The noises from the party bled through the canvas.
From Władysław's tent came the chaos of it—boots hammering the earth in rhythm, cups slamming into tables, voices shouting the same word over and over until it stopped being a word at all.
"Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!"
The sound rose, fell, came back louder. Fiddles screeched. A drum kept time like a stubborn heart.
One tent over, a lone Leithanien pavilion endured it in silence.
The canvas there was thicker, darker. It somehow swallowed most of the noise, though not all of it. What remained was a dull pulse, like distant thunder you could feel in your teeth.
Inside, the air smelled of wax, ink, and old cloth.
An old man stood at a narrow table, hands resting on its edge. He was tall once—still was, in a way—but age had drawn him inward, tightened him rather than bent him. His black hair was tied back neatly, streaked with white of old age, his beard trimmed short. Someone had taken care of him, or he had taken care of himself.
He wore a black Leithanien doublet lined with gold linings, marked at the chest with the white ram's head. The sigil was clean, untouched by dust or wine. That alone set him apart from the Kazimierz nobles and knights camped outside.
He poured the wine slowly, watching the red line climb the glass.
Across from him sat another man, half-reclined in a cushioned chair. He looked like someone who had not slept well in a long time. One hand pressed against his temple, fingers splayed as if holding his thoughts in place. The other kept a book open on his lap, its margins scarred with notes written, crossed out, written again.
Food sat between them—thick cuts of seared steak still bleeding faintly onto polished plates, glazed roots and buttered greens arranged with quiet care, dark bread sliced clean instead of torn, and a small dish of salt flecked with herbs. A decanter of red stood nearby, the glass heavy, the wine old.
The seated man was striking in a way that made some people uneasy. Tall and sharp-boned, with long, pointed ears and a beard combed straight and narrow. His pale hair was drawn back, threaded with age but still full. His eyes were cold, alert, and worn thin by long use.
He glanced up from the book as the noise outside surged again.
"Of all the fields and nations in all of Terra," he said, voice low and dry, "this is where they chose to gather."
His friend snickered as he set his glass down. "And of all the empty lots in this town, you chose to pitch your tent right next to an almost carbon copy of me."
Outside, the shouting swelled again—louder now, drunker.
The Leithanien lord exhaled slowly, shut his book with care, and finally lifted the wine.
"I was late," he said, rolling his eyes as he studied the glass. "Otto kept me trapped with his pet projects, and Kazdel's Royal Courts also kept me busy. By the time I arrived, it was near evening—and the Leithanien plot was already thick with young lords and overeager scholar-knights."
The lich lifted one hand, fingers loose, almost lazy. The air above his palm folded in on itself, pinching into a small, triangular tear—black, sharp-edged, swallowing light. He slipped his hand into it as if reaching into a coat pocket.
When he drew it back, a letter rested between his fingers, edges sealed, paper faintly warm.
"Your wife sends a letter for you," he said. "Through my student in Kazdel."
He passed it across the table.
His friend wiped his mouth quickly and took it at once, hands careful despite the eagerness. His eyes lit, bright and boyish for someone his age, already scanning the seal.
As he did, the noise from the neighboring tent surged again—boots stomping, voices slurring through song, rhythm more enthusiasm than skill.
The lich's eye twitched.
He flicked his wrist.
The sound vanished.
Not faded—cut. No vibration through the ground, no muffled echo. Just silence, sudden and absolute.
He took another bite of steak and muttered, "What an abysmal sense of music."
"Hey!" his friend protested without looking up, already breaking the seal. "I was listening to that!"
"It's horrid," the lich said flatly. "An insult to musical arts."
"It's medieval!" the one-eyed man shot back, grinning as he read. "You've been Leithaniazed for the past hundred years, man."
The lich snorted. "True music is meant to be shared. Something anyone can enjoy with their ears."
"That is sharing!" his friend said. "It's dance music. It's for fun. You feel it here—" he tapped his chest with the back of the letter, "—not in some lecture hall in Zwillingstürme."
"Hammering your feet into dirt is not feeling," the lich replied. "It's noise hazard."
His friend laughed. "As if Leithanien Musical warfare is not."
They sat like that for a moment—one reading, smiling faintly to himself, the other cutting his steak with precise irritation.
"Anyways," the man said at last, folding the letter carefully and tucking it away. "Arts, as you folk call'em—really is something else entirely. That portal—wish I could do that."
The lich scoffed, chewing. "You'd need to be compatible with Originium, those black "cancer rocks" as you called them. Which you are not."
"Hey—"
"Or," the lich continued calmly, "you'd need to be infected."
His friend paused.
"And again," the lich added, dry as ever, "you are somehow immune. A fact that has annoyed me for the last hundred and fifty years of knowing you."
His friend leaned back, smug.
"Maybe I'm just built different."
The lich gave him a look that had curdled empires. "You are a walking insult to several theories of rock cancers and its deadly infections."
"Yet here I am," the man said, tapping his chest proudly as he leaned back. "Healthy as I ever be. Married to two wonderful women. Still fucking about all over Terra, and pissing off the other nations—including mine own."
The lich sighed, long-suffering, and reached for his wine.
The man watched him over the rim of his own cup, then grinned wider. "And before you say it—yes, I know what I'm doing this time. I am at least familiar with Banshee magic."
The lich snorted into his drink and took an unhurried sip. "Do you?"
There it was. That thin, razor-edge doubt, delivered as casually as a comment on the weather.
The man straightened a little, offended on principle. "I'll have you know," he said, pointing a finger across the table, "I married a Banshee, and spent the last hundred years being taught by Ramiél herself. In Convallis. Alongside her mother, her sisters, her aunts—every last one of them breathing down my neck and correcting my posture."
The lich raised one brow.
"All about The Power of the Voice," the man continued quickly. "And no, before your rotting mind wanders off, I am not referring to anything else."
The lich scoffed, a sharp, dismissive sound, and muttered, "Zar'kath varesh."
Bullshit.
He took another sip, eyes never leaving his companion. "Not even the King of Corpses, with his thousand years of accumulated wisdom, could make you capable of Sarkaz magics."
The man waved that off. "That's because the King of Corpses never had Ramiél singing to him so sweetly until his soul learned to listen."
"You do not have a Sarkaz soul," the lich said flatly.
"I've still got the heart, don't I?"
The lich stared at him. "You once tried to swallow a chunk of originium to see if it would 'speed things along.'"
The man winced. "In hindsight—"
"Yes, I still remember," the lich cut in smoothly, "that one particular evening when your wife gave you such an earful that the entire Black Keep could hear it through the night."
A thin smile tugged at his mouth. "Even the dead souls in the furnaces complained."
The man coughed into his fist. "She was… passionate."
"She threatened to kill you and resurrect you again," the lich said, deadpan, "just so she could kill you again."
"And yet," the man said, leaning forward now, eyes bright with stubborn certainty, "I'm still here. Still breathing. Still standing in rooms I'm not supposed to. And I learned."
The lich studied him in silence, wine swirling slowly in his glass.
"…You are," he said at last, "without question, the most statistically improbable idiot I have ever had the displeasure of knowing."
The man grinned. "High praise, coming from a nerdy-ass corpse."
The lich sighed again—and this time, there was the faintest hint of a smile.
"At least I haven't died yet," he said dryly. "Nor twice."
His friend rolled one eye. "Touché." He leaned forward, tone sharpening just a little. "Now—you want to see the proof, Tu'varkh (dipshit)?"
The old lich rolled his eyes. "Fine. At least I'll get some entertainment for the night."
"You should go out more often, Fremont," his friend said, reaching for his plate again. "There are more wonders in the world than what's written in those books of yours." He paused, then added casually, "Now, pass me the salt."
Fremont sighed, picked up the salt cellar, and slid it across the table. "If this is another waste of my time—"
There was a brief pause.
Nothing happened.
No pressure in the air. No vibration. No pull at the edges of reality.
The silence stretched, awkward and expectant.
Fremont frowned. "…Well?"
"Well what?" his friend said around a mouthful of steak.
Annoyance crept into the lich's voice. "Where's the Banshee magic?"
His friend only grinned, sprinkling salt over the meat. "I already did it."
"Did what?" Fremont snapped, genuinely confused.
"My Power of the Voice."
"When?!"
"When I asked you to pass me the salt."
Fremont stared at him. "That's not— that's not Banshee magic."
"What do you mean?" his friend replied easily. "That's exactly what Laqeramaline and her family taught me."
Fremont shot back. "That's not how Banshee magic works! Where's the command?"
"I told you to pass me the salt."
"Where's the changing, the bending of the laws of reality?!"
His friend shrugged, entirely unbothered. "You passed me the salt."
Which made Fremont even more flabbergasted.
"…That's—" the lich pinched the bridge of his nose, groaning. "That is not bending reality. That is me being polite."
His friend snorted, chewing loudly. "Well, the reality bent just fine. You haven't pass the salt. Now you did anyway. Politely."
"I wanted to see the results of your Banshee magic lessons."
"And yet." His one-eyed friend gestured with his fork. "Salt."
Fremont stared at the shaker as if it had personally betrayed him. "That could have happened without magic."
"It could," his friend agreed cheerfully. "But did it though?"
The lich opened his mouth, shut it, then hissed through his teeth. "You can't just redefine causality because it's convenient."
"Why not?" the man leaned back, chair creaking. "Everyone else does. They just use fancier words for it."
"That's sophistry."
"That's Banshee tradition."
Fremont turned fully toward him now, robes rustling. "Banshee's Vocal Arts requires intent. Force. A command imposed upon the world. A resonance that—"
"That makes people's heads explode, turn into red mists, or dust. Yes, I know how it would be." His friend waved a hand. "Very dramatic. Very messy. Also very... efficient."
"Efficient," Fremont echoed flatly.
"Look," Hi guest said, pointing his fork at him, voice dropping just enough to matter. "I asked. You listened. You acted. The world complied. No screaming, no corpses, no headaches. That's mastery."
The lich's jaw clicked once. "That's manipulation."
"Of reality," his friend finished. "Thank you for noticing, Professor Fremont."
Silence settled between them, broken only by the faint sizzle of meat and the scrape of cutlery. Fremont's gaze drifted back to his books, then stopped halfway.
"…Do it again," he said.
His friend's grin widened, slow and wicked. "Ask nicely."
Fremont did not rise to the bait. "…Command me."
The guest considered him for a moment, then leaned forward, voice mild, almost lazy.
"Pass me the pepper this time, please."
Fremont's hand moved.
Halfway through the motion, he froze.
The shaker slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the table.
"…I can't believe you," Fremont breathed, equal parts horrified and fascinated.
His friend laughed, bright and unrepentant. "Told you. There are wonders outside the books."
And for the first time that night, Fremont did not immediately reach for one.
==========
Some time later—after the plates had been cleared, the wine bottle reduced to an embarrassing memory, and the noise from the neighboring tent had dulled into a distant, rhythmic thump—Fremont finally broke the quiet.
He studied his friend over the rim of his glass.
"So, why are you here," he asked flatly, "in my tent?"
The man blinked. "To enjoy the Lich King's hospitality?"
Fremont didn't even blink back. "Instead of any other lord's tent. Or a knight's. Or—hell—the one right next to us." He tilted his head toward the canvas wall, where the chanting still leaked through. "Why not be over there, dancing and drinking like the drunken peacock you are, until the sun rises through your arse?"
He laughed, loud and easy. "I would, if I could. But my kidney and back ain't as strong as they used to be."
Fremont deadpanned. "You drank three bottles of my wine. I had three glasses."
His guest winced.
"And," Fremont continued calmly, ticking it off on his fingers, "a decade ago you managed to kidnap me. Somehow, in one of Otto's spires. Again. Dragged me into an expedition in Sami. Again. We got lost in the tundra. Again. You survived frostbite that should've taken your arms and legs. And we somehow managed to arrive in Sargon. Miles and miles away from Sami! How the hell did we travel through blizzard, and lands in scorching desert?!"
Pini scratched his cheek, laughing a little more awkwardly now. "Yeah… well. I guess I can still… hold long. You never know. Life's full of mysteries..."
He brightened suddenly. "Besides! You were the one who hogged all our Ursus vodkas—"
That did it.
The mood in the tent shifted—not sharply, but unmistakably. Fremont leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice lower.
"Why are you here, Pini. Truly."
His guest opened his mouth. Closed it. Trying to grin again. "Wh-What do you mean?"
Fremont didn't rise to the deflection.
"This," he said, gesturing vaguely at the world beyond the canvas, "is a gathering of nations. Knights, lords, princes—some kings, even—dragging their banners and egos to a backwater stretch of Kazimierz dirt. Terra's finest, all in one place."
He paused.
"All nations," Fremont continued, eyes steady, "except Kazdel."
Then he pointed, directly, at him.
"And you. A knight of Kazdel. Came uninvited, unannounced. No banners with you. No escort. No one even knows you're here, or that you had infiltrated the ranks."
Silence settled between them.
"So I'll ask you again, for I know in all your idiocies, you are still one of the most clever man I have ever met and known in my long-long life." Fremont said quietly, not unkindly, but without humor.
"Why are you here?"
There was a pause. Long enough for the tent to creak softly in the night wind.
Pini sighed quietly. "Do you want to know the truth?"
Fremont didn't hesitate. He reached for the bottle, poured wine into his own glass, then into Pini's. The red caught the lantern light.
"Yes," he said. "The whole truth. No hidden nonsense. No sidetracking stories."
Pini nodded once and took a sip. He stared into the glass for a moment before speaking.
"The truth is… I didn't know there'd be a gathering like this, Fremont."
Fremont said nothing, only waited.
"I was—" Pini exhaled through his nose. "Exiled. Again. By the King."
Fremont closed his eyes and sighed, deep and long. "Again?"
"Yes."
A short, incredulous chuckle escaped Fremont. "Ylis exiled you again?"
Pini nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yea…"
Fremont leaned back, shaking his head. "This marks the… what? One hundred and forty-first time?"
"Two hundred and twelfth."
Fremont laughed despite himself, pressing his fingers to his temple. "Good lord. And whatever gods and heavens still bother listening."
He looked back at Pini, half-amused, half-exasperated.
"You're Ylis' Kingsguard. You should've just stayed by his side instead of getting exiled over and over for the past century. Did you cause trouble with the Vampire court again? Or is it the Confessarii again this time? Or is it the matter of slavery again? You cannot keep doing this, think of your—"
"I don't care," Pini cut in immediately, waving a hand as if brushing dust off the air. "Reputation, decorum, court whispers—none of it."
He leaned forward, eyes sharp now.
"My achievements already overshadow whatever bad name my antics earned me."
The words weren't boastful. Just certain.
Fremont studied him in silence, the smile fading into something more thoughtful as the noise of distant revelry thudded on, unaware. He gestured with two fingers for him to go on.
Pini nodded and continued, voice steady now.
"And then… I started wandering. Of course."
He let out a breath. "I could've gone back home, stayed in the Convallis until the exile was lifted. But I didn't want to burden Ramiél and her family. So I left her a letter." He tilted his chin toward Fremont. "The reply you just handed me."
Fremont scoffed quietly. "She's always been understanding."
He took a sip of wine, eyes narrowing.
"Which infuriates me every time I see you and your… proclivities. And you indulge them without a shred of guilt. Even when she allows it." A pause. "Somehow."
"Yeah…" Pini cleared his throat and looked away, clearly unwilling to wade into that mire. "Anyway."
He went on.
"So I wandered. Proper exile-style. From Kazdel to Leithanien, then Sargon. After that, Minos. I travelled West and South for years."
He rolled his shoulders, as if shaking dust from old roads. "Eventually, I thought I'd circle back home. Fuck the exile who's gonna stop me? I led my own army there that rivals whatever levies, bannermen, and mercenaries Kazdel can raise. Who the hell's gonna stop me? It ain't the first time I did it. And Ylis hadn't stopped me once!" He clears his throat, "Anyway. On the way, I passed through Kazimierz. Pure chance."
Fremont listened, silent.
"I stayed in the wilds," Pini said. "Only heard news through caravans. Talk of a tourney in southern Kazimierz. Sounded small enough—well, big by some highlord's standards, maybe. Thought I'd join in."
He smiled faintly.
"I've been rusty. Haven't crossed lances with proper knights in the Land of Knights for years. Figured it was time to test myself again. Who knows—maybe unhorse a few Silverlance Pegasi along the way." A brief grin. "As a mystery knight."
Fremont snorted softly but said nothing.
"So I kept travelling," Pini continued. "Picked up a bit of a name among the folk. Nothing grand. Just enough."
Then he lifted a finger, tapping the air lightly.
"Until my most recent travelling companion told me the truth. This 'tourney' I had in mind? It was not a small, name-day tourney. Not even merely a large highlord's celebration tourney."
His expression sharpened.
"It's a grand tourney. Full of lords, princes, and kings from all the great seven nations of Terra."
He paused, finger still raised.
"Except Kazdel."
Pini went on, warming to it now.
"And of course, that's when I got suspicious." He gestured loosely with his cup. "A gathering like this, all nations present—except Kazdel? That stinks of some evil plot. So I sent you a message."
He shot Fremont a look.
"You didn't reply. As usual."
Fremont said nothing.
"I figured you were still stuck with Otto," Pini continued, "buried in that damned tower of his, arguing over footnotes and dead men's wisdoms. So I decided to look into it myself."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Imagine my surprise when, from the outskirts of town, I spotted a Leithanien pavilion flying the banner of Ludwigs-Universität, which got my attention real fast. So I thought—well—if there's a grand gathering like these, and if someone's going to poke at it from every angle for any shred of knowledge and access to gain said knowledge, it'd be you. Social, cultural, political-well, not really, you're not interested in it… whatever it is you liches obsess over."
He huffed a short laugh.
"You're all confusing bastards to deal with, by the way."
Then he shrugged.
"So I gambled. Slipped around the Leithanien camp plot, kept my head down." His lips curved. "And by sheer luck, I saw you stepping out of a tent."
His eyes softened, just a little.
"That's when I knew the gamble paid off."
Pini spread his hands.
"I decided I'd find you later in the evening. Enjoy the town first, let the day settle. Wander. Listen. Watch."
A beat.
"And then—voilà."
He raised his cup slightly toward Fremont.
"Here we are."
Fremont sat with that for a moment, wine held but forgotten.
So that was it.
Not political intrigues. No sabotage. Not some layered Kazdel Royal Court scheme that would end with blood on parchment.
Just… Pini. Again. Dragging strangers into his wake like driftwood after a storm.
He exhaled through his nose. "By chance," he echoed flatly.
Pini nodded, pleased. "Yep. Me and my bad luck." He took another drink.
Bad luck my arse, Fremont thought.
Silence stretched, broken only by the distant thump of drums leaking through the canvas—muted now, but still there, like a headache you couldn't quite shake.
Then Pini leaned forward, lowering his voice just a touch. "By the way, old friend… I need a favor."
Fremont's brow rose immediately. "What do you want now?" His tone sharpened on instinct.
"Whoa, easy," Pini laughed, lifting a hand. "You'll give yourself a heart attack at this rate. Besides—" he pointed lazily with his cup, "—you still owe me from Iberia. Those artifacts? Ringing any bells?"
They rang. Loudly. Painfully.
Fremont looked into his wine, already regretting several lifetimes' worth of decisions.
"Relax," Pini went on. "It's not hard. You remember when I said I had traveling companions?"
Fremont nodded once, noncommittal, and took a sip.
"There were two of them," Pini said. "A hedge knight, and his squire."
Fremont didn't even need to think. "You want me to sponsor them."
Pini shook his head quickly. "No, no. God, no. I'm not asking you to kit him out in shining armor and parade him around like some Leithanien project. That'd look suspicious as hell."
He leaned back, expression turning more serious.
"He's a knight," Pini said. "But a hedge knight. No name, no land. And you know how that goes—people question them. Their vows. Their right to even stand in the lists."
Fremont did know. Too well.
"So," Pini continued, slower now, "I'm asking that if—if—he comes to you. Tomorrow. Or later. Asking for help. Advice. A word. Anything."
He met Fremont's eyes.
"Help him. As much as you reasonably can."
Fremont frowned. "And why can't you?"
Pini snorted. "Because if I do, people start asking questions. Too many. About who I am. Why I care. And then my little mystery knight act collapses, and suddenly half the field wants my head on a pike."
A pause. Then, quieter: "You, though? A foreign lord. A Leithanien eccentric. A scholar with odd hobbies."
He smiled crookedly.
"They'll raise brows, sure. But they'll settle on you just being… you."
Fremont stared at him, long and hard.
Outside, someone shouted Hey! Hey! in time with the drums. It seems that Fremont's silencing arts had slowly started to crack.
Finally, Fremont spoke. "You're asking me to stick my neck out for a man I've never met."
Pini shrugged. "I'm asking you from the bottom of my heart, to give a good kid—a good knight, a fair chance to be a knight. Nothing more."
Silence again.
Fremont closed his eyes briefly, then opened them, tired but clear.
"…If he comes to me," he said at last, "I'll see to it. Knowing you, he might be the good sort of man as you said."
Pini's grin spread instantly. "That's all I asked, nothing more."
Fremont lifted his glass, unimpressed. "Do not make me regret this."
Pini clinked his cup against it lightly.
"Oh, I absolutely will."
They finished their glasses in near silence.
Pini set his cup down first, the faint click of glass on wood sounding louder than it should have. Fremont followed a heartbeat later. When he looked up, the warmth he had allowed himself moments ago was gone—his old friend's one brown eye were cold now, deep and unreadable.
The air in the tent shifted.
The distant music from the neighboring pavilion seemed thinner somehow, as if even it sensed the change. The lamps burned lower. Shadows stretched and stiffened along the canvas walls.
Pini straightened in his chair. He rapped his fingers on the armrest.
His voice, when it came, was calm—too calm.
"Now tell me, old friend," he said evenly, eye fixed on Fremont, "why have all seven great nations of Terra gathered in this town?"