He quickly and clumsily spread the apron on the ground without relinquishing his grip on his sword. Then he straightened and waited. The orb remained enigmatic. Kohl raised his free hand slowly to his sword and double clutched the hilt hard. He took a tentative step.

Suddenly, a laser sprayed from the orb in a flattened fan of iridescent blue light. Before he could react, the laser’s light scanned him blindingly fast from head to toe before disappearing back into the orb.

Kohl gasped, as if sprayed with cold water, but he didn’t seem to be harmed. He stood fast, clenching his weapon, waiting for some other overture.

To Kohl’s amazement, the orb slowly rose from its perch and floated in midair above the pedestal. Now comes the duel, Kohl thought. Now comes the test.

He heard a seemingly inconsequential click. He barely had time to register the blades that sprang from the sides of the orb like lethal wings. The orb hurtled forward, its glistening blades nothing more than a whirling blur.

Noble Warman Kohl was summarily decapitated.

SIX

The light of dusk dimmed to a melancholy umber, both building and background growing monotone. Olaf and The Which were dark shadows as they stood at the Tree, unsatisfied.

They had not spoken for a long time, trivial conversation of little interest to either of them. The Tree had achieved personification in both their minds. It was a living, breathing being with malevolent intent. It sat implacably at its outpost, patiently awaiting the proper password and devouring all others it found wanting. Finally, The Which released a frustrated sigh.

“We’re done here,” she said flatly, without turning to Olaf.

“How can you be sure?” he replied.

“I’ve sacrificed enough champions to the Tree to know.”

Olaf sighed and nodded as well. He stepped to her, placing as comforting a hand as he was capable of upon her shoulder. “I must return to Mist Tier and inform the king. He prefers bad news served fresh.”

The Which finally turned to him, and the chancellor was struck anew by her beauty and bearing.

“And I must prepare to Inflame the rest of our fallen,” she said quietly, seemingly unable to meet his eyes.

Olaf sensed something else behind her dutiful demeanor. Something intensely personal. There was disappointment, to be sure, but this time it seemed that she suffered the dashed hopes for both of them. After all, they had most certainly made plans together, quietly conspiring in hushed whispers behind the closed doors of his chamber, ever mindful of the cameras that could give them away. He had never dared touch her within the confines of the palace lest their intimacy give truth to their treason. But that did not mean that he did not constantly desire to.

Olaf’s father, Handel, had been a mere page in the court of Xander’s father and predecessor, King Vaughn the Vigilant. Handel had been decorous and courtly, meticulous in his service and exceedingly proud of the legacy he would leave for his only son. Olaf, in turn, was a scrupulous and perceptive apprentice, shadowing his father constantly in the daily dispensation of his duties. So astute a student was young Olaf that he believed he had completely mastered the intricacies of the post even before he could fully grow facial hair.