioned plenty of times before, here and to many other people, when I began this comic all the way back in 2018 I was in a really bad, really low place in my life in every sense of the word, and it was a spur-of-the moment decision to cheer myself up, because Path of Fire had just released and my enjoyment of the game had reached fever pitch and I had been playing Guild Wars 2 alone since as far as launch, and none of my other friends had ever really gotten into it. I guess I just, dunno, cried out into the big maelstrom of the community, one voice amidst millions, because i wanted SOMEBODY to look at what i did and revel in the nerdery with me.

And somehow the snowball began to roll and people wanted more and more of what I could do, and I was being actively reached out to, and, well, some time after that I landed my first ever job, I discovered a lot of things about myself, and I found myself in communities that welcomed me with open arms, and many of the people in there have since become among the best friends I could’ve possibly encountered, kindred souls who i’ve shared joys and sorrows for many years and who I can’t imagine living without anymore.

And all the while I kept making the comics, and with every entry posted every week I’d keep having people stopping to comment on them, and whether they were dumb jokes or personal takes on the story, they’d all share how much what I do kept hitting them in the kokoro, and to this day whenever I play anywhere in the game I still get people who recognize me and thank me for doing what I do. It was wonderful, it IS wonderful, and seeing that response motivated me to keep going, because what did still mattered to people, out there.

But I did always say I planned to keep doing these comics until I ran out of energy for them, and I think i’ve finally reached that point.

Because ever since I actually landed that job I’m exhausted and sleep-deprived every other day, so much so that I only have time to work on the comic on saturdays and sundays, and it gets harder and harder to just sit and draw, and at that point it was just more work, and while I still enjoy and play Guild Wars 2 a lot, it no longer consumes my time and attention like I’ve used to and i’ve been having fun with more personal projects, and honestly the direction the story is taking these days does not sit right with me and it’s hard to find inspiration in that, and this might be borderline selfish but every year I find people care less and less about the comics and it really takes a hit to you motivation when hardly anybody responds after you’ve spent a whole weekend trying to squeeze a five-page comic out.

And, well, I have been doing these for six years straight, and I think that’s a good run. I’m tired, and ready to move on, at long last. Let it be someone else’s turn.

But that’s the beautiful thing about this community, isn’t it? Even if I’m hanging up the hat, there are a whole lot of fantastic artists out there, as we speak, still cranking out works of art, deserving of all the attention they can get. And think of all the artists yet to come! For every story that ends, another story is just about to begin!

The world keeps on spinning, one way or another.

I’ll be closing my patreon shortly after this, but the reddit archives and tumblr blog shall remain for people to browse whenever they feel like (or until they both go in flames, i guess, what social media isn’t about to these days)

I still don’t think I ever was that much of a big deal, but all the same, to everyone who’s ever supported me and helped me be the person I am right now, to everyone who’s been there from the beginning, to all the devs of this game that has captured us for nearly a decade now, to all my fellow players and artists out there

Thank you.

See you out there, fellow commanders. Still the stars find their way.

[charlie-rulerofhell]

Sed Proditionem || chapter 2

In Dubiis Libertas, In Necessariis Unitas

But in the end, if I bend under the weight that they gave me, then this heart would break and fall as twice as far.

* * *

Žižka is forced to deal with the aftermath of his failure. Hans and Samuel look for the root of betrayal. At Zlenice castle, a young boy sets out for adventure.

{read below or here on AO3}

* * *

Štěpán of Tetin was bored. So bored in fact that, had the way back to Zlenice been any longer, his wandering thoughts and daydreams may as well have thrown him out of his saddle and into a blissful sleep on the muddy ground. Sure, he had known what he would get himself into, not only this morning when the messenger of Sir Tammo of Ledna urged him to finish his breakfast sooner than expected, no, he had known for over five years now, ever since he agreed to help his guardian Ondřej Dubá with his service as the King's highest judge. And it wasn't the iudicium terre bohemiae, the Bohemian common law, that bored Štěpán so much. He admired the importance of that task, craved for the structure and order that it provided, and was, at least for a seventeen year old beardless man, as Sir Ondřej liked to call him, way more interested in books full of title deeds and legislative records than would have been good for him.

“When I was your age,” Zlenice's commander Sir Nikolai had told him once, “the only law I was interested in was the law of lovemaking, and the only writing I would care for was the one my cock left on the skirts of some pretty girl.” And Štěpán would have all the assets required to be a great philan­derer, Nikolai had asserted! The full dark locks of Iwain the lion knight, the slim fingers and legs of King Charles himself, round cheeks, full lips and long lashes that every girl in the whole of Bohemia would swoon over. Štěpán had as little interest in skirt hunting as he had in the hunting of anything else, nor was he as convinced of his own talents in this regard as the old knight was. But then again, Sir Nikolai had also told him once that he'd make a fine sword fighter, and the whole of Zlenice knew how that one had ended!

His interests clearly lay elsewhere. Which land belonged to whom and for what costs, for example, and more importantly, under what circumstances could this established order be re­voked. In recent years, he had also developed a certain affinity for the exceptional rights and authorities of the church, espe­cially considering what was happening in Prague. That myste­rious white knight, Petr of Haugwitz as he called himself, wasn't particularly fond of Štěpán's interest in the latter. While Štěpán wasn't particularly fond of Petr of Haugwitz.

Just as little as he was fond of the disputes that both nobility and commoners alike called him over for these days. Or rather, that they called Sir Ondřej for, but since the lord had seen his nineteenth spring already, he had bestowed these tasks upon his ward Štěpán. Tasks that included the innkeper Adam selling his beer for a quarter groschen too many, or the guild of the tanners missing to organise their second required procession this year, or baker Marek leaving his horse unattended in the middle of the village square, and on a market day of all times. And God knew how many of those disputes Štěpán had to settle today!

The sun had long set when he led his horse across the draw­bridge marking the entrance to the main castle of Zlenice. There were stables outside the castle walls in the outer bailey, but Štěpán preferred to have his chestnut mare Šárka as close by as possible. One could never know when it was needed to flee the castle unexpectedly. Or when adventure might strike.

The light of Jan's torch was so blindingly bright that Štěpán had to cover his eyes for a moment. The guard had stuck the torch into the wet earth of the ground, while he himself had taken a seat on the lowest stairs inside the castle gate, playing dice against himself. And why shouldn't he? Nothing ever hap­pened on Zlenice. The guard still had enough vigilance in him, though, to raise his head as Štěpán passed him by. “Good night, Sir.”

“Good night to you as well.” He pulled the reigns tighter, and Šárka pranced around on her crooked hind legs. Tiredness started to get to her too. “Would you happen to know where I can find Sir Ondřej at this hour?”

“He ate early today, Sir. Wanted to find some rest, the cough had got worse again.”

Štěpán took a deep sigh and nodded. No surprising news, it always got worse on days like these when the weather changed so drastically, bringing cold air up from the river, chasing away the warmth of spring. Sometimes, when it wasn't only the tem­perature of the air that changed but also its humidity or the force of the wind, Sir Ondřej used to cough so much his whole face would first get red as poppies and then white as milk. “It's always a shame,” Sir Nikolai had told Štěpán once when his guardian's cough had been so bad he had just quit breathing altogether for a while, making everyone believe he must alrea­dy be standing on the threshold to Saint Peter's door. “But he has lived a long life, longer than the rest of us can even dream of. And eh, who knows, lad, you might inherit a thing or two now?” Of course Štěpán wouldn't. He wasn't related to Sir Ondřej Dubá of Zlenice, was only the grandson of one of the lords Sir Ondřej had once bought the castle from, the eleventh grandson, that was. He hadn't been sent to Zlenice in the hopes of inheriting anything, but for two simple reasons alone. To help out the King's highest judge with his work in his old days, and, by fulfilling this duty, strengthen the ties between the Du­bá family and the lords of Tetín. And because for the eleventh grandson, the youngest brother of seven, there was no better use for him back at home anyway.

“Have they sent for the physician again?”

Jan shook his head and put the dice down. “Haugwitz didn't think it necessary.”

“As if he could tell,” Štěpán pressed out through gritted teeth.

“Well, with all due respect, Sir, but the old lord is a tough fella. This cough couldn't get him for the past ten years, and I doubt it will tonight.” Jan chuckled, staring down into his torch, as if the flames had just told him a very entertaining joke. “If that old lord dies, it might just be because he slips on his way to his shitter.” He was still smiling when he raised his gaze again, but winced immediately under the stare that Štěpán regarded him with. “Forgive me, Sir.”

Štěpán shrugged his shoulders. “We should make sure to keep the steps to his latrine always clean then.”

“Of course, Sir.”

“Is Haugwitz with him right now?”

“No, Haugwitz is over there.” Jan nodded into the direction of the stables. “Wanted to take care of his horse.”

“Ah. I see.” Štěpán looked over to the small shed with the flickering light inside, and swallowed down the lump that had quickly formed in his throat. Maybe using the stables down in the outer bailey didn't sound like such a bad idea anymore. Ha, so much for adventure calling!

He dismounted Šárka and went over to the castle stables by foot, hoping that it would help against the quick pumping of his heart and the growing numbness in his legs. Štěpán wouldn't have considered himself to be a particularly scared man. Weak yes, that he was, and lacking any skill when it came to handling a sword, that too. But he had always longed to leave this castle one day and see the world, only that such an opportunity had never presented itself to him, keeping his travels confined to the local villages and his actions to those sealed with ink on parchment. That didn't mean he wouldn't like to follow the sweet song of fate wherever it led him, of course.

Šárka shied, threw her head back and neighed. Perhaps the horse felt it too, and what was wrong about it? Certain events and certain people just required a little more wariness.

Petr of Haugwitz was standing next to his black stallion, his back turned to the entrance. He had lid the torch on the wall, and its light made his perfectly white armour and his golden hair shine like paper thrown into a fireplace. The horse and the saddle bags he was rummaging through were hidden under the shadow that his tall, broad body cast.

Šárka neighed again and pulled on the reigns more firmly. Štěpán put a soothing hand to her neck and imagined their roles to be reversed and that she was in fact the one giving him an encouraging pat on the back. “Jesus Christ be praised.”

He refused to call the white knight Sir, ever since Haugwitz had come riding through the castle gates in late December, just a few days before the beginning of the year 1410. Pale skin, pale hair, pale armour, pale as the snow that had surrounded him. Only the glove made an exception, a single black leather glove wrapped around his belt, that he never wore but carried with him every day. Petr of Haugwitz was a strange man in all regards. A noble that spoke and growled like a bloodhound, and everything that he said seemed to be only uninformed opinions that weren't even his own. He spoke ill of the Prague demands for church reforms without knowing much about it, claimed to be a strong supporter of the King, but was tightly involved with Heinrich of Rosenberg's affairs who had been known for his loyalty towards the Hungarian usurper Sigismund. Still, in the mere span of a month or so, the white knight had managed to form a suspiciously close relationship to Sir Ondřej, yet ano­ther reason to be wary of him. And then of course there was his most obvious flaw, the one thing that kept Štěpán from ever using the title Sir when addressing him. No book or legal docu­ment Štěpán had consulted could provide him with any evi­dence that a Petr of Haugwitz had ever existed.

The white knight didn't utter a word of greeting, but he raised his head and looked over at Štěpán as he led Šárka in­side. Pale eyes as well, cold and wet, like dripping daggers of ice.

Štěpán turned away to hide the deep breath he was taking, but it was quiet enough in the stable for his breathing to be heard. Perhaps Haugwitz could even hear his heart and see the blood rush through his veins quicker and hotter than it should. With this stare of his it wouldn't be surprising. “I heard that my guardian's health has been put to the test today, while I was gone.”

Haugwitz started looking through his things again, waiting long before he gave an answer. Not as long as it felt, most like­ly, but in the white knight's presence, the grains of the hour­glass of time always seemed to get drowned in sticky honey. “He is sleeping now.”

Not the answer Štěpán had hoped to get, but then he also hadn't posed a proper question. “Sleep will do him good for sure.” His voice was so quiet and frail now, not even the voice of a seventeen year old weak student of the law, but the voice of a frightened child. “Thank you for taking care of him.”

Haugwitz didn't reply but the silence said it all. The shared understanding of secrets Štěpán would better not ask about. The threat of what would happen if he still did.

Noise outside at the gate. The rattling of armour, steel scra­ping over steel as a weapon was drawn. Someone gasped from exhaustion, someone screamed. Jan. “Not a step further, you hear me?”

Štěpán rushed outside, closely followed by Haugwitz. Jan had left his place on the gate's stairs, the dice had fallen down, lay scattered across the dirt. His sword was raised, its tip aimed at the neck of a man who had appeared on the drawbridge. He stood bent over, hands resting on his thighs, panting heavily. The man was armed with a sword himself, but had it sheathed on his hip. He wore armour, but only on his legs and forearms, while a padded doublet was the only protection for his chest. Grey and brown cloth from what little Štěpán could tell in the dim torchlight, and there didn't seem to be crest on it.

He stepped forward until he stood next to Jan, and placed a hand on his wrist lightly, reminding him not to act without his command. “I am Sir Štěpán of Tetín, the ward of Sir Ondřej Dubá, who is the lord here in Zlenice. Who sent you?”

“No one, Sir.” The man's voice was only a hoarse rattling, winter wind in the castle walls. “I just ran, Sir, ran as quickly as I could. I saw the castle up here and hoped for help. I need help, Sir, you need to help me.”

“Help with what? Where did you run from, what happened to you?”

“I'm a mercenary, Sir. I was serving Father Thomas of the Prague synod. But he is dead now, Sir. Killed. A bolt in his throat, shot from the bushes like some animal.”

“Go and wake Lord Ondřej.” Haugwitz's harsh voice, a command that he had no authority for, and Jan moved without any hesitation. Štěpán couldn't blame him. The soldier was just as scared of Haugwitz as he was, and how could he dare to question him in a situation like this?

There was more Štěpán wanted to ask, but Haugwitz stepped forward now, ordering the man to come into the castle with them, to drink some strong wine and wait for Sir Ondřej. Fine then, Štěpán thought. After the shock and the fright from before and the hardships of the day, he could really use some of that wine now, too.

Sir Ondřej Dubá of Zlenice had to lean on Jan as he dragged himself into the dining hall, and his bloated face was slack with fatigue, but at least he had stopped coughing. “So,” he wheezed as Jan had finally managed to help him sit down on his chair, which creaked under his weight, “tell me what happened, boy. And don't leave out a single thing.”

The boy in question was a man of at least thirty years, Ště­pán could see that now in the brighter light of candle holders and fireplace, but to a man of Sir Ondřej's age everyone quali­fied to be called boy. “My name is Lukas, my Lord. I was hired as a mercenary together with two other men to accompany the priest Thomas of Prague on his way to the synod there.” He was speaking much calmer now, the wine seemed to show an effect. It helped Štěpán to sharpen his wits too, and so he no­ticed how the man strictly avoided to look at Haugwitz who had taken his place at the side of the hall, leaning against the fireplace. “We just passed through a gorge close to Jezonice, when we got approached by what seemed to be two other priests.”

“When was that, boy?”

“Just after sunset, Sir.”

Štěpán furrowed his brow. “Why were you travelling at that time of the day? There would be no more inn to stop at for at least ten more miles.”

“I know, Sir, but we had just rested until this afternoon, in Uzhitz, that was. We had met two other men there, a Hungarian and a … a drunkard with a croaking voice. Kubyenka was his name, I believe.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Štěpán could see Haugwitz ba­ring his teeth at the mentioning of these men.

“But they were witty, especially this Kubyenka fella, and Father Thomas shared some wine with him, and they played dice and talked. They seemed trustworthy, and when they told us about robber bands roaming these lands who were on the look for merchants, during the day of course, when most mer­chants would travel, well, it made sense to us, Father Thomas believed them and so did we. So we stayed until the afternoon, and only continued our way then.”

“Hm.” Štěpán tried to put as little judgement into his voice as he could. If there was one thing the solving of too many a mundane village dispute had taught him it was to listen to the whole story first without much questioning, because any of that could twist even the most well-meant truth into a lie of uncer­tainty. “These priests. Did they say anything to you?”

“They did, Sir, and quite a lot in fact. They claimed that they had just stayed in Prague themselves and were on their way back to their parish now. They also said that they had met with Jan Hus. That he had shared his believes with them, and that they would know that those believes were God's true words, because our Lord had performed a miracle while Hus was spea­king. And that there would be miracles whenever someone re­peated these truths. They wanted to show us.” He raised his eyes. There was fright in them, a mortal terror, and for a brief moment his gaze fell upon Haugwitz, and the flicker of fear be­came a wildfire. “The younger one of the two took out this … construction. It was made of glass, like a lantern, but all empty inside. And then he said that the only word a Christian should follow should be that of the Saviour, not that of any priest or nobleman, and that no priest or bishop and not even the Pope himself could claim to be holy by his ordination alone, that it were only the life a clergy man leads that would make him ho­ly, his chastity, humility, poverty. And then he raised this lan­tern above his head, and suddenly … suddenly …” He swal­lowed, tears turning his dark eyes into ink. He took another sip from the wine. “Someone shot Father Thomas. With the bolt of a crossbow, right into his throat. And there were so many armed men up in the forest, and I was scared, I was so scared, and I just ran for it. I am so sorry. I should have stayed, but I couldn't, I …” The man wiped his nose with the back of his hand, before he looked up, first at Štěpán, then at Jan and finally at Sir Ondřej, but not at Haugwitz this time. “Was that the will of God, Sir? Was it divine punishment that Father Thomas had to … That he was …”

“No, boy. That was only the doing of conspirators. Traitors to the land, and to the church. And to God.”

“How many were there?” Štěpán could feel the other's looks weighing down heavily on him, especially Haugwitz's. He was suspicious about the mercenary's story, the white knight knew it, and he didn't like it. “You said there were armed men hidden in the forest. How many exactly?”

“I could not tell, Sir. It was dark, and I … I ran as fast as I could.” Lukas ducked his head between his shoulders like a scared fowl. Surely he was just as aware of the punishments for cowardice as Štěpán was. “But there was the one with the crossbow, and others too, lots of them, men with swords and axes and all that, I could hear them, see a few of them even, I … I don't think Jenda and Maretschek stood a chance.”

“The other mercenaries?” Sir Ondřej asked.

“Aye.”

“But why so many?” Haugwitz's ice cold stare pulled tight around his neck, strangled him like a noose. Štěpán noticed how he brought a hand down, but not to the handle of his sword but to the glove on his belt, wrapping his fingers around it, as if he wanted to entangle them with the empty leather ones. “There were only three of you and a priest. While they had two men in disguise, probably skilled fighters too, an ar­cher with a crossbow, and all these other men that you saw.”

“I … I suppose they wanted to make sure.”

“Make sure of what? That they got rid of you all? But to what end? They clearly wanted to set an example, so what good would it do them if there was no one left to tell the tale? And why then go through all this effort, the disguise, the theo­logical discussion, if they just planned to murder you anyway?”

The chair next to him creaked as Sir Ondřej moved around on it with a groan. Next to the hissing fireplace, Haugwitz squeezed the glove so tightly that the leather let out a desperate whine. “Perhaps they wanted him to escape. Let him run, so he could spread the message.”

“And what message would that be? That the followers of Jan Hus are dangerous and mischievous, not to be trusted at any cost? How could that be in their own interest, how would that benefit their cause?”

“What are you suggesting here, Štěpán?”

He shook his head at Sir Ondřej, at a loss for an explanation. Getting duped over the price of beer, or finding someone's horse parked in the middle of the market street seemed so much more appealing all of a sudden. But wasn't this just the change he had waited for for so long, the adventure he had craved? Only that for this adventure, a priest had died, as well as two mercenaries and a few more men perhaps, and somehow Zlenice was now tied up in all of this too, and if the church found out about it, if the archbishop got wind of the murder of a synod member from Prague, ambushed by Hus supporters out on the streets close to Zlenice, it would be a political disaster. “Something about all of this stinks to high heaven! And I would strongly advise not to jump to any hasty conclusions.”

“And do what instead?”

Lukas buried his face in his wine cup again. Sir Ondřej had his hands wrapped around the armrests of his chair so tightly, his knuckles went all white. Haugwitz plucked something off his armour and threw it into the fire. The smell of burned cot­ton filled the air like a threat. “I will go to this gorge myself.” Even Štěpán himself was taken by surprise by his own confi­dence, but there was no stopping now. “I will have a closer look at the scene of the crime, and tell you what I could find afterwards, so we can take proper actions.”

Haugwitz shook his head, his lips formed silent words that none of them could or should hear, before he actually spoke. “So how long do you plan to wait until we take these actions? Until their bodies have gone cold? Until someone else finds them and gets word out to Prague before we can?”

“We won't get word out to anyone,” Štěpán said with a firm­ness in his voice that seemed to confuse Haugwitz too, because he lifted his eyes from the fire at these words, fixed them at Štěpán instead. “The sole accountability here lies with Sir On­dřej and Sir Ondřej alone.”

“Then I will go with you at least. Two pairs of eyes will see more.”

“No, I will go on my own. When looking for evidence, any additional man would just get in the way.”

Haugwitz showed his teeth again. The face of a rabid dog. “This is foolishness.”

“I agree.” Sir Ondřej's cheeks took a deep shade of red as he tried to shift his weight from one side to the other. “With both of you. You will go alone, Štěpán. Gather whatever information you can and then report it to me. But hurry. The murder of a member of the church on my lands is a delicate affair, and one we must not leave ignored for too long.” He coughed. Coughed until his face went pale once more, and then paler than before, and sweat pearled from his brows and upper lip, mingling with saliva around the corners of his mouth. He reached out his left arm like a helpless rooster whose wings were clipped. Jan took hold of it and helped him up to his feet, dragging him over to the door. “If you haven't returned with the ringing of the bells at noon,” Sir Ondřej said before leaving the hall, every word accentuated by a cough or a sharp inhalation of breath, “I will see myself forced to write to Prague without your consulta­tion.”

“Yes, Sir.” Štěpán stood up and bent his head to Sir Ondřej Dubá of Zlenice in a bow that only the mercenary and the white knight could see. “I won't disappoint you, my lord.”

* * *

“Shit!” He swung his arm. The head of the mace described a picturesque circle in the air before it slammed into a wooden pillar of the attic. Under the roof, high up above their heads, a handful of swallows scattered out angrily into the Kuttenberg morning sky. “Fucking shit!”

“Calm yourself, Žižka.”

He turned around and laughed Katherine right into her an­noyingly blank expression. “Calm myself? Calm myself? How exactly am I supposed to calm myself with this fucking disaster that went on out there?” He pulled the mace out of the beam with some force, wood splintered. Damn it all, he should have rammed it straight into that little bastard's stomach before he sent them down to have a word with Schwarzfeld. It wouldn't have helped, Samuel wasn't to blame for what had happened, but perhaps that would have at least made him calm himself! “One of the priests of the Prague synod is dead, we tarnished the reputation of Jan Hus, two of our own men have stabbed us in the fucking back, how is any one of us supposed to stay calm?”

“You don't know what happened.” Katherine tried to sound oh so reasonable, and it was a joke, because there was no rea­son in what she said. “You don't know if Kubyenka and Janosh really betrayed us. What if they are dead? What if Sam is right, what if it was only Schwarzfeld who turned on us, and Kub­yenka and Janosh were rotting somewhere in the forest near Uzhitz, and you were desecrating their memory right now, what then?”

“Then,” he lowered his voice and stepped forward slowly, a demonstration of his anger, he didn't want to scare her, but he could still see her warm, morning haze eyes widen in a way that made his skin crawl from shame, “I'd be a happier man. Then I could proudly say that they were the soldiers, the friends, that I rightfully set my trust in. Believe me, I'd rather desecrate their memory a thousand times over than see them become traitors.”

Katherine didn't reply, only breathed in deeply, but she would understand. Would see that his anger wasn't for her, wasn't even for Kubyenka and Janosh, and that he had wanted to beat that little shit Samuel up only because something in that boy's defiance reminded Žižka of himself ever so often.

“I understand your frustration,” Henry tried to keep his voice as quiet and placid as he possibly could, “but Katherine has a point. This is all just speculation. We need to find them first, and even if they're still alive, we don't have any clue yet what really happened, or what went on inside their heads.”

“It doesn't mater, don't you understand? They weren't there, and the whole plan went to shit. My plan!”

“Your plan, yes, but we were the ones to execute it, and Schwarzfeld was our informant, and even if someone here betrayed us, it still doesn't make it your fault.”

Žižka turned to him. His voice had lost all its fury when he spoke again, it was low and growling now, a threat. “What am I, Henry?”

“What?”

“What am I? To you,” he pointed the head of the mace in Katherine's direction, “to her,” waved it around, at Henry and Godwin, at Hans and Samuel downstairs, at the swallows above him, “to anyone here? What role am I playing in this goddamned tragedy?”

Henry didn't answer, just kept his lips pressed together, his eyes big and bewildered like a beaten pup.

“What am I, Henry, tell me!”

The boy swallowed. “The captain. Our commander.”

“Your commander, yes.”

The next words spoken weren't uttered by Henry, and not by Katherine either, but by the priest who had been silently wat­ching until this very moment, and unlike with the other two, there was nothing reassuring or calming in what he said, only blunt coldness. “You are right, Žižka. It is all your fault. You fucked up. You came up with the plan, and you commanded it. You questioned Schwarzfeld yourself, and apparently to no avail, you couldn't even keep an eye on your own men. We are deep in the shit, and while we all made our contribution to this endeavour, in the end, we only answer to you. So yes. There is absolutely no one to blame here but you.”

The silence that followed was so deafening that it roared in Žižka's ears like carriage wheels on a stone road. The boy's eyes were widened as he stared at Godwin, Katherine had her gaze lowered to the ground, her red lips slightly agape. Even the swallows seemed to have ceased their song, but Žižka paid them no mind. Cranes. The unmistakable grating sound of cranes, as they waded across the freshly frozen ground, sear­ching for food. Fog in the air, hovering above the river to their right, breaking the light of a rising sun. Some of the sun's rays landed on Hynek's scarred face and on his ginger hair, painted it the colour of dust. Must have been the morning haze. “Do not try to keep me, Žižka. This life, settling somewhere, raising stray dogs together, ha. That is not for me.”He had tucked his hands under his armpits to keep them from shaking. Must have been the cold. “They are yours. You can grapple with them now. Like it always should have been.” Then he had left. Off to Austria. And Žižka had left to Humpolec and Krumlov, dealing with Rosenberg, and failing. When he had finally returned north, Hynek was gone. Not to Austria, and not to some other godforsaken land, but to Hell, where a Devil belonged. And the pack was in shambles, some scattered, some had moved on with life. Wenceslas had offered Žižka work in Prague. He hadn't refused it, but hadn't exactly accepted it either. He could have used his military skills for none other than the King him­self, could have settled as a burgrave, but he didn't know how. So he had scraped up the pack once more, or what was left of it, because Henry had properly taken roots in Rattay with his Lord it seemed, and Godwin had built a more theoretical pro­fession for himself in Prague, and the rest, the few he could find and motivate to return to Kuttenberg, had come to him like a horde of headless chickens, waiting for him to throw them some grains of purpose, and so he had fled once more. This time, he hadn't even told Katherine where he went, but they all found out anyway. Found out when he came back to Kutten­berg with his tail between his legs because the Teutonic Order had declined him. It is all your fault. You fucked up. There is absolutely no one to blame here but you.

Žižka nodded. The swallows had started singing again, or maybe they had never stopped, only the noise of the cranes had ceased now. “Henry. I need you to write two letters about what happened out there last night. Explain everything in full detail. One will be addressed to Wok of Waldstein, the other one to Jan Sokol of Lamberg. Leave out any unnecessary formalities and apologies, and don't ask them for support either, it should only be a prosaic rendition of the events and their possible con­sequences so that they know what they have to prepare for. Once these letters are written, you will ride out and deliver them to your father at Vyšehrad. He will know where to find Waldstein and Lamberg, and you will report to him too, by word of mouth. We will join you in Prague soon. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Good. Then leave us alone.”

Henry took a brief bow, turned and walked over to the ladder. His broad back straight as a lance, the steps firm. A blacksmith, an advisor, a soldier, a knight. His hair had grown longer, his beard too, he had matured so much from the boy Žižka had left back then in Suchdol, but into what, Žižka couldn't tell. He hoped Henry could tell at least, hoped it for him.

His eyes wandered over to Katherine, who was looking up at him now expectantly. “You too, Kat,” he said, and Katherine responded with a nod. “I need to talk to Godwin in private.” She left without a word. There were things on her mind that she wanted to say, Žižka could tell, but she would safe them for la­ter, knew that this mattered to him now. She always knew so well.

Žižka waited until he heard both their footsteps disappeare downstairs, before he set himself into motion. He walked over to where the silver rays of light were dancing on the parchment he had spread across the table. Maps, letters, charters, requests, so many names that he had long drowned in. It smelled of ink and wax, dry wood and dust. “I appreciate your honesty, God­win.” He gave a soft laugh that didn't really carry any amuse­ment with it. “In fact, you seem to be the only one here who's not trying to butter me up like a cake.”

“We barely made it out of this ambush alive. Kubyenka and Janosh are missing. The Prague church might be on our tails soon. It's only understandable that they are worried about you.” “I don't need them to be worried, much less about me.” He turned, faced the priest. He wasn't wearing the cassock any­more that Žižka had got for them, had changed it for a simple brown tunic and a black cotton hose. It suited him much better. “I need them to follow my orders and not shy away from being honest with me when my plans turn into a catastrophe. How can I be a commander when they are not fulfilling their roles as soldiers?”

Godwin shook his head and smiled softly. It was a miracle how little he had changed since they had last met. His bald skin as smooth as ever, full cheeks, a faint stubble, dark, not grey, even his brows had some colour left in them. Prague certainly did him good. “Don't be too hard on them, Jan, and please, don't judge them by my standards. I know what it's like to serve in a war as a proper soldier, they don't. All they know is how to fight amongst friends.”

It is true, Žižka thought. They had fought battles before, had called him captain and commander, but that was only ever a technicality, because he had been the one to come up with the plans, to give the orders, and occasionally they had even fol­lowed them faithfully, and afterwards they had got pissed toge­ther, had laughed and quarrelled and got into a brawl. Because they had never been an army, a troop, had only been a pack, a pack of drunkards and outcasts and robbers, a pack of devils. But a pack that was pretty damn good at what they did, because through all this they had never faltered in their respect and trust for each other. “I won't blame them for their friendship. I wel­come it, in fact.” He turned around to the table again, took the tankard and poured wine into the two cups next to it, bringing the one Katherine had drunken from to his own lips, before he handed the other one over to Godwin. “There have been whole armies that were just made up of friends, did you know that, Godwin? I even heard of some Greek troop that only hired lo­vers. Lovers, can you imagine?” Žižka took another sip, and the wine caressed his tongue and burned in his throat, and he laughed. “They fought like no other army did, because they had a cause to fight for, not only abstract concepts of honour and patriotism, but friendship and love.”

“I did not know that.”

“It is a blessing, I suppose.” He took a deep sigh. Above them, the wood of the church's roof truss cracked, as it shrunk under the heat of a new, warmer April day. “I forgot what it feels like, you know? To command this group. The pack.”

He couldn't even remember how many years had passed and how exactly it had happened. There had been beer involved, and a hot bath, and cold steel pressed to his neck. “You hate the lords of this land, don't you?” Hynek had snarled. “And you want money, even better when it's their money, am I right? Well, I have an offer for you.”And then he had introduced him to his pack, some of them, that was, while they had recruited the rest over the following year. Freeing them from prison, or being thrown into the same battle by fate, sometimes as allies, sometimes as foes. The requirement for joining the group was simple. They had to be bastards, lusting for money and willing to kick some nobility's arses. And that had worked well for a while, but times had changed, and they had grown older, and at some point money and a certain thirst for violence had stopped being the only two things that mattered.

Žižka drunk from the wine again, and was surprised to find the cup empty already. The wood cracked, the swallows chirped. It was warmer today. “Perhaps I even forgot what all of this entailed for me. What they needed from me. Perhaps that is just why Janosh and Kubyenka aren't with us right now.”

“Perhaps.” Godwin shrugged his shoulders in the same non­chalant way he always had about him. “But pondering on that won't bring them back.”

“You're right, it won't. That's what I like about you, God­win.” Žižka rubbed dust out of his right eye as he returned to the table to pour himself another cup. The other one had no feeling left in it, the sight had been gone long before, after one misfortune too many. What did it matter? One eye was plenty, and he still had his ears to hear, his brains to think, and his heart, yes, his strength of will and bravery and resistance, and maybe that was all he needed. “You are straightforward. You focus on your target, not on courtesies and forced kindness.”

Godwin laughed cynically. “Well, I'm not sure whether that's always a good thing.”

“You are a soldier. And that's what I'm in dire need of right now. A soldier, not a friend.”

“I cannot promise you to be one without the other, Jan.” The priest smiled again, that damned soft smile of his, that always felt like it was mocking all the suffering of the world, as it made it everything appear so easy. “But that doesn't mean you cannot count on me. And if it's only a kick in the arse you need, well, I can provide that both as a soldier and as a friend.”

Žižka nodded. Then he sank down on the chair where Ka­therine had sat before, and it gave him courage, feeling both close to her and to Godwin alike. “I fucked up.”

“You did.”

“We lost two of our men, and it might have been my fault.”

“It might.”

He emptied the whole cup without putting it down. Good wine, sweet but strong, and it tingled in his fingers and his thighs and made his thoughts run faster. Just what he needed now. “The man I myself brought here to give us the informa­tion we needed seems to have stabbed us in the back, which not only ruined our plan, but might also soon put the whole church and the Prague militia on our arses.”

“Very likely, yes.”

“We also don't yet know why we were betrayed.” Žižka watched as Godwin came over to him to empty the rest of the tankard into his own cup, but he remained standing. Looked down on him with those warm, impartial eyes, waiting, antici­pating. “Given that Schwarzfeld volunteered his help to me on his own, he was either played himself, or he already came here with the intention to obstruct our plans. In either way, I doubt he acted alone. No, he was sent by someone way more power­ful. And I already have a hunch who that could have been.” The biggest bastard of them all, Žižka thought bitterly. The one who brought the League of Lords together, who helped im­prison the King and crown the usurper, who had used his power to pressure commoners and lower nobility alike all around Trotznow. And Žižka had got him back good for a while. Infil­trating his gold mines in Humpolec, and then Rosenberg's very own estate in Krumlov, serving him under a different name, pouring the fucker his wine without him ever noticing. Hein­rich of Rosenberg had long stopped caring about Sigismund and Wenceslas. No, this had become personal. “But that's only speculation, and we can't go to war over baseless accusations. Perhaps Hans and Samuel will find out more.”

“Oh, I'm sure of that.”

“It's also a good thing Kobyla, Waldstein and Lamberg will be informed, so they can take precautions for similar ruses be­ing planned against them.” Radzig and Jan had after all been dealing with Rosenberg themselves over the past year, but he was tough, that sly cur. “But this is not only about us. Hus has just been prohibited from his sermons for heresy, and I might have just made the whole situation much worse for him. So we have to head out for Prague to let him know directly, only that I don't know yet how to best arrange that.”

“I think I may be able to help out with that.”

He raised his right eyebrow, looked up at the priest. There was a strained grin around Godwin's lips that was both intri­guing and concerning. “You do?”

“I may have made it sound a little easier than it actually is,” Godwin stammered, the words broken by an occasional ner­vous chuckle. “But we do share a certain group of friends, and I know the church he still goes to to preach, despite the archbi­shop's edict, and well, I also know the place where he's tea­ching. In fact,” a sip of wine, another chuckle, squinting his warm eyes, “I live there.”

“Where?”

“At the Prague university.”

“You do? Ha, Godwin, a man of a thousand talents, you've become a scholar now!”

“Oh, far from it.” He waved his cup around as if in defence, and a few drops of the good wine spilled over. “At least not as long as Hus is rector there, and we can only pray that he stays such for a while longer. But I am willing to learn, and I like to engage myself in theological discussion from time to time.”

“So what's stopping you then?”

“Well. Hus is. And my,” he cleared his throat, “lifestyle.” It was clear that he had no intention to elaborate on it further, but Žižka didn't know what to make of his insinuations either, and after a short pause he finally added: “Let's just say, a man like Hus who is holding values like decency and austerity in high esteem is not all that keen on a man who was kicked out of his own parish for drinking and whoring around. And,” he scratched his neck in embarrassment, “I may even have told Hus about it myself. Over a drink too many. So we're not on the very best terms.”

Žižka wanted to laugh, but he held it back, as not to humi­liate Godwin any further. “I see.”

“But, as I said, I happen to share friends with him. So if you want me to, I could try convincing them to arrange a meeting or at least deliver our message.”

“That may fully ruin your reputation with Hus.”

“Oh, I doubt that surrounding myself with mercenaries and robbers will come in any way as a surprise to him.”

Now he couldn't hold back the laughter any longer. To his relief, Godwin didn't seem to mind, the tightness even vanished from his expression and made room for a genuine smile. “Damn it, Godwin, you really have made a horrible first im­pression on that man, hm?”

“Perhaps one of the only things I'm truly good at.”

There was a mischievous glint in his eyes, and suddenly Žižka thought he could feel a hand twist his left arm back, and a blade pressed to his throat, and the rush of danger and excite­ment pumping through his veins. “Well, you certainly made an impression on me, and I can't claim it was a bad one.”

“A knife on your throat doesn't make a bad impression on you?”

“Quite the contrary. It was everything I needed to convince me of your qualities.”

There was certain fondness on Godwin's face now, and Žiž­ka wondered whether he was still thinking back to their first meeting at Nebakov or to other moments they had shared. God­win kept it a secret. When he stepped forward to put the empty cup on the table and place a hand on Žižka's shoulder, he was all soldier again, and even more so, a friend. It was probably for the best. “Well. Off to Prague then?”

“We will wait for what Hans and Samuel can find out from Schwarzfeld. Then we'll pack and saddle our horses. I wouldn't like to stay under the same roof with a bloody traitor much lon­ger anyway.” He stood up, and his legs felt steady despite the wine, filled with new courage, new hope. “Time for a reloca­tion.”

* * *

“Sam. Sam, wait!” Hans quickened his steps to catch up with Samuel, who was storming ahead like an angry bull let loose. He reached out a hand, to hold him back by his right arm, and when Sam twirled around, his face was twisted both in anger and pain. Fuck. Hans knew that he had some bruises and cuts on his hands and face too, and when he had scratched his beard before, he had felt dried blood clumping the hair together as if he had spilled his last drink all over himself. Whatever he must look like, though, could not have been worse than this. Shit, even Sam's hand up to the root of his fingers was darkened and swollen. No wonder he was bursting with fury. “Just steady down a little, yes?”

“What?”

“We want to talk to him first. I doubt he will tell us all that much if we just beat him up.”

“Torture makes every man sing in the end.”

Hans closed his eyes for the briefest moment and took a deep breath. So, here we go again. God, give me strength to deal with this fool! “Yes, but it can also lead to them not telling you what you actually need, but only what they think you want to hear. Besides, I'd be happy if we could do this without any torturing.”

“You want to show him mercy?” Sam took a step closer to him now, so close that Hans could smell him again. Not so cal­ming now. The leather, incense and hot iron were only barely recognisable, overshadowed by sweat and blood and dirt. “Do you think he would show any mercy to us?”

“That doesn't mean we need to sink to the same level.”

“We could never sink so low.” His voice was all rough and growling, his eyes had taken the colour of grass overgrown by frost. “They act only out of greed and maliciousness.”

“Who is they? This isn't only about Schwarzfeld anymore, is it?”

“Of course it isn't! This is about something way bigger than him that you just won't understand!” He was screaming now, and Hans looked down the stairs of the tower, hoping Schwarz­feld couldn't hear them from his quarters in the adjacent com­munity hall. “And this is about me being fed up with always getting betrayed!”

“But this time, it has nothing to do with you or your people. This is about Jan Hus, and Žižka maybe, and who knows what­ever …”

“It is always the same, don't you see that? You tell me your story, and you do not understand it yourself!” The words hurt more than they should have, felt similar to the betrayal. He hadn't told Sam these secrets of his past, things he hadn't even told Henry before, only to have them used against him. “It does not matter to them whether it is people with a different faith, or a different political ideal, or a different way to love. To them we are all just vermin. Disposable tools used in their feuds. Even a lord like you.”

“Fine, fine, I get it! This is all a big chess game to the people in charge, and we are all just pieces on the board, even Žižka.” He would not be treated like a naïve child any longer, he was a ruler now, a proper lord, a fucking father! And when he now forced himself to keep his voice down and talk reassuringly to Sam, it almost felt as if he was instead talking to Heinrich or Hedwig. “But that is just the thing, you see, Schwarzfeld is ve­ry likely just another piece on this chess board himself, the same as Janosh and Kubyenka may have been. So if we truly want to find out who plays this game, we need to talk to him. Without violence.”

“I am done talking! My zeyde only talked when they hunted us down and expelled us from Prague. Your lords only talked when they blamed Liechtenstein and us for every bad deed that was ever committed in this country and hunted us down again and expelled us from Kuttenberg. Just as we had been doing nothing but talk a few years before, when they accused us of conspiring against Sigismund's uprising, when Hannah …” He pressed his lips together as if he had to physically stop more words from spilling out of him. The things he had said must have already been painful enough.

Hans nodded. “Yes, but back then you tried to cease the tal­king and take action instead, and it's not like that worked out.” He saw Sam's eyes widen in shock, as he realised that Hans had listened. It wasn't like he had tried to deceive Sam in any way, sleep had overcome him last night and rendered him un­able to speak, and Sam's talking had served as his lullaby that Hans had slowly drowned in until the very last bitter drop. “Look, I understand that you feel angry. I do too. We were supposed to die out there. Well, you were.” He could see that Sam opened his mouth to say something, but Hans interrupted him with a shake of his head. “You don't have to thank me for it. Would things have got any more dire, I'm sure I could have just talked myself out of it by showing them my ring.” It was a lie of course, there had been four of them surrounding him in the end, they would have never given him enough time to throw his fucking family crest in their face, given they could even recognise it, let alone see it in that darkness of the forest. “But it's not only about me. Henry was down there too, ex­posed. This could have ended up a lot worse.” There were tears burning in his eyes all of a sudden, and he swallowed down the fear that had crept into his throat. A long, rough night lay behind them, Sam wasn't the only one in need of some good sleep anymore. “Henry swore to protect me once, and I did the same. I know he hated the last seven years when he was stuck at the Leipa court, but at least it was safe there, for the most part. It kept him out of shit like this.”

“I doubt that he hated it or felt stuck there.” Even Sam's voice sounded rougher now than it usually did, and something in his eyes had become softer, warmer. The frost melted, lea­ving behind fresh and vibrant grass, swaying soothingly in the breeze. “At least things moved on for you. He has found his place …”

“Believe me, he hasn't.”

“He has found you.”

But is that enough? Hans thought, not daring to say the words out loud.

“I tried to build something for my people in Kolín, but in the end …” Sam shook his head. Not angry anymore, only tired. “Prague, Kuttenberg, Kolín, it's all the same. I did not only join this mission to do Henry a favour. I have heard of Jan Hus too. We do not share the same faith, but his opposition against cleri­cal and worldly rulers and against them justifying their rule by some allegedly God-given laws, I can agree with that. I had hope that this here could change something for once. But it's like you said, we are all just chess pieces. And it makes me feel helpless, and I don't want to …” He struggled for a little while, finding the right words, before he gave up.

Hans nodded. Reached out a hand and put it on Sams's arm, the left one, and as lightly as he could. “Fair. Totally fair. And that is exactly why we need to handle this with reason.”

Sam returned the nod, then they smiled softly at each other. They were both scared, they had both suffered, had both been betrayed, but if they handled this together and with a cool head, they might still get some revenge, or some answers, or at the very least some fucking rest.

They went down the last few flights of stairs a little faster, then took the door at its end that led them right into the com­munity hall, where Father Čeněk had offered them a few rooms to stay in, with the first one on the left being assigned to Schwarzfeld. They were both surprised to find Čeněk in the noble's room as they entered, and from the looks of it, both men weren't any less startled by their sudden appearance. They didn't get to ask any questions about it, as the priest just straightened his back and left with a short bow and a mumbled “My lords.” He just called all of them lord, just as he called Katherine lady. He was too old, he said, to remember which one of them held a title, and which one of those titles were also acknowledged by the King.

Sir Robert Schwarzfeld was sitting at his table, with a book and a piece of parchment in front of him. He had his sparse auburn hair covered by a cap of dark blue velvet, adorned with a peacock feather, as if he wanted to make an impression. On whom though, remained the question. Žižka had forbidden him to leave the church for at least three days now.

Schwarzfeld took in the sight of Hans and Sam for a little while, letting his eyes wander down their bloodied and bruised faces, resting on Sam's wrist a little longer, before he finally had the decency to open his mouth in shock. “Did they fight you?”

“Whom?” Hans stepped forward until he was standing right next to the writing desk. The room had no windows, the only sources of light were a candle on the table and the fireplace at the back wall, and both painted long, dancing shadows on Schwarzfeld's lean face. “You mean the four men that you pro­mised us? Oh, do not worry, Sir, there were just three of them, and one of them even ran for the hills right away. Just after that priest was shot. And not by our men.” He waited a while, examining the way in which Schwarzfeld's expression slowly changed. He was a bad actor and a worse liar, so horrible, how­ever, that it served as the perfect cover for whatever he truly thought or felt. “You set this up. You lured us into a trap.”

Schwarzfeld shook his head so vehemently that the peacock feather almost bent down all the way to his long, hooked nose. “I did not know this would happen.”

“Du falsher khazer,” Sam hissed behind him.

Hans raised a hand, demanding him to keep quiet, without taking his eyes off Schwarzfeld. “You know what, Sir? I actu­ally believe you. Because I consider you way too unimportant to be assigned a task like this. And not nearly clever enough to execute it all on your own either. But still, these men, a dozen or so of them,” Hans crouched down next to Schwarzfeld with a crooked, dangerous smile, “they knew us well. They weren't only informed about where all of this would take place. They also knew who we were. In fact, they knew more than we ever let you in on.”

“See?” Schwarzfeld's face brightened up so much that it seemed someone must have set it on fire. “It could not have been me then, could it?”

“Oh, it could. It's just that someone else must have informed you. Someone who knew more than you and brought you all this knowledge. So that you could use your money and influ­ence to gather a few more men and have them stab us in the back.”

“What, you think there is some ominous man behind me who would know all of this?”

“I think there is one, yes, but he doesn't care about the de­tails. He just pays you and gives you the ideas that you could never come up with on your own.” He tried to hurt Schwarz­feld's pride as much as he could, but it was hard to tell whether it worked. The lord's face changed its mood and colour so vi­gorously with every next sentence Hans spoke, it could have meant anything. Time to catch him by surprise then. “But Ku­byenka and Janosh knew. And since they aren't here with us right now …”

Schwarzfeld let out a laughter that could have carried any­thing from an injured pride to disbelief. “And yet you are ac­cusing me!”

“Yes, I am accusing you. Don't you want to ask me who Ku­byenka and Janosh are?”

Schwarzfeld's face changed his colour once more, he got paler around his long nose, Hans could tell even in the candle­light, and this time he knew very well what it meant. Nervous­ness. “Well, two of your men much likely.”

“Oh, clever. But you did not seem surprised in the slightest when I mentioned their names.”

“It …” He stumbled over his own words, and not deliberate­ly now. “It was evident from what you said.”

Behind him, Sam pressed out air between his teeth. “This doesn't lead anywhere.”

“You're right.” Hans nodded, then he stood up and took a few steps back, still keeping his gaze fixed on Schwarzfeld as if it was a nail that Hans had driven into his lying body. “It doesn't. We should change our tactics, I suppose.” He gave a nod in Sam's direction. “You may. If you still have some anger to let loose.”

“Oh, lots of it.” Sam didn't waste any time. In just the blink of an eye, he had rushed forward, hitting Schwarzfeld in the face with the back of his left hand. The man started to whimper and beg immediately. “Did they come and visit you in private? Did you speak with our friends?”

“I … Please, I … I don't know what you're talking about!”

Sam hit him again, just on the same spot, and a little harder now. Hans flinched from the sight of it. “Kubyenka and Janosh. The two men you just all so eagerly remembered. Did you meet with them?”

“I …”

This time, Sam didn't even give him any time to stammer out more lies. He just grabbed the lord by the neck and slammed his forehead down on the table. The blue cap flew off, knocked over an inkwell, black liquid turned the peacock fea­ther into that of a crow.

“I did!” Schwarzfeld pressed out, the words muffled and dis­torted with his nose pressed against the wood of the table. “They came to me! They said they didn't trust … didn't trust in Žižka anymore, and asked me if I could … could help them, and … I didn't know they planned an ambush like this, I just thought they might want to leave your group!”

Sam bowed down to him now, bringing his face so close to the other man's ear, Hans was certain Schwarzfeld could hear even the snarl in his breath. “Stop lying! Even if they wanted to leave us, they would just do so, instead of organising a dozen men to kill us. They wouldn't have dared to, nor would they have had the means to.”

“No, you're right, you're right, they wouldn't! But I'm sure they didn't have to. It was Egghead, yes, it must have been Egghead!”

Who? Hans wanted to ask, but he kept quiet for now, left the questioning to Sam, and he didn't have to wait long anyway.

“Who the fuck is Egghead?”

“The kind of man that you seek out when you need help with all kinds of fiddle that you cannot tell anyone else about. He will always help you, but only as long as you pay him better than someone else would.” Schwarzfeld tried to twist out of Sam's grip, but it only tightened more around his neck, as if all the strength that had left his right hand had flown into his left one instead. “I referred your friends to him! I told them I would want nothing to do with it, but that he could help them. Maybe they didn't even plan all of this either. They just wanted to get out. But I suppose they told him a thing too many, and he must have used that. Maybe he was already paid by someone else, I don't know, you got to believe me!”

“And where can we find this Egghead?”

“In Prague!” Schwarzfeld shouted out the word as if his life depended on it, despite Sam neither changing the position of his hand nor hitting him again. Sam could be frightening, Hans thought, but Schwarzfeld seemed to be scared to death. “I don't know where he lives, but there is this establishment that he fre­quents, Nový Venátky, a brothel, in the new part of the town, close to Charles Bridge. You just turn right once you cross the Vltava, not left, that's the way into the Jewish quarter, and you do not want to …” This time, Sam did take action, raising Schwarzfeld's head slightly by the neck and bringing it back down with force. The man groaned. Only out of pain, and not nearly as terrified as he had been before. “Ah no, no, I didn't mean it like that, I …”

“Stop babbling and get to the point!”

“Yes yes, Egghead, in Nový Venátky, you will find him there, I promise you! You cannot even miss him, he is bald, and his head just looks like an egg, and … Please, that's all I know, I swear, you must believe me, please …”

Hans stepped forward and put a hand on Sam's shoulder, but Sam wasn't his brother, and it took a while for him to respond. Then he finally let Schwarzfeld go with another unsatisfied snarl, and the lord slowly lifted himself up, twisting his head to all sides to ease the pain in his neck. “We do, Sir. We do believe you that this secret meeting with our friends was the only time you betrayed us.” Hans tried to put as much empha­sis into these words as he could, to let Schwarzfeld know that his cooperation changed nothing. “And we're willing to take your honesty into account when we bring word to Žižka now.”

“Thank you.” Schwarzfeld's eyes were as big as plates again, and once more his exaggerated expressions obscured any true thought or feeling he may hold. “Thank you!”

Hans tugged on Sam's shoulder again. “Leave him be and let us go.”

Sam only spoke when they were back on the stairs of the church tower. “I hate it when you order me around like a dog.”

“But it worked, didn't it? You played your role well, we both did, and we didn't even have to rehearse anything.”

Instead of walking up the stairs again, Sam made his way out onto the gallery, and Hans followed him. Watched him lean down onto the parapet, looking down to the altar. Tinted blue light fell on his face through the church windows, making him seem more exhausted than ever. “I am not so sure we actually succeeded.”

“You don't believe him?”

“Not a single word.”

“Good.” Hans stopped next to him and lowered his eyes to the sanctuary. Father Čeněk had lit some candles to its side, their smoke crept up like snakes to the flat ceiling, above which Žižka and the others were hiding. “Because neither do I.”

“He gave in way too quickly, and his words kept running like water from a well. I did not even hit him all that hard.” Sam looked down on his hand, opened and closed his fingers, light flashing on the gemstones of the rings. A sapphire, an amethyst, a pale emerald in the colour of his eyes. “I've ex­perienced much worse without saying a single word.”

The words echoed heavily through the emptiness of the buil­ding. Hans wanted to ask, but he didn't dare to. Brabant, he thought, and it made his skin crawl. He had been the one who had introduced that Frenchman into their group. He had been the one to tell the others how useful the baron would prove. Then Brabant had killed Adder for some bloody silver. Had tortured Sam to a point where it had taken him weeks to reco­ver. Betrayed. Over and over and over again. “I …” He took a deep breath, blew the air out towards the roof, following the snakes of the candle smoke. “I am lucky enough to never have experienced torture myself. But I know what it can be like and what it does to you. From Henry.”

The amethyst flickered as Sam clenched the hand into a tight fist. He did not look up, didn't say a word, but Hans could see that this was an information he hadn't expected to hear.

“It was a long time ago. Shortly before we met you, in fact, back then at Trosky.”

“Von Bergow?”

“Yes. Or rather Istvan Toth on behalf of von Bergow.”

“Hm.” Sam furrowed his brow. Hans couldn't tell whether it were only clouds outside the window or something else entire­ly that painted his expression a few shades darker. “He never told me.”

“He wouldn't have told me either. But unlike you, I share a bed with him. Naked.” Hans tried to make it sound cheerful, failed miserably and relinquished the plan. “There are certain things you can hardly hide in such an intimate situation. Like the injuries that a knife leaves on your flesh. Or tongs, or a hammer.”

Sam pressed his fingers so tightly together now, that his knuckles turned white as snow. His right hand didn't even twitch. “I cannot believe that mamzer is still alive, while so many good people have died.”

“I know how you feel.” Oh, how well he did! He hadn't asked Henry about it on their first night together, and not on their second or third one either, even though back then the scars had still been fresh. He had waited until they had finally re­turned to Rattay. In part because he hadn't dared to ruin the excitement and joy of their first shared love with such painful thoughts. But he had also been scared of the answer he would get. That Henry would say Otto von Bergow's name, the man whose life Hans had defended with his honour. “But he's a nobleman. It's not worth getting yourself killed for. And since he fled the country, allowing me to never see his face again, he might as well be dead to me. So, as a wise man once said,” he gave Sam a smile, and didn't fail this time, even though it was all coated with sadness, “we should leave the dead behind and rather take care of the living.”

Sam nodded. The fist loosened a bit. “He really was wise. I wish we could have understood more of his wisdom.”

Hans had to chuckle at the thought. “Well, I'm not sure if much of his wisdom actually exceeded the lusting for female bodies.”

“And souls. Do not forget their souls. Adder could be quite romantic sometimes.”

They shared the laugh, and it was a welcome feeling, eased the anger and the fear and all the frustration of the previous hours. It brought back the exhaustion too. Jesus Christ, what Hans hadn't given for a soft bed and a good sleep now! “Come on.” He gave Sam's arm a pat, before he straightened himself to leave for the staircase. “We need to tell Žižka what we found out. And then we may need to pay beautiful Prague a visit. Schwarzfeld might have spoken nothing but lies, but I doubt he made this Egghead fella up. Maybe he can be someone to find out more from.”

They didn't have to search long for Žižka. They didn't even have to walk up the stairs, in fact. It was Žižka who came ru­shing down to them, closely followed by Godwin who had a pained smile on his lips, and Katherine who just shook her head silently at Hans and Sam as soon as she noticed them.

Žižka didn't care. He just laughed, put his hands to Hans's shoulders, and gave him a few strong slaps that almost tossed him over. “You're back, boys. Fantastic! Tell us what you found out on the way. We will leave for Prague!”

* * *

The place reeked of death from a few hundred feet away. It was a miracle nobody seemed to have taken note of it yet.

Perhaps it was still too early for anyone to come by. The sun had only just heaved its body over the horizon, birds of the night still shared their song with the birds of the morning, and both promised that there would be a wonderful day ahead.

There was no trace of that wonderful day out here in the gorge. On the first glance, it was only a carriage, stopped in the middle of the road, and some strange and twisted figures both on top of the carriage and in front of it. For any wanderer who wasn't familiar with death, it would take a while to understand that the horribly pale sack of rags hanging from the coachman's seat was actually a priest drained off all his blood. Then they would realise that the two other bundles on the ground where in fact the lifeless bodies of young men, sliced open neatly by swift strokes of a sword. And only then would they lift their gaze to the right and see the rest of the carnage. The corpses scattered across the slope of the hill, staining the grass the co­lour of copper.

Kubyenka and Janosh were more than familiar with death. They noticed the smell and they recognised the twisted shapes of a men who had died in agony. And yet, even Kubyenka had to swallow down his disgust at the sight of it.

“This is bloodbath,” Janosh breathed out behind him. “Look just like …”

“If you say anything about any kind of mashed food now, I swear, I'm going to forget myself.”

“What you think Janosh for? Heartless ox?”

Kubyenka ignored the remark and got closer to the carriage. Judging by the colour of their skin and the stiffness of their bodies, they were clearly lying here for a few hours. So this had happened just when their little fraud should have taken place. And things went horribly wrong. “Well, we left worse things behind.” They could only pray that it had been the pack who was responsible for this slaughter, instead of being on the receiving end.

Kubyenka kicked over some splinters covering the ground next to the carriage with the toe of his boot. “That must be this spark of God or whatever shit Žižka called it.”

Janosh stepped past him and made the sign of the cross, before he reached out to turn the priest around carefully. Blood was covering his whole neck like some pretty fur collar, a bolt had hit him right into the windpipe. “You think Hans miss?”

“Hans never misses. He's a better shot than me, even a better shot than the Devil was.”

“So someone else come and kill priest down?”

“Not only someone. You don't get ambushed by two diffe­rent groups at the same time and place by mere accident.” He kicked the glass again, this time with more force, causing it to fly up high into the air and into the bushes on the side of the road. “Fuck!” They should have been here when this had hap­pened. Would it have changed a thing? Who knew, with so many bodies lying around, armed men all of them, from what Kubyenka could tell. But at least they would have gone through this together. As the pack that they were!

“If only bald guy not hold us back.”

“Aye. That bald guy.” He made his way to the slope that the bodies covered like cobblestone covered a pathway. It had all gone according to plan so perfectly. They had come to Uzhitz early in the morning, had waited there for the priest to arrive, Janosh had even rejected some local woman for their cause. Around noon, the priest had showed up and settled in the inn for a few hours. They had watched the priest and his men care­fully from a distance, just as Žižka had wanted them to. And then this bald guy had approached them. Had offered Kubyen­ka a game of dice and some beer, and fuck, he should have declined, but wouldn't that have only drawn attention to them? So he had agreed, played, won, and the bald guy had left for another round of beer, and he had handed it out both to Ku­byenka and to Janosh. It had knocked them out as good as the kick of a horse. When Janosh had finally woken him with a slap to the face, the priest and his men were gone, and night had long fallen over the land.

Kubyenka kneeled down to take a closer look at another dead body. Only few pieces of armour, but a good sword in his hand. Had died of stab wounds, right into the thigh. Kubyenka grunted in frustration. “This doesn't make any sense. I get that all of this must have been a trap from the start, and that this bald guy played a role in it too. But for what reason? Sure, they killed the priest that was supposed to carry the tidings of joy to Prague for us, but is that all? And so much effort.” He looked up, counted the bodies. Four here on the slope, but there were more up there on the top of the hill he couldn't see from his po­sition. “All these people … And where the fuck are our men?”

A rustling above, and the breaking of rotten wood. Kubyen­ka shot up to his feet. There was movement up there. At first he believed it must be one of the bodies that wasn't as dead as he had believed him to be, but then he saw that it was another man instead, hunched over the corpse like a feral dog. Pressing his own chest close to the dead one, as if he wanted to embrace it. No. He was hiding. Playing dead.

The man let out the panicked scream of a child as Kubyenka grabbed him by the collar and lifted him off the corpse, only to throw him right back into the grass next to it. Before the man could even react, Kubyenka had drawn his knife, holding the blade to the other one's throat. He was a child, Kubyenka could see that now. A boy still gifted with the soft features of a girl, without a single hair on his chin. His youth hadn't stopped him from rummaging through the belongings of a dead man, though.

“What the hell happened here?”

The boy whined again, and tried to raise both his hands to show that he was unarmed, but from the way Kubyenka held him down, it remained a pathetic attempt. “Let go off me, and I will tell you everything you want to know!”

That little shit thought he could negotiate. In his position! Kubyenka let the blade dance across the boy's jaw, up to his ear, and watched him quiver with a proud smile. “How about I cut your ear off, and then you tell me everything I want to know while you beg me for mercy that I don't cut your other ear off as well?”

“Alright, alright! Please, do not harm me!” A little shit, yes, but a coward too. Perfect. This should be easy then. “My name is Štěpán of Tetín.”

“Oh, how good for you, but I did not ask you for your fu­cking name, sonny, I asked what happened here.”

“Well, I don't know either! I just arrived.” He nodded clum­sily into the direction above his head, and when Kubyenka raised his eyes, he saw a grey, feeble horse with crooked legs gawking at him from the bushes.

Kubyenka used some more force on the knife, and the blade cut into the boy's flesh, drawing a single drop of blood from his white skin and a loud cry from his mouth. There were even tears in his eyes. Kubyenka paid it no attention. “Don't fuck with me, boy. When we came here, you were already digging through the corpses like a vulture.”

The boy lifted his head and peered down the hill, only now noticing Janosh, it seemed, who was still at the carriage loo­king for explanations he wouldn't find. When the boy stared back up to Kubyenka, his wet, walnut eyes had widened and his face had brightened up as if there wasn't still a man with a knife pushing him into the ground. “You … You are Kubyenka, aren't you?”

Damn him. He sounded just as excited as if he had just met the hero from one of the old wives' tales his nurse had sung him. “How do you know my name? Who told you?”

“A man named Lukas. He was one of the mercenaries who came with the priest. He said he had a long talk with you and the Hungarian in a tavern in Uzhitz.”

Kubyenka furrowed his brow in confusion. “Is he bald?”

“No?” A question, not an answer, but Kubyenka would take what he could get.

“Then we never talked to him.”

“But you are Kubyenka, aren't you?”

He whistled in annoyance through his teeth and turned the knife a little as a warning. “This is getting ridiculous.”

“No, listen. He knew your name! Kubyenka and the Hunga­rian, that's what he said!”

“Janosh,” Janosh proclaimed behind him. Apparently he, too, had realised that the carriage wouldn't hold anything of value for them, and had joined them on the hill instead.

The boy shrugged his shoulders, or tried to at least. “Well, he didn't seem to know your name.”

“Hm.”

“But he claimed that the priest talked to you in this tavern. And that you were the ones who convinced him of going by night.”

“No,” Kubyenka shook his head, “Schwarzfeld told him. We spoke to the priest just as little as we spoke to any of the mer­cenaries he had hired.”

The boy bit his bottom lip as he pondered. “No, Lukas didn't mention anyone by the name Schwarzfeld.”

“Interesting.” And it truly was interesting, became more in­teresting by the minute, but it also made his headache grow with every new piece of information, as if he hadn't been vexed by that enough ever since drinking that fucking beer the bald guy had brought them. “Did he talk about our men at least? Four men, two of them were dressed up as priests.”

“Yes, he talked about those priests! He said that they stopped them here in the middle of the road, and spoke of Hus and his preachings. And then they got ambushed. The priest was shot from up here, apparently, and his mercenaries got attacked by all these men.”

“But not our men. I don't know any of these people.”

“And we not here to kill anyone,” Janosh added. “Only wan­ted talk to priest.”

“It was a trick,” Kubyenka explained, wondering why he even bothered, but somehow he had taken a strange liking to this boy. “A magic trick, or at least that's what Žižka called it.”

“Žižka?” The boys eyes widened again. “Jan Žižka?”

“What is he to you?”

“Nothing. I mean, he's quite famous around these lands of course, but that's not it. I just got curious because Petr of Haug­witz mentioned him. A lot, in fact.”

“Who?”

“A knight that came to my guardian Sir Ondřej Duba of Zle­nice a few months ago.” He stopped himself, thought for a while, then nodded as if he had just answered some question no one had even asked. “I think he knows you too.”

“Who does? This Haugwitz fella? I don't know anyone of that name.”

“No.” The boy laughed. “Neither do I.” Then he raised his hands all of a sudden and grabbed Kubyenka's arms, not to push him away, but to hold him, as his eyes widened again in excitement. The fear from before had vanished fully. “Listen, you need to come with me to Zlenice right now. We need to convince Sir Ondřej that this here had nothing to do with you or with Jan Hus and his followers. Because if we don't get there in time, he will send a letter to Prague, telling the archbishop that you were responsible for this massacre!”

“We're no followers of Hus, boy.”

“Even more of a reason to come with me then! Help me sort this out! For us and for yourself. Perhaps we can even find your friends this way.”

Kubyenka looked back to Janosh, who only shrugged his shoulders. Might as well give it a try.

“Fine.” He lifted the knife off the boy's throat by dragging it slowly across his skin as a warning. “I think I might like you enough to trust you. But if we find out that you're only playing us here, I'm gonna forget that liking very, very quickly. And then I'm gonna cut off more than just your ears.”

“I understand.” He swallowed nervously and still had the guts to beam like the star of Bethlehem.

Kubyenka shook his head in disbelief, before he finally got up, offering a hand to the boy to help him get to his feet as well. Then he glanced over at the old mare that grazed peace­fully just a few steps away from them, as if the whole ground that surrounded her wasn't covered in stinking blood and rot­ting flesh. “Now I just hope that this Zlenice of yours isn't too far away. Because Janosh and me didn't bring any horses with us. And I doubt this nag of yours will be able to carry all three of us.” And if it is far, he added silently, then I will be the one to ride. Let Janosh and the boy run! He for one was getting far too old for this shit.

[dinthehottotty]

Untitled Drabble 1 (D.D.)

A/N: It's been like 3 years since I really wrote and I'm trying to get back into. So enjoy one of my 54 drafts I never published.

Warnings: Force Sensitive Reader x Din Djarin, unedited, angst, light smut, the helmet stays on. Breeding kink.

Din struck you from the moment you met him all those years ago. Back when you were both too young and too stupid. When Zi'an and his disgusting scoreboard of kills was the most of his problems and yours trying to figure out if you were actually hearing other people's thoughts or if you were crazy. A freshly enlisted New Republic Private that was too meek to be the hero and Galaxie's Baddest Boy with a chip on his not-droid shoulder. The peachfuzz on his lip starting to darken when you started getting called pretty.

A popular senator's daughter tired of cracking under the five-star resturant's happy glows despite suffering families that wander on the ground down below. When Mommy had used her codependency on you because she had no real friends. When she'd hold you in bed, stroked your hair and whisper in your ear that she wished that she could be there more to watch you grow. Then a narcissistic bug would bite her when you finally 'fell asleep' in her arms as she rectified herself with changing the world for you.

But kids don't understand that. Kids just want their moms to love them and protect them. They want the gooey support of kisses and awkward dance recitals. In your 'cute' years - the years ranging from baby face to strapped in a new flightsuit - you'd dream about those whispers like she cradled you in jailing arms and laughed until her head fell off. It would roll around, eyes rolling back as her smile twitches. You'd wake up and sob into coughing fits.

Because you realized something was wrong with you. The base was so loud the first formation you fainted despite the 'silence'. Voices shriek and sigh and crackled around. It was a lot to get used to. You were good with a vibroblade too. Quick enough and quiet enough to sneak up on an imp.

More realistically, your days were filled with reporting on nothing all day and drinking too much at the local bar because people's heads were fucked up. Because the empire was gone now you had to rebuild. Some people oozed with slimy thoughts. Violent little dreams delicately weaving innocent people into fucked up ghosts haunting folks. You were getting ballsy as you figured out you wanted to be ambitious and powerful like your mother. Because you'd simply decided you were going to live off spite.

And then you felt ice. The bite of electric claws running by your spine. Because he commanded attention. He was a void, eating everything up with his rage and pain. He was trained to kill and he had anger and resentment building. He was like jumping into space. A dazzle of burning suns drowning in the black waters of his beautifully dark mind. Because despite his rage he had this ridged respect of life. Sadness cooling him deeply.

You'd gone into the phase where you stopped wearing makeup and cut your hair short and now 'pretty girl' became 'boy'. And he didn't look at you right away. Being in a blaster battle in a bazaar with a local gang. They had a mandalorian. And you came out of it alive after chasing him down alley.

You could feel the burn of air getting knocked out you when he body slammed you into wall. When he tried to knee you in the balls you laughed and gave you the upper hand to take him down.

It didn't work though. He'd had infinitely more hand to hand combat experience and easily pinned you against the wall again. Then demanding you meet him back there tonight if you wanted inside information. Which you did.

And after the long week of planning out how you'd arrest Xian. It would give him guild rites and you could promote. Only he stuck around for a week longer because the ship he'd bought needed breif repairs in order to even get it off the ground.

He liked you. You could feel that, despite the ripple of his uncertain inner storms. And then you'd come back to your bunk to find him there, nervous and instead of his waves battering against you, it was calling for you, whirlpooling you in. You were drowning in the black ocean of his mind.

He needed to touch you. Attracted to your smile and free laughter. Drawn into your haunted expressions and shared sorrow. You drink it all up, sinking into the desperation clawing inside him. Something to fill him for a little while. Someone to comfort him and make him weightless.

So you stripped off your flight suit and he pulled off his gloves and touched. Everywhere. His raspy voice wrecked with his vocoder as he verbalized his desire to kiss you everywhere. Since he couldn't, he'd just touch. His hands were smooth from the gloves, hot and big. He touched you like he was sculpting his muse. Painting you in his mind, swirling in his midnight blue desolation. Painted in Din's mind like you were dawn warming him.

It was more romantic than it had any right being as his fingers kiss your labia, one thick digit curling inside the tight heat of your cunt. He was quick to explore it with you on your back, his other hand exploring your mouth in a similar fashion. You were left in a couple puddles, alone in your bunk, trembling. Your chin and thighs cooling with your drool, slickly leaking over your skin.

And you both grew up. Bumping into each other occasionally when he needed some information on a bounty and you were quick to name your price. Seeking comfort in the soft edges of flesh. He'd map your body with his hands or mouth - if you were blind from him - like it was religious. It made you shiver and quake under him. Everything, like he had to commit to replicating you.

Conversations not usually needed but would occasionally sink into these little secrets you hadn't told anyone else before. Like you mind abilities. He actually really liked after a while. Liked being able to truly express his feelings without words. He had a way of molding you like putty. The two guys before this dull and unexciting to the prayers his hands preformed on your body.

And then he'd gone off grid. Busy two years before emerging to you on some little speeder. But he'd had the kid now. And you much older. Much less cute. Definitely settled and nurturing. Which led to this.

"Fucking Maker!" You cry at the mattress when he slams you on it. Then your scrambling up the pillows with a squeal. Din's hot hands are tightening around you kicking ankles and jerking you effortlessly down your bed on your own ship. You were docked in Tatooine, happy to pay Peli rediculous prices for just a few hours of time alone.

"Running won't stop me." You're dragged until your feet could touch the floor. "I know you." He sighs against your neck. But you feel what he really means. What he's meant for a long time. I love you.

"Wouldn't run from a Mandalorian. That'd be stupid." You tease.. He pins you with his weight.

"What if he means to bred you?" He demands, leaning over you. You go straight dumb for a second. He lifts off you enough to let you roll over to gaze up at his helmet.

You can feel the spinning his words cause. "Really?" You ground yourself by latching into his open mind. The ever vast void of his mind sucking you in like a worm hole. It's a primal need that sinks into his belly. Something deep and brutal.

He holds you in this divine light of stardust. Like he was just a man who fell in love with all of the stars, never done climbing to reach and admire. He would snuff out every other light in the universe - anything polluting your space just to watch you shine.

"Yes. Can I put a baby in you?"

"Are you ready for that? To settle down and raise another kid?" His soul thrills and vibrates at 'another'. He gives a shaky breath as he buzzes with it. He fixates on it hard.

Many. He wants many children.

"Honey, your fixating on the wrong details," you hum, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him down on top of your body. He chuckles over you.

"I'll give you everything. No more bounties if that's what you want. Just us." That us carries double meaning. Not just the two or three of you. As many babies as you wanted with him. He would give it to you all of the time.

He was ready.

"Okay," you hum. "Let's have a baby." Din sighs in delight. Not so much relief but in satisfaction. Like you'd granted him a miracle.

The moment so tender with the heavy edges of his mind suffocating you that you don't expect him lifting off you and using a vibro blade to cut the front of your pants wide open. You gasp when he nearly yanks you upright by the front of them and simply slices through the front.

"Din!" You begin, "I liked those!"

[raethanbhanneth]

Pipe Smoke

It was the pipe smoke that roused her from a deep slumber. After the rush of soft hands and velvet lips, gentle gasps and shaking hips. After words said at least five years overdue, perhaps even longer. It was after the simple rustling of leaves had turned into a tempest of sweat and flame and arching release. It was the pipe smoke that roused her.

The night had been slow and sweet; reverent even. Holy. Both of them taking turns being cleric and goddess, intent on heavenly worship of the other. It was the type of delicate lovemaking she had gotten used to once upon a time, and not something she thought she’d ever feel again. Warmth and life crept back into her tired bones, stirring them to shiver and hum, stirring her chest to rise and fall, breaths coming in rapid successive gasps twice, no, thrice, in one night.

It had felt like home.

And maybe that’s why she said it, mumbled it under her still ragged breath whilst halfway dreaming. “Smoke in the study, Khalid.”

The smell of an old long leaf, a tobacco antique even to her, lingered, then lazily mellowed into nothingness. Her breathing settled back into an even rhythm when no new smoke flooded her dreams. Suddenly, she was being gently pulled by a strong, yet wiry arm. She twisted her body against warm, pink flesh, her cheek finding a new place to rest atop a soft, broad shoulder. The smell and feel was so similar and so, so safe. She curled into it, smiling. A soft sigh escaped her lips in response to a whispered comment she couldn’t quite hear.

— —

That experience was… different. Not at all what she was used to. Her line of work didn’t leave room for softness, kindness, gentle touches, or fluttering kisses in the aftermath of a storm. She was used to the feeling of her dark-haired kingpin’s sharp dagger trailing down her spine after a victorious coup, or a quick nightcap with a golden-haired lady after a stressful day of negotiations - her court wasn’t there just for fucking protection, after all.

And she was used to being in control.

Every order obeyed, every enemy quaking in fear of her vicious wrath, every kingpin and guild member falling neatly in line lest they meet an undesirable fate either at her own hand or upon her command. She wasn’t used to subservience. Or giving into temptation. Or whispering sweet lover’s words in the heat of passion - she wasn’t sure she was used to passion. But she was used to being the one calling the shots.

So when her - lover? Ally? Frenemy? Mumbled about smoking in the study, she scoffed. An eyebrow raised slowly at being called the name of a dead husband. Either she’d done a good job, or the old crone was finally losing her fucking mind. She scoffed, yet she found herself sitting down her tinderbox, letting the tobacco she had just lit die out, then working her fingers to empty out the bowl even though she was in her own fucking office.

She thought about a quip. A wry comment lay on the tip of her tongue and she opened her mouth to say it. Then she shut it. Instead of flinging a well crafted and very witty insult, she rose from her chair, shed the oversized tunic she had thrown on, and slid back into her bed. Her strong arm pulled the other woman on top of her, waking her just enough so she could twist to rest her head upon her new pillow’s broad shoulder.

“You’re lucky you’re only half a Harper, grandmother,” she whispered into a mess of gray hair.

The only response she received was in the form of a soft sigh.

[rosery-doll]

They came out of nowhere. Their heat signatures were so minor, AM73 assumed them to be generators or clusters of humans hiding. That was an assumption an experienced pilot might have avoided by blowing them up, but AM73 was baby fresh from training.

The rocket exploded over her mech’s optic suite, chaff billowing out and blinding the walking weapon. Wild firing at what she thought was the origin of the rocket while retreating was something anyone worth their plugsuit knew was a bad idea. It lead her to back right into the trip wire.

Empire training did not cover small group engagements, having cut out the two week course from their already tight pilot training, and as such AM73 found herself on her back. She yelled out, her mic picking up her panic, but the radio was not transmitting outside of the cockpit. 

One of her camera’s caught a glimpse of black and white before all of them shut down.

The whole cockpit went black, and AM73 heard pounding on the plating over her cockpit. They had managed to cut power, and AM73 found her breathing starting to stall. The oxygen in the cockpit would last five minutes, if one didn’t panic. The sound of scrapping and drilling, trapped inside what was now a very expensive coffin, was not calming.

AM73 attempted to remove herself from her command chair, but the Empire locked its pilots in. Hands clamped around control sticks, legs locked so only her feet could press down on petals, head and torso bound so she couldn’t even wiggle. Darkness and the only sound was that horrible scrapping would have induced panic in any seasoned pilot, so AM73 pissing herself and crying was the expected response for someone on their first sortie. 

Where were her squadmates? Why hadn’t Command warned her? She was going to be a hero of the Empire, her and the thousand cadets she had graduated with. 

A light appeared around the hatch, small at first but opening to reveal four figures standing above her.

Blinking, AM73 looked upon them with confusion. They carried weapons, three with rifles in their hands, the other holding the breaching drill, along with other kit on their backs and attached to their hips. The confusion was the outfits they all wore. Maid outfits, like those worn by Guild’s Dolls. But Dolls were nonviolent. They couldn’t kill, they would just accept whatever punishment inflicted upon them. AM73 remembered her 16th birthday, drunk on cheap vodka, beating one down to its component parts with her friends. These battle maids looked like that one.

Wait. AM73 blinked again, now more confused. Was she taken out by some useless fucking cleaning dolls?

“You have one chance to surrender.” One of them said. It had the soft accent of every Doll AM73 heard speak. “This one does not wish to kill you.”

AM73 laughed at the absurdity. This was a Doll. No one else spoke like that. “Haha, very funny, what is this, a prank for the newbie? Some kind of weird hazing ritual?”

The one with the breaching drill rolled its eyes. “These ones are with the Rebel retrieval teams, does this one need to explain what surrender means, Imperial lapdog?” While its voice was the same accent and neutrality of a doll, there was real scorn underlaying its words.

“Fuck off, Doll,” AM73 said. “Just get me out of here, and I’ll make sure they give you the job of polishing my boots.”

The world went dark before AM73 even heard the bullet fire.

[ohpollenpowder]

And last but not least, we have the handsomely buff Emrys! His might read a little bit different than the others layout wise. Apologies for that.

Emrys' Dream—Dragons aside—had a bunch of unfamiliar forms (no clear faces) as well as a dusty desert vastly unlike any core maps, littered with crystals. Knowing he had to be a strong pillar for all that was to come, Emyrs started to build his form; broad shoulders and imposing (for a Sylvari) height, strong enough to easily lift a dolyak three times his weight. All of this and learning the fighting forms of Guardians and Warriors, unable to choose between the two. But then he got to talking with Caithe as they stumbled into one another—her trying to talk a Dreamer out of a dangerous situation they found themselves in. And Emyrs offered the physical aid in the moments that she could not.

They would meet up constantly after that; Emrys being her hands within the Dream. It's not until the Shadow of the Dragon appears, and she gets thrown into the Dream by Mother that he sees her in action. And he's captivated. Inspired even. But the growth he had already done was stuck as he found himself struggling how to be a thief from others. Emrys woke from the Dream three weeks after that fight—much to Caithe's concern.

To say his first few weeks after waking were action-packed would be an understatement. First he helped Tiachren with Ysvelta, then Gairwen asked for his aid with Bercilak, and that lead them to the rumors of the White Stag. Meeting Gavin ended up being an "awakening" for Emrys—before the Guardian, he'd been content with being alone. But Gavin woke a fire inside him, those feelings were reciprocated, and they had a few wondrous nights together before the ugly truth revealed itself. Emrys ended up nursing a sore thorn after killing his lover; Caithe attempted to help by offering Trahearne's quests as a distraction.

Arlon and Pellam needed help retrieving a poison from the wrong hands, using a marketplace as their base of operations. The marketplace also held tale of an Orrian mirror, leading him to Carys and helping her get Tegwen back to safety. Tegwen ended up telling him of a mysterious Sylvari in a nearby village—one that was originally a Soundless one until the Court showed up, with the Wardens coming in behind to clear them out. His interactions with all five Sylvari did indeed bring him out of his dark pit.

The meeting at Lion's Arch was the first time that he'd felt relatively near his old self. Right off the bat, he could tell everyone was holding themselves back and if they were to work together in some capacity—that wouldn't do. So he zeroed in on the one least guarded and struck—up a conversation with Nilo. Compliments on style always give you good points, and he found the Mesmer quite the conversationalist. They traded banter back and forth, Emrys shared a few words with Nilo's twin, Nicoletta. He found the concept of twins fascinating, considering how rare pod-twins are. Tarsicia intrigued him simply because she was what he had aspired to be, but she also reminded him of Gavin with it. Izar he found handsome, if burlish, a chip on his shoulder broader than his own. Oiba he was wary on simply from racial history, but her pets seemed happy and calm, so that to him meant she could be trusted.

Izar remained a tough cookie to crack for Emrys, with them eventually melding into seamless teamwork, easily switching weapons back and forth on the battlefield. Emrys was the first to figure out Izar had a thing for Nilo, but it didn't stop him from also enjoying himself with the Mesmer. And Emrys was all too happy to hang out with and encourage Nicoletta; he eventually got her to join him in teasing the two. Tarsicia he often felt like he worried to near death with his endless questions. But she also seemed to be amused by him, so Emrys was never sure if she was giving him honest answers or not. Oiba was the one who initiated contact first—or well…her pets did. The cats especially liked him (and his faint smell of catnip) and AID-1 queried him on proper Sylvari care. And he's pretty sure she listened in on his questions with Tarsicia a time or two—at least.

Trahearne was a joy to see at Claw Island, it'd been a while since he had seen the Necromancer last. However, the rest of their visit to the defensive isle was far from enjoyable. Emrys was the first to realize what Tarsicia was attempting to do as their mentors stood between them and death. He had to yell several times at Izar for aid, as much as he wanted to do the same as her, they needed to survive this—he knew it. Tybalt had taught him and Izar (and Demmi) everything they needed to be (at least) successful Lightbringers. For weeks after that, he often woke Izar out of nightmares, but they never really went away.

Emrys is…actually the reason behind the others and himself becoming Trahearne's hand as Commander. He went to the Firstborn after Claw Island and went into depth about his Dream. About himself and the others alongside Destiny's Edge and thus the beginning of the Five Commanders started to take shape. Later on, after they'd survived Zhaitan more or less intact, he let himself take a breath. Emrys' bout with the magic sickness took him back into the Dream, much like how Caithe had. He Dreamed again of dangers to come that had his hand on them and those of his friends. This prophetic ability/ability to Dream seemed to grow with each Dragon's death.

[richincolor]

New Releases - June 17, 2025

It's another great release day for June 2025. We have five books that we've been watching for this week.

This Side of Falling by Eunice Chen Soho Teen

Not real. The mantra seventeen-year-old Nina repeats to herself the morning after her almost-boyfriend, Ethan Travvers, jumped onto the tracks in front of a freight train. The two words that keep the truth just far enough away so the loss can’t touch her, grief can’t break her. After all, there is the family image to uphold, especially when her dad’s startup begins to flounder. Maintaining the illusion of wholeness and success is everything to Nina’s mom and grandma.

The pretense is working—until Nina’s all-star older sister, Carmen, is dismissed from college and abruptly returns home. Carmen’s arrival and strange behavior dig up buried memories, leading Nina to wonder if there is more to the story of Ethan than even she knew. The truth is not what she wants to believe: about Carmen, about Ethan, but mostly, about herself.

Emotionally layered and unflinchingly honest, this novel will resonate with readers who love deeply affecting stories that tackle teen heartache in the vein of Kathleen Glasgow and Laura Nowlin.

You’ve Awoken Her by Ann Davila Cardinal HarperCollins

Gabi should be thrilled to be visiting his best friend for the summer. But with its mansions, country clubs, and Ruth’s terrible new boyfriend, Frost Thurston, the Hamptons is the last place he wants to be. And then Gabi witnesses a woman being dragged under the ocean by what looks like a tentacle . . .

When no one—not the police or anyone else—seems to care, Gabi starts to wonder if maybe the beachside town’s bad vibes are more real than he thought. As the number of “accidental” deaths begins to climb, the Thurston family name keeps rising to the top. And what’s worse is that all the signs point to something lurking beneath the water—something with a hunger for blood.

Can Gabi figure out how the two are intertwined and put an end to the string of deaths . . . before becoming the water’s next victim?

The Blood Phoenix (Fall of the Dragon #2) by Amber Chen Viking Books for Young Readers

Two years after Ying leaves the Engineer’s Guild and the ghost of her father’s unjust death behind, life seems to regain a semblance of normalcy. But the winds of unrest continue to stir within the Nine Isles, and the aftermath of a horrific pirate attack by the mysterious Blood Phoenix fleet forces Ying back into the tense political world of the new High Commander, Ye-yang. And soon, Ying, Ye-yang and her former friends from the guild must work together to find a way to outsmart the cunning pirates who terrorize the straits—and the elusive mastermind who’s controlling them.

Meanwhile, Ying’s sister, Nian, now lives in the capital, awaiting the day she will finally marry the High Commander. While her relationship with Ye-yang remains distant, she finds company in her friendship with the fourteenth prince, Ye-kan, and discovers her unexpected affinity for governance and strategy. But the capital is more dangerous than she expects, and when a dark conspiracy arises, Nian and Ye-kan must unravel the mystery in time to prevent the High Command from collapsing from within.

New dangers arise at every moment, threatening to tear the Nine Isles apart. In order to sail through this storm, Ying and her loved ones must make difficult choices amidst terrible betrayals. With the world on the brink of destruction, will they find a way to defeat their enemies and survive? And will it be worth the cost?

The Tournament by Rebecca Barrow Margaret K. McElderry Books

Gardner isn’t like other boarding schools. They take in those who’ve been rejected everywhere else, they offer a survival skills class that has students killing and gutting animals, and then there’s the Tournament.

A competition available only to seven elite seniors, the Tournament is revered by the entire student body. They’d do almost anything—including completing a series of grueling physical challenges—to win the champion’s cup.

And this year, three seniors make the Tournament more cutthroat than ever.

Max, the ruthless scholarship student who can’t afford any distractions, not even her ex best friend Nora’s stupid confession of love at the end of last year that ruined everything between them.

Nora, who always put herself on the sidelines so Max could have everything she wanted, but might just be ready for center stage now that Max has brutally excised herself from Nora’s life.

And Teddy, the transfer who’s on her last chance and will chase any high that can pull her back from the gaping, dark void inside herself that’s always threatening to pull her in.

If one of them wants to win, then they can’t let anything—or anybody—get in their way.

Goodbye, My Princess by Fei Wo Si Cun translated by Tianshu Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers

There is no room for love in an empire.

Qu Xiaofeng has been living in Shangjing for three years now. A naïve, happy-go-lucky treaty bride from the desert kingdom of Xiliang, she has everything she could ever want as the crown princess of the Li Empire—everything except the crown prince’s heart.

Because Li Chengyin is a heartless boy. Cruel, jealous, and ruthless, he has given his adolescence to the cutthroat contention for the throne and, now that he is the heir presumptive, largely ignores his bride in favor of the girl he seems to really love.

Xiaofeng doesn’t mind…much. It leaves her more time to sneak out of the manor to go drinking and riding in the streets, living just the way she wants to. But one day another boy shows up, claiming to be a sweetheart from a life she can’t remember having lived. As Xiaofeng puzzles out the tangled threads of her past and her complicated feelings about the enigmatic, distant husband she loves and hates in equal measure, what she doesn’t realize is that she’s setting a course straight to tragedy.

Because the only place more dangerous than the palace is the crown prince’s court, the only thing harder to be than a king is his heir, and the path to the throne is paved with blood. Power will always have its price—the only question is if Xiaofeng will survive long enough to pay.

[wordy-little-witch]

Pls im begging im on my knees what happens in crossguilds honeymoon shenanigans? - dis is pertaining to the CG wedding anser sjdjdjdjdns i love it btw the asker is so big brained and u made it even better sjdmsjxkz

OKAY so I'll divide it up between General Content and Adult Content.

General first!!!

• at first, they didn't even plan a honeymoon. It simply wasn't in the cards to then, they didn't even consider it. Then Big Mom asked, making conversation at the following party, what kind of honeymoon they had planned. They told her just an evening together in their tent, then back to work.

The men, women and enbies of the Guild swooped right in there with bright grins. "We pooled our wages together," they announce, "and booked you a trip!" It's for a weekend, just three days, and they'd be gone perhaps five at most depending on the weather and travel.

All three are trying not to cringe into the ether because they'd be leaving the island for a decent chunk of time. Who would run everything?

Their commanding officers then give them an itemized delegated list, with all the primary functions taken care of. The Guild really prepared for everything, huh?

• the honeymoon is to a resort not too terribly far for Karai Bari. The first thought is for them to just.... divide and do their own things.

Only they keep running into each other that first day. Buggy and Mihawk wind up in the library with other. Mihawk and Crocodile run into each other in the sauna. Buggy and Crocodile meet up in the casino. It's constant, and eventually it even becomes rather fun.

• then evening hits.

Adult Content below~

• Buggy's got the self awareness of a walrus on cocaine honestly, so he doesn't really think before stripping down to change into his evening wear. Crocodile and Mihawk at first ignore it until they catch sight of a pale back full of freckles and scars. Both dark haired me are suddenly fighting the urge to kiss him there, to make constellations with their touch and tongue. They look away.

• Only One Bed - Mihawk wordlessly prepares the couch for himself and Buggy makes a hammock and Crocodile is getting the bed - the first night at least.

• sleepy early mornings are so intimate and nobody discusses that enough. Buggy is the first up, hair slightly messy from the braid he slept in, curls framing his bare face. He makes coffee and starts on breakfast. Mihawk joins him not long after. Crocodile wakes to the smell of food, coffee, and murmured voices and laughter. When he inevitably wanders into the kitchen, halfasleep, he accepts a playe and mug, presses a kiss to Buggy's temple, a squeeze to Mihawk's wrist. Both clown and swordsman take a moment to process that.

• Buggy isn't exactly a contributer to Gender, so he'll wear whatever so long as he likes it. Including, it turns out, a form fitting dress in a rich green with gold accents and jewelry which shows his long leg via a high slit. He plays the part of ditzy eye candy well for Crocodile, and all seems fine - until some others begin to look at Buggy as well.

• Crocodile is possessive. And they ARE married.... so he pulls Buggy close by his hook at the other's waist and yanks the other down to one of his legs, within neck kissing range. Buggy is flustered. Crocodile is glowering. The wandering eyes ease off.

• at some point, Marines show up. The resort is neutral ground, so none of the Guild leaders make moves to react. Through a series of events, it turns out the Marines are there to apprehend the pirates and have paid off the resort owners.

There's a fight which goes.... fairly normally with Mihawk close range, sinking vessels and soldiers alike. Crocodile is lurking midrange to use his poisons and sand most effectively. Buggy has opted for more long range with his explosives and plots. The whole thing is pretty damn smooth, all considered. Until someone makes it past and grabs Buggy.

A comment is made on his outfit, a cocktail dress and blazer with matching stockings. On his decorum. On him, specifically. It's nothing he hasn't heard before, and he's already halfway through a snarky comeback along the lines of "What, angry I'm hotter than your whore at home-?" when there is a wave of pressure. Buggy blinks. The marine officer stumbles.

There is suddenly a hand on his waist, a hook around his neck, two presences flanking him. "What," the both nearly snarl, "did you say about our wife?"

• Buggy absolutely gets butterflies.

• the rest of the fight is pretty quick, Hawkeyes and Crocodile out of patience to play with their foes. Buggy isn't a slouch either, by the way, he's lobbing explosives strategically all around. Nearing the end, he herds his husband's to their ship, pushes off, and gives a theatrical count down.

• the island and nearby ships are bathed in fire. Buggy is cackling, a mess, his hair wild around a filthy, bloodied face. The dress reveals his shoulders. The torn edges reveal more of those freckles.

Something in both taller men snaps, and they converge upon Buggy with claims and lips and teeth. On the deck of their ornate ship, to the cracking ambience of fire, they have their wicked way with him, learning his body and finding unexpected but delightful facts as they go.

Crocodile could transition fully due to Iva, but Buggy is not so lucky. His top surgery was experimental, and bottom surgery was never a huge deal to him. Mihawk, luckily, enjoys all bodies and pleasures of the flesh, and he is a quick study under Crocodile's tutelage and experience with the organs he once had.

Buggy falls to pieces more than once, teary eyed and begging and so sweet for them, so cute and attractive with his grasping hands and hiccuping breaths. He is beautiful as he sinks down onto one, cradled by another and wails with the stimulation and hands and hook that break him I to pieces just to reassemble him again.

It ends with them together, indulgent and depraved, christened beneath firelight and debris and the screams of their enemies.

And none of the three had ever felt quite so seem as they did in that moment.

• back on Karai Bari, they sashay back in, mostly, as Buggy has a mild limp.

The lipstick stains and bite marks and bruises and scratches paint a clear enough picture for what happened.

"How was your trip?"

"We blew it up"

"Wha-"

"Fire. Explosives. Our beautiful chairman has quite the knack for such weapons"

"D'aww! Hawky, you'll make me blush!"

"We can make you do more than that, you little shit...~"

"Hehe~"

The poor mercenary is left rebooting.

[whyamismall]

First Lines Challenge

Rules: In a new post, share the first lines of 10 of your latest fanfics (or all if you have less than 10!) and tag 10 people to do the same.

Thanks for the tag @cyarikacyare @ladylucksrogue @tealmist55 & @ladysongmaster! (Sorry if I missed anyone who also tagged me) 1. “Alright boys,” Fives announced as the group entered Torrent's designated barracks.”I don’t know about you. But 79’s is calling my name tonight.” - Who Let The Tooka Out Of The Bag. A crack Rexsoka soulmate au.

2. Rex had heard about love. He knew what it was and what it meant but he had never truly understood it. - Love Is A Great Adventure. A rexsoka giftfic from May4ths gift exchange! 3. Echo knew that Fives was up to something the moment he stepped into the barracks. Despite what Fives thought, he had a terrible poker face. - The 501st's New Mascot. A gift fic with no romantic relationships. 4. Fox strolled past the reception, giving Thire a nod in greeting as he did. Thire, straightened in his seat and gave him a nod in return. Out of the corner of his eye, Fox saw Thire’s hand immediately fly to his comm and rolled his eyes, he didn’t have time to deal with whatever gossip Thire was engaging in this time. - It Definitely Wasn't A Date. A Foxiyo giftfic! 5. The wind outside howled, transforming the rain into thick and powerful waves that made visibility slim to none. Ahsoka shivered and tightly wrapped her arms around herself. - A Most Desperate Hour. A rexsoka giftfic! 6. Ahsoka stood in front of the full length mirror, she ran her hands down her waist, twisting this way and that as she observed her reflection critically. - Some Old, Something New. Another rexsoka giftfic!

7. AHSOKA!”

Ahsoka groaned as the sound of someone shouting her name registered in her mind. - Kiss it Better?. My main giftfic (rexsoka) for the May4th gift exchange! 8. Rex could feel the tension in his body as he marched towards his office to begin the long and tedious task of filing reports. It had been a long day of drills, going over plans, meetings, more drills and putting out several fires. Literally. - How to Incentivise Your Commander. A rexsoka fic written for Rexsoka Monthly! 9. The sun had disappeared below the horizon hours ago, leaving their surroundings dark and shrouded in shadows. Their rented accommodations were dimly lit by the tall lamp that looked like it could be dated back to the era of the High Republic. - You're Stuck With Me Captain. Another rexsoka fic written for Rexsoka Monthly! 10. Girls night in was a concept Ahsoka had never fully understood as a youngling. Exposure to information had been minimal, with her only knowledge coming from the few late night holo dramas that some of the older padawans snuck in. - I'm Sweet On You. Last but not least, is another Rexsoka (shocking) fic written for Rexsoka Monthly! (Another big shock 😂)

I'm 99% I've seen most of my mutuals take part in this so... if you didn't receive this and would like to do this, please do! Just in case tags, @craziest-in-the-guild @ahsokathegray

[inventors-fair]

Take a Moment: Turn Contest Runners Up

Oooour runners up this week are @bread-into-toast, @tanknspank and @yourrightfulking! Still @abelzumi here, filling in for @spooky-bard on the flipside <3

~

@bread-into-toast — Rakdos Flash Mob

I actually really liked this one when I was browsing the entries, and I might've gone for it in the top X as well all things considered. I love it when cards make it clear that they're showing and not just telling—that trigger makes it clear that you want to punish the flashier players for their instants and reactions and combat tricks and what have you, and lord knows that in Commander you're going to hear a lot fewer "in response"-s. Spectacle is a funny choice here, too, and it allows you to get this on the board and then throw your OWN spells out as less punishment and more super-flash aggro with bolts and bursts.

Heh, "Flash Mob." I'm easily swayed by this card, just gonna put that out there. The name is cleverly associated with the guild, the mechanics are flexible and allow for both implied punishment AND deck construction, and it uses the prompt in such a way as to have a savory card that's strong without being overpowered pushed towards that limit. I'm just the messenger here for commentary, though, so I can just say what I personally liked about the card. Maybe Spectacle could use reminder text, maybe the RR felt a little restrictive, who knows! But the real egregious mistake is not giving this guy more of a dancing vibe... Because they could've been a frilled lizard. Eh? Ehhhh?

~

@tanknspank — Magmatic Oread

Fantastic name, let's jot that down. I think you wanted a little more wording of Goldnight Castigator for the first ability there with the turn clause on it, but as I'm looking this up, Wolverine is actually agreeing with this as it's worded. For some reason. Christ, what have we come to... Anyway. Excess damage to spell reduction! That's a unique combination that I don't think anyone's seen before, not in this sense, so I'm kinda blown away by the new precedent you're setting here. This is a fascinating design space that's probably narrow to this card and this card alone, but the implications are really wacky for how it plays out on the battlefield.

Can you do some shenanigans with indestructible creatures and Star of Extinction and that ilk? Absolutely. As for the rest of it, though, the kind of deck that you'd want to make with this creature is definitely hard to construct. Limited decks would happily use the damage doubling to just swing in, but the postcombat spells for draw, removal, ramp, wipes, etc. are good to contemplate as well. I think there's a great amount of brewing to be done with this card that makes it unique to consider if nothing else. I'd love to show this to my local Commander pod and see what kind of things they'd brew up with this card in mind. Quite intriguing.

~

@yourrightfulking — Icon of Authority

Where's your rarity, my liege? For shame! What's not for shame is the taxing of this card that I'm determining now is a rare, because it doesn't have quite the annoyance of a mythic to me like the other white Overlord. It certainly doesn't win games and it certainly doesn't do much except tax things, but lord knows that it does both of those things well. I think it should say "As long as this PERMANENT" is a creature, but that's just my opinion. It would make more sense for type-changing shenanigans. Two small strikes doesn't mean that Bard didn't see the potential there, though, and honestly I'm on board with them.

I love taxing and I love the way that my opponents would hate to see this coming. In five turns after this hits, every single spell is going to cost more until you can somehow kill this, and I'm sure as hell not going to be swinging with it once it becomes a creature fully, not unless I'm sure beyond the shadow of a doubt that it's living. This card is one of my favorite kinds of cards: it makes my opponents cry. Maybe I'm a mean old control player, but that doesn't mean I don't get to have my own kind of fun. This is white at its most authoritarian, and the name you chose to go with this fits 100%. I really liked the conventions of names to abilities that folks chose this week, and this card is absolutely no exception. Great work. Now go try to make friends without subjugating them.

~

Drop on into the Discord server for further commentary, and see you tomorrow.

@abelzumi

[onlycosmere]

Cosmere/Magic the Gathering

'What IP do you most want to see in Magic the Gathering?' Thunderwoodd: Stormlight Archive!

thyfoolish1: Brandon said they reached out to him and he was excited and ready to go but they haven't gotten back to him. I think this was Dragonsteel last year. So there is hope.

Egi_: Even after the shitshow with the free book he gave them on the condition it wouldn't be commercialized and then WotC commercialized it?

Brandon Sanderson: I knew what I was getting into working with a big corporation. Like the proverbial frog giving a ride to a scorpion, I don't see justification for complaint regarding the eventual sting. I love the game, and the designers, so that's really my metric. As a note, everyone I worked with on the narrative team was wonderful.

I don't want a passing secret lair of five cards; I am interested in a full-blown set, so with that constraint, I wouldn't foresee a Stormlight or Mistborn crossover until one of several things happens:

1) They burn through the bigger properties that match MTG's vibe like LOTR did. Fantasy, or science fantasy, properties that feel legit as a big expansions. As mentioned in this thread alone, there is a pretty deep mine there. Dune, Witcher, Elder Scrolls, Arcane/LoL, Westeros (if they're feeling spicy.) A hobbit set is all but inevitable as well.

Considering they'd be unwise to put these sorts of things out too quickly, and should really give them time to breathe, we're looking at ten years easily before they're out of larger fish to fry. Stormlight is big for a book series, but without any shows/films/games, I'd suspect it doesn't have the casual word-of-mouth reach their marketing team looks for to justify the extra expense of licensing fees.

2) Said bigger properties decide they aren't interested, leaving things popular but without media representation. If they ever decided to experiment with a book-only series, I suspect I'd be very high on the list to approach.

3) Cosmere gets one of said media properties, something I'm actively trying to accomplish--but it is slow going, as I'm in the fortunate position of being able to be very picky about partners, and prefer to take my time.

I've made it clear to them that if a large-scale set were in the, ahem, cards, I'd be willing to make frequent trips to Seattle to be part of the design team on said set.

awakenedjunkofigure: If any author deserves the pick of the litter for production companies, it's absolutely you. Can't wait to see what your books would look like on-screen!!

Brandon Sanderson: Well, the answer to what they'd look like on screen is "Expensive," which a part of the problem...

schloopers: Any large consideration in your mind for spoilers versus fully representing a world or story?

Stormlight you’d of course want all 10 Orders, so spoilers are far as those are concerned are a given.

But maybe a legendary creature “Iron Eyes” instead of any spoiler specific proper names?

I ask because I have so far gotten one friend in the playgroup to start reading, and a couple full sets would for sure help in garnering interest, but I would worry for the story beats getting too greatly revealed out of context.

I don’t know, maybe it’s just unavoidable. I’ve had several Dr. Who episodes “spoiled” for me through that set.

Brandon Sanderson:  This is something I haven't given a lot of thought toward, but I perhaps should be mulling it over. You make a good point.

Thunderwoodd: Woah! Can’t believe you responded. Huge fan! And I loved your commander cube! Saw it on Game Knights right after I finished Rhythm of War.

Curious, do you think the Radiant orders could correspond to guilds or color wedges?

Brandon Sanderson: Yes, I've done thought experiments on that, and think guilds could actively work for them without too much trouble. Problem is, would we want a Stormlight set or just a Knights Radiant set, because ten guilds for ten orders is already a high demand. It might be better to make a wedge set, but the problem there is that the Radiants are actively all colors, so it would be hard to cut out any save black. (Willshaper individuality and artistic expression could be green red instead of red black, for example.) So maybe five four-color wedges? I think the lore could support this, and be something that MTG has had trouble conveying without the expansive worldbuilding an entire book series could provide.

Radiants and sapient spren (all but black, to indicate the inherent selfless Radiant cause)

Human Nations (all but green, to indicate triumph over nature, which is an antagonist on Roshar.)

Singers (All but blue, to indicate the lack of ability to plan for the future, dearth of scholars, and onset of madness in the fused.)

Non-sapient Spren and wildlife (All but white, to indicate lack of overriding societal structures.)

Secret Societies (All but red, indicting the deliberate and conscious planning of these groups.)

Four color signpost uncommons would be WILD, even with hybrid mana. So I can see the design team balking. This (four color guild set) is almost certainly something they've explored and specifically decided not to do.

mediocreattbest: It’s crazy coming onto this post to say “any cosmere set!” And then see you actually replying. Out of curiosity, would you prefer just a stormlight set or a cosmere-wide set? I’d love to see characters through their stories (like we had with the LotR set)

Brandon Sanderson: I'd prefer Stormlight or Mistborn alone, as the planets themselves are so much a part of the stories.

[adaptacy]

The General Drow's Celebration {2/2}

Pairing: General!Minthara x Durge!AFAB!Reader

{Part 1}

Warnings/Tags: NSFW! Pure smut this time. Knifeplay, bloodplay, consensual poisoning, exhibitionism, the slightest hints of foodplay, etc.

Word Count: 2.4k

Her hand slides up your body, finding purchase around your throat, and she meets your gaze, her prideful smile meant entirely for you. “Tonight, we celebrate two deaths. The death of Late General Thorm, and the death of The Nightwarden. Indulge in the wine and feast as you deem fit – a rebirth occurs this evening. A rebirth of values. A rebirth of power. A rebirth of The Absolute.” Her gaze lifts, meeting the intrigued smiles of her soldiers. “Hear the testament of my reign – straight from the voice of darkness,” Minthara chuckles, eyes drawn once more to you. “Speak my title, dear oloth.” 

With a lustful smile, you oblige; “General Minthara.” 

“General Minthara,” she agrees, leaning over the table to meet your lips, hand tightening around your throat, robbing you of breath in the two ways she knows best. Her other hand is placed on one of your knees, fingers tracing the inside of your leg and tugging outward, creating a little more room between your leg and her waist. Her hand disappears, and it’s only sensible for you to immediately miss it, especially when she’s forced to break the kiss, leaving the two of you to catch your breaths. She stays close, her voice low and steady as she makes a command; “Swallow.”

Without question or hesitation, you do as she asks. Immediately, there is a stinging present, starting at your lips, washing over your tongue and down your throat. Some tart bitterness that you’d subtracted from her mouth – you know both from experience and from the faded glisten on her lips, a mixture of your spit and the poison, some custom concoction made only for the two of you to share. The taste fades as your mouth borders on the edge of brimming numbness, your throat tight, and before long you feel it lull you into a state of light-headedness. She’d increased the dosage for the occasion, and you were, slowly, building an immunity to it, but tonight was a test of many things. A test of her guild’s loyalty, a test of her power, and a test of your constitution. 

“Stay awake, my love. You will not want to miss what follows. You are far more entertaining to please when you are conscious. Your attentiveness shall be rewarded in full.” Her coos are accompanied by a snicker, and you nod in understanding, in a silent promise to obey her every request – her every demand. Your efforts to fight the artificial weariness in your head are pushed to the forefront of your priorities, and you keep your eyes strictly on Minthara, relying on her to be your point of focus, to keep you grounded and awake. 

The kiss is resumed, and you allow yourself to close your eyes, very quickly regretting that choice as it makes the urge to drift off significantly stronger. So, instead, you force them open just in time to catch the glint on the blade of her bloodied dagger, lifted from the table and venturing towards your thighs. The chill meets your skin with the flat length of the weapon, though her hand rises enough to slant the dagger and poke the sharp point into your skin. Had your mouth been free, you certainly would’ve been forced to give some small hiss of discomfort, but you’re thankful for her lip’s presence working as a preventative. 

The point is drawn down, and then curves inward, and then is drawn out again – soon, there’s five slightly curved lines of blood on your thigh, but she’s not yet done. Two lines in the middle are what it takes to complete it, and the pinching pain serves as an assistant in keeping you awake, making you grateful for the branding in more ways than one. Despite not being able to see her work, the web design imprinted on your thigh is a perfect recreation of the mark that she bears on her own skin. Minthara pulls out of the kiss, and you release her with a quiet whine, your mind too preoccupied with the challenge of staying awake to bother splitting your attention to prevent your own natural pleading. 

Fortunately, the general doesn’t seem to mind – in fact, she grins, raising an eyebrow and tilting her head at you, as if surprised by your minor show of desperation. “Poison caught your tongue, dark one? Oh, do indulge me; what is it that you crave?” She asks, an unusual curiosity admitted in her tone. 

Well, there’s only one answer for that question. It’s a simple one. “You.”

“Me?” She clarifies, and you nod – sleepily, thanks entirely to the effects of the barely diluted poison, though you suppose your confusion isn’t helping. “What about me? Which part of me do you desire? My hands? My tongue? My blade, perhaps?” Her hand releases some of the tension around your throat, tracing your arteries under her fingers until she cradles your jaw, angling your head upwards as she awaits her answer. Her thumb crosses your lower lip, wiping it clean of lingering poison, though it has no effect on what you already ingested. 

Again, the question isn’t a difficult one, even in your faded state. “All of you, my General,” you elaborate, your eyes trailing down towards the hand that wields the dagger, but a tug on your chin is enough for your gaze to snap back onto the drow. 

“Do not get distracted, xi’hum. I have trained you better. We have an audience tonight – do behave. You fight the poison well. It seems you are adapting to the taste,” she praises, her thumb tucking into your mouth, and you blink up at her, staying quiet as she seems to be directing. “As you have so willingly consumed my gift to you, it is only just that I feast upon you in return. After all, a banquet is only complete with a meal. And a meal, I shall have.”

It’s not entirely clear if the butterflies in your stomach are due to your excitement or the poison beginning to digest, but either way, they’re a pleasant and welcome sensation, and Minthara is quick to catch onto the smile that they bring across your lips. Her thumb pulls away from your mouth and glides down to the very bottom of your stomach, her palm located just under your belly button as it presses you into the table, earning a momentary squirm from you. Once you settle, she leans down, her other hand firmly holding your marked thigh, and once she’s close enough, her tongue sweeps over the wound, collecting the spilled blood. Her eyes close in order to truly savor the taste, and her hand squeezes, pushing out as much blood as possible. 

Perhaps due to your light-headedness, or maybe just how much she seems to be enjoying it, the feeling is strangely pleasant – despite what your short whine may lead the audience to believe, the warmth of her tongue over the cuts is oddly comforting, even if it is joined by the faintest of irritated stings. You don’t see a world in which it would be possible to not let your mind drift, anticipation and elation curling into a fantasy of what is sure to soon play out, once Minthara deems you desperate enough to earn the gift of her mouth’s company on your core. Unfortunately, that time hasn’t come, and dreaming of it only makes you squirm with expected neediness. Minthara reminds you of her plans with a soothing, yet firm, “Patience, dark one.” 

And patient you are – as patient as one can be when they’re displayed so lovingly over a table of prying eyes, teased by the expertly dangerous (and expertly attractive) General Minthara, left powerless until she permits further pleasure. Every movement of hers is a carefully planned test, either of your obedience or your control; meticulous, gentle trailing of the tip of her dagger over your underwear, enough to tease what’s beneath without so much as catching a single thread of the fabric. She trails kisses up and across your thighs, her lips claiming every inch except the place that so terribly needs her attention. 

The flat width of the blade presses against the length of your underwear, and you flinch just barely, earning a ‘tsk’ of disapproval from Minthara. You fall still once more, finally letting your eyes squeeze closed, your head tilting back as you try to divide your focus between fighting the poison and fighting your reflexes. You feel an unfamiliar, trivial chill brought on by the removal of cover, and you lift your head in time to catch Minthara pulling your underwear away from your skin with her knife, slicing it on the blade in a quick tug. Her eyes meet yours, and the point of her weapon presses against your throat, tilting your chin up towards her. “Tell me, my love. Who is it that controls you? Who is it that you belong to?”

“You, General Minthara.” 

She chuckles, drawing the edge under your chin, enough to cause a scratch without spilling any blood. “What a good girl.” Her praise is followed by the removal of the blade against your skin, and she sets it aside, instead pulling up her chair and placing her hands on the outside of your thighs, tugging you a little bit closer to the edge of the table. Your knees hang on her shoulders, and soon her hands slide up to hold your hips, thumbs pressing bruises into the soft skin they rest on. “Sing my name as I command, and pleasure shall be yours,” she promises, kissing your thigh once more. 

Your head falls back once more, and she only allows you to lay in wait for a few seconds before her tongue runs over your folds with the same meticulous precision that she exercised when tasting your mark. Your ankles lock where they rest on her back, trying to pull her in closer, but she only chuckles at your attempt, the near purr against your skin sending a shiver up your spine. Though she’s hardly even begun, you feel all of the anticipation paying off, your high standards miraculously met, and you hum out “General,” in an effort to earn further pleasure. 

Minthara obliges, letting her tongue bathe your clit, the movements nothing short of loving despite how intensely violent and unapologetically rough she could be, though that side of her is still ever-present, especially as she runs her teeth over your clit, threatening to introduce a pinch amongst the pleasure. 

Partially in an effort to avoid facing the attention of the surrounding True Souls, you close your eyes, which also causes all of your attention to be drawn to the sensations between your legs. Just in time, Minthara pulls her tongue back, drawing a long line from the lowest point of your entrance up to your clit, still teasing you before she takes it any further. Her nails aren’t quite as willing to remain on the surface, however, and an accidental squirm earns you eight pricks where her fingers hold your skin, her thumbs settling on merely pressuring their spots. It takes a lot to subdue a whine, though the pain is slight in comparison to the carving of her blade. 

Your ankles thump – gently, nearly disguised as a flinch – against her back, and she chuckles against your skin, refusing to continue just yet. At least, until you sing out a “Please, General” of desperation, to which she replies by finally moving forward, slipping her tongue into you as a form of affirmation. This is hardly the first time the two of you have been in this position, but it never fails to overwhelm you – in all the best ways, of course. 

There’s a tingle on your skin, no doubt a side-effect of the sting of poison, though the slight traces still remaining on her lips are hardly enough for any actual damage or irritation to set in. Just a tingle, enough to prick your skin without genuine danger. Of course, that’s not to say the rest of the dosage wasn’t still in effect, as your eyes felt heavy even despite them being closed. Fortunately, with Minthara lapping up everything your insides had to offer, you were far from at risk of falling asleep. 

Your hands reach down, one holding Minthara’s arm, her grip on your hips tightening in acknowledgement, and the other pushes against her head, encouraging her as best you can without being able to move your hips much. She lets go of your body with one hand, instead her fingers wrap around your arm, keeping it in place. Minthara moves with your eager pushes, and you can feel her smile against your skin, buried beneath the stimulation provided by her tongue. 

It doesn’t take much, or very long – she’s fantastic at giving speeches and winning people over with her words, but it’s hardly the only thing her tongue is gifted at – before you feel yourself approaching the very edge of pleasure itself. You do as she demanded; singing out her title, begging your General for release, and as promised, she doesn’t let up. Every swipe or curl of her tongue is a carefully planned one, completely unraveling your dignity, revealing your desperation before her, and before her devoted followers. 

Your legs tense, pulling her closer and locking her between your thighs, hips rolling as you hit your release, your pitiful whines met with a sinister chuckle from the drow. Once you settle back, you feel her stand and force your legs to unclasp, and you open your eyes to meet hers, her glare simultaneously satisfied and yet still hungry. Your hands fall to your sides, and she leans down, gripping your chin and narrowing her eyes at you. 

“You obeyed. A magnificent show, my darling. Perhaps it will not be your final performance. Certainly not for my eyes,” she praises, pulling your head up enough to capture your lips in a kiss, and your already weakened body isn’t able to do much but melt in her hold, mumbling mindlessly against her mouth. You feel a second hand on your waist once more, and you’re pulled to sit up, your legs locking around her hips. The kiss breaks, and she glances around at the audience, contemplating something before she speaks. “Finish your meal as you wish. There is excess wine in the kitchen. Your general must finish a banquet of her own.” 

Those around you either snicker or mumble understandings as Minthara moves her hand from your throat to your waist, lifting you off of the table. Immediately, you wrap your arms around her shoulders and lean into her, allowing her to carry you off, letting your high fade in the journey back up to your quarters.