Man-Slayer

Future Past Series

Creaks from the aged boards beneath her feet echoed with the finality of funeral bells. The sulfuric dust lay heavily upon the blackened brass furniture, and floor, this gave her a clear sight of where the demon was lying in wait. 

Large set of hooves imprinted into the dust, scraping along, leading into the cavity beneath the stairway leading to the roof of the old tower. 

Lifting her phylactery sword in a thrusting poise, she slowly led with her striking foot, the only noise was the creaking and the quiet slicing of the glass blade against open air. Before the red eyed, black gorilla beast could charge out from the shadows, the sword was already heaved back, the strain tightening to a deathly degree. 

With quiet calculations, Schymtar brought her sword to blow against the thick furred arm of the beast. The tartarus fiend howled out, as it grasped the ichor spewing stub where its arm was once attached. Severed and on the ground, still twitching, slowly withering as its oily black ichor drained from its limb, turning into a gnarled and shriveled skeletal branch. 

Before the demon could lash out in vengeance, the sickle point of the sword dug into its throat, and with the suction of a giant leach drained the ichor from the demon. The phylactery sword that the Anvyre glass artisans called Qwentyear, trained the black ichor through its needle tip, and through its many glass veins drained it downward into its distiller in the hilt. 

An ancient mechanism churned and from the miracle of enchanted engineering, the demon’s ichor filled the flask that was the sword’s hilt with cool, fresh, flawless water. 

Haven’t had a drink in many weeks, she nearly collapsed to her knees as the apeish demon fell over, completely shriveled as an entombed corpse. Unscrewing the flask from the hilt, she could feel the dry, stickiness in her throat start to scrape together, begging her for a precious draft. 

Guzzling down its contents, her thirst was so great, it became a madness inducing weakness that needed to be soothed without delay. Breathing out in harsh huffs, she couldn’t breathe as she drained the contents, and once she finished, she could barely catch her breath. 

After recovering, she screwed back on the flask, and looked down at the disfigured mummified remains of the demon, who had reverted back to resembling the human he was before—Duke Falgriff, the Lord of a dynasty that preceded the miserable world humans now live in; formally a man of righteousness, and justice, he was seduced by the eld’dwidian sciences, and drank of profane blood of the Earth. 

The Four element, the forbidden corner piece of the trinity is the stuff that turns any who imbibe its black oil into demons of the pantheon of the Unholy Zodiac. 

Cancer Cultists were most likely behind the Duke’s descent, as they are a sign of their calligraphy on the very stonework of the town. She may be needed to weed out the roots of Cancerous Evil, for they may become too embedded in the community to be rooted without a full on purge. 

Descending the tower, she was eager for her pay, enough water to last her many months, allowing her to return to Fafhalla with enough water to make it there and back to Dracnigagae. Years have passed since she returned to the hallowed halls of her heavenbound home, but with dwindling water reserved, people are less willing to pay in large enough volume to last the voyage. 

Grateful to the Glass Master’s skill that her sword had lasted this long, and may possibly last even longer still, but one day the blade will be too dull to be of use, and she must return. Hoping she had enough water stored away by then, she left the tower, into the mist-covered streets of Qarm Hos’na. 

There the chamberlain was awaiting her return, his narrow yellow eyes found her in a heartbeat, and a smirk came over his heavily mustached face. 

Approaching him, she knelt before her benefactor and bowed her bald, showing off the pale pearly gleam on her scalp. 

“I have fulfilled the contract as written, the demon shall trouble you no more, yet the demon appears not to be the abductor of your master, the Duke, but rather…he has become the demon.” 

Chamberlain feigned surprise, though Schymtar could see his insincerity, which made her suspicious of his intent, and true character. 

“So, you have killed the beloved Duke Falgriff?” his smirk became a sneering grin. 

“He could not be saved, if you—” she was cut off by his sharp interruption that sliced through her words like a guillotine. 

“—Enough! You killed the Duke, for this I believe it is fair you forfeit your bounty.” the chamberlain’s loudness brought the people out of their dwellings, as they heard only the most controversial of the conversation. 

“The Dukes dead?” 

“Oh, the Dragon protects us.” 

“What shall we do?” 

The crowd of serfs and peasants encircled the two, and Schymtar thought it best to rise to her feet. 

“Yes, good people of Qarm Hos’na, our beloved Lord has been slain, by this devil, and therefore must be expelled from our town.'' In those words, she finally realized his ploy, to get rid of a dangerous demon in town, and not having to pay such a hefty bounty. He probably agreed to a lake's worth of water, since he had no intention of honoring the bargain. 

“You promise—!” Schymtar was belted with a large stone that bruised her brow, and caused a flow of pinkish crimson to leak from her wound. More stones were throat, many bounced off her Anvyre platemail armor, but her exposed head was abused were pebbles, filthy, and rotted produce. 

“Chase this slayer from out town!” Chamberlain roused the people into a vehement rage, grabbing their pitchforks, spades, and woodcutting axes; they chased her through the gates of the town. 

As children watched from open windows and alleyways, women hissing and booing from safety, and the men chasing her with the threat of a lethal beating to the gates. 

Stopping at the archway of the towngate, the people watched as the wounded demon slayer was forced from their streets, out into the sulfuric wastes from the outside world. 

Standing at the forefront of the crowd, the Chamberlain flashed another sneering smile. “I hereby banish you from this town and these lands, Schymtar Man-Slayer, begone and never return, or you’re head will be stuck on a pike!” 

To this the crowd cheered, and shut closed the town gates, leaving Schymtar exiled and cheated from her just reward. 

Turning her back on Qarm Hos’na, Schymtar went off into the wastes, her silhouette slowly vanishing in the haze of floating dust in the wasteland air. 

***

Prince Kin was in the Tavern Of Lost Hope, a dismal refuge for the wretched and outcasts of the East Highlands. The royal cloak and hood of the crimson Dragon, Y Ddraig Goch had acted as a sacred shield, barring him from any unwashed hands and daggers. 

However the eternal suffering of laying harm on those of the royal blood, divine caretakers of the Divine Dragon would only purchase him so much safety in such a deprived establishment. 

Despite proudly wearing his heritage, what also offered him protection was the Swordmaster Graffphyr and Spearchampion Pyrladin who stood guard over him, as if he were a lion cub in his parents' den. Throwing threatening glares, and baring their weapons in proud dignity in their guardianship of their charge. 

Neither said anything, it was not their place to judge the prince, though he was not yet a man, he was wise enough to rule should his father be disposed of. Which was sadly the state of the crown of Labyrinth Castle, the capital of the East Highlands. 

Sadly the duty of the prince slaying a corrupted father was a tradition held when the blood of royalty was strong, with the vibrancy of the world. Grimly as the state of the continent of Aznogaea has been on the decline, where many believe the planet and the whole universe was dying, the divine strength in their blood has waned. 

So much so that Prince Kin may be the last of the Tyraianaax name to be able to caretaker for the Crimson Dragon, a duty he already has trouble performing with half the deftness of his father. For generations the son has found it more difficult than the last, to withstand the Dragon’s Seduction, and indulge in the profane, and imbibe the Dragon’s blood as a sacrament. 

The Dragon Eucharist would kill lesser men, but to that of royal blood it makes them draconic avatars of the Dragon. This however, due to the poisoning of the Earth by the  eld’dwidian oil beneath Brume Mountain, has caused both Dragon and King to become monsters. 

Insane demonic beings that feel neither shame in their unfiltered vile and hatred for mankind, and would expunge lives with little cause. That last case of a King taking the Crimson Dragon’s Eucharist ruled the land for nearly a eon. Before accidentally creating a progeny from his rampant rape of the populace. 

Once grown the bastard son slew his father, and the Crimson Dragon was reborn—the prince’s father, Arawn Tyraianaax was that bastard son. The King’s Magician prophesied that the second King in a row to take the eucharist was a dire omen, that if it happened once more, would signal the end of not only the Earth, but the stars and sky as well—Black Time, the apocalypse, utter darkness for all eternity. 

To fight against another reign of tyranny that might last longer than a eon, Prince Kin has sought out a demon slayer, one of some renown. Lifting his headed brow, he saw her enter the tavern. 

Rainfall had filled the boots of her plate armor, and made it uncomfortable for her to wear. Entering the tavern she saw her latest employer, seated at the largest table by the fire, where he was beheaded by the Prince. 

Approaching him dutifully she was able to pass through his two sentries without hindrance, and with respect knelt before the Prince, who offered his right hand. The royal ring on his finger gleamed with gold and crimson rubies. 

“Schymtar Man-Slayer, I have heard of your deeds, your name has reached even the high towers of the Crimson Towers.” he felt a tightness in his youthful heart when he felt her violet lips touch his ring, and graze his finger. 

“I do not care for that title your grace, I ask that you refer to me by my name alone.” she rose, and was offered a seat opposite of the Prince. 

Removing her platemail whose lining had become wet from the rain, placed it near the flame so it could be dried out by the heat. Wearing a skintight long sleeved black shirt and pants, she sat opposite to the Prince unburdened by the uncomfortable mugginess of her soaked armor. 

Feeling the heat relieved her body, as it had become sore of the sulfuric tainted rains, and the pain of her laborious travels. 

As she looked at what part of the Prince’s face poked through his hood, she could see him blush with boyish nervousness. Took a moment for her to realize her breast size was ample and noticeable through her tight fitting shirt. 

“Pardon my appearance, your grace, I am more comfortable outside the burden of my armor.” She gave an assuring smile to the Prince who smiled back and removed his hood, revealing his golden skin, and ruby eyes. 

Long locks of raven hair flowed from his head, and those brigands who spied on him from the dark of the tavern, were awestruck by his UnEarthly beauty. 

At first the Prince took pride in how people in the tavern regarded his looks with such worship, but was a bit dumbfounded when Schymtar showed no reaction to him uncovering his face. Feeling spurned at first, his pout turned into a smile, as he understood he was dealing with no ordinary being, he was speaking to another race, one far closer to the heavens than he was in his earthbound kingdom. 

“Schymtar I am truly amazed by your race, what others see a peculiarities, I marvel at with the eagerness of true fanatic.” the Prince smiled at her, hoping to catch a sliver of her interest. 

“I appreciate the Prince’s compliments, but I must insist we discuss the business of the contract.” her eyes instinctively turned to Qwentyear that lay by her armor, unsheathed, stained crimson by the flames of the fireplace. 

“Then I shall not waste your time and skill—” the Prince lifted up his open hand, and the Spearchampion dutifully put a scroll in his grasp. 

Unrolling it, he presented a inked contract with a Royal Insignia on the bottom, that of the form of the crimson Dragon. 

From the Offices Of High Chamberlain of the Royal House Of Trainiax. 

A payment of fifty, one gallon bottles of fresh, spring water will be made payable, upon the completion of the execution of King Arawn Tyraianaax, by one Schymtar Man-Slayer.

The bottom of the contract was pre-signed by Prince Kin. 

“Are these terms acceptable?” the Prince smiled as he saw her black pearl sized eyes grow larger as he imagined she saw the payment of the contract. 

Schymtar with that much water could return to Fafhalla and back three times over, it was indeed a kingly reward. Though she had been spurned before, as there had been those that reneged on their offer, after she fulfilled her end of the contract. 

This time the contract was being offered by a Prince, one whose reputation and honor are to be carefully cultivated, and be considered beyond reproach. 

“Yes.” she answered, and was handed a pen to sign her name to seal the pact. 

Rising from the bench, Schymtar then put on her nearly dried armor, preparing to head out to see the job done. 

“You do not need to go now Schymtar, please stay awhile longer.” the Prince insisted but that didn’t slow her actions. 

“I must not delay, any hesitation could lead to procrastination, and finally abandonment. I will head out now for Labyrinth Castle." She lifted her sword and after tying it to her side she began to leave. 

“Then permit me and my guardians to escort you to the gates at least, I should feel far more at ease if you are safely shepherded to your destination.” Prince Kin, despite knowing better, grabbed her arm, trying to prevent her from rushing off without him; upon realizing his impulsive action, he blushed and released his hold. 

“I will not object to your guidance, but I must forbid you from entering the city. Not only for your safety, but any interference in my task could cause me to fatally falter.” at this perceived slight, Spearchampion and Swordmaster menaced her, but the Prince halted their aggressive stances before she noticed. 

“As you wish, Lady Schymtar.” the Prince said with a coy smile. 

“I am not a Lady your grace.” With that, the four of them departed the inn, leaving only stories that the patrons will share for many years thereafter. 

***

Days of traveling the brimstone encaked highlands of the east, after the foursome came over a rise of hills, they saw the gargantuan complex known as Castle Labyrinth. A sprawling metropolitan city beyond the scope of all other civilizations on the continent. With the highest population in the lands, its giant sized walls dwarf a man by a scale in the hundreds of thousands. 

Stairs of intricate design were built by dwarven architects of old so that one spends only minutes ascending a thousand step stair, instead of a lifetime. Lower city streets, commingle with the serpentine high walls that guard, and quarter the district of the castle into proper tiers. Towers nearly touching the clouds house ancient secrets and chambers of ceremony for the royal family. 

The bridge leading to the royal castle is guarded by two colossal gatehouses that guard both entrances into the maze-like system of passages, stairwells, and streets. Smog shrouds it in an unholy haze, that the dark orange sun in the sky could not penetrate. 

Days more they traveled, exhausting themselves from dawn to dusk, drawing ever closer to the fabled labyrinth, only to be away from the fleeing groups of citizens of the castle. Many were left to die in the wastes, one such body they saw seated on a stone, his body solidified with layers of ash.

Hopeless, daunted by the threat of their mad king, they return to the wastes, to suffer through the harshness of the wilderness, till they can return home again. The Prince Kin watched his eyes filled with pity, and dread at the penultimate failure of his father. 

Finally one the fifth day, they climbed the last rise of cliffs, and once they ascended they had a less than a mile stretch to the city’s edge. Dwarfed by the sheer size of the gatehouses, they didn’t notice the dark silhouette awaiting them on the bridge. 

Not till they came within earshot of speaking did the smog part and they saw See’raath The Hammer standing guard at the gate. Seneschal to King Arawn. Wearing his war regalia, he hadn’t been fully dressed in his masked warhelm and cuirass since the Lagoon Wars. 

Prince Kin gestured to his guardians and Schatar to stay behind, as he approached See’raath. 

Stories Kin heard as a young boy, about The Hammer’s legacy of battle, wielding a giant mace, so big it eclipses a horse and rider, he has slain hundreds if not thousands on the battlefield. Demon slayer, and loyal to the throne, See’raath would die and kill for his liege, including the Prince if he was determined to slay his father. 

“You disappoint me Prince.” The Hammer spoke in a chilled, sardonic tone. “A boy to slay his father, what a disgrace.” 

“My father did the same when he was my age.” Prince Kin defended his sense of honor. 

Lifting his mace upwards, See’raath slammed it into the ground, causing a quack that seemed to cause the entire castle complex to shudder. 

“Your father has his reasons, you have no cause, no strength. Come Prince, prove your mettle.” 

The two protectors tried to rush to their charges’ side, but he bid them stop with eyes of stern forbiddance. Drawing his rapier from its sheath, the Silver Sliver, the Prince squared off against his father’s seneschal. 

Before he could get his feet firmly planted in the ashy dirt, The Hammer lifted his hammer with the ease of a man hurling about a pillow full of feathers, and with the spinning grace of a dancer, came burling about, spinning his weapon about, in preparation for a cataclysmic impact. 

Standing still, Prince Kin could sense the nervousness of his guardians for his safety—except for the Demon Slayer, Schymtar her aura felt as cool as spring water on his toes. With a sprite step he moved forward, and thrusted his rapier into a layer of chainmail that covered his neck. Stabbing inward, the tip of the rapier just stung the jugular of the titan of a knight, and before the mace could be brought down upon him, Prince Kin slid away from the blow.

When the mace hammer the ground, shattering the stone it impacted, unleashing a cloud of dust buried centuries ago, just as a stream of blood flowed from See’raath’s neck. 

Clutching his neck, The Hammer gave out a grim chuckle. “Did you expect I should die before you?” 

“I suspect I shall grieve for you, as I will my father. I shall have you entombed with honors, noble Hammer.” Prince Kin had genuine sorrow in his voice. 

“I shall fight against this curse…till death!” Lifting his mace, The Hammer charged at the Prince, who with a solemn, resigned face, leapt, ducked, effectively dodging each blow, that if struck would utterly destroy his body. 

With each liter of blood drained, the mace wielding knight went slower, sluggish in his strikes, and breathed harder, as if he couldn’t retain a breath for more than a few moments. Finally in desperation, he leaned back, priming his mace for a last desperate maneuver, and after taking aim, he flung his weapon towards the prince, as it spun perilously around. 

For a moment the three bystanders believed Prince Kin might choose to give up his life, as he didn’t move—up till the mace eclipsed their sight of him, they were all relieved to see the mace didn’t strike him, instead it flew on and landed several feet away, burying itself in the dirt. 

Huffing echoed within the knight’s helmet, See’raath fell to his knees as if overcome by the awesome power of the Crimson Dragon. “...you passed the test…if you moved you’d have died…you are worthy to—” the blood stream slowed down to a trickle, then nothing, as the knight went silent. 

Slumping forward, The Hammer passed on from life, and at this the Prince’s face contorted as if his heart was being twisted out of his chest. With a scream of utter turmoil, the air echoed with his grief, as he clutched at his chest, to try and seize the pain, wrecking his body. 

“Must I face such sorrow again?! Schymtar! Go to my father, end this for I am too weak to kill anymore of my loves.” 

The Demon Slayer understood the Prince was enraptured in so much suffering, and she wondered perhaps he hired her, to spare him the agony of slaying his own father. Ready to perform her end of the bargain, she climbed the steps to the bridge, and jogged across it, towards the castle keep at its ends. 

***

The soldiers and knights remained in their quarters, too afraid to leave safety, as the city became overrun with the clouds of evil. A miasma spurting forth from the darkest dens of subterranean terrors. Spiders the size of horses, trolls, and harpies have settled into the Labyrinth Castle. 

From up high, Schymtar could see nests of the vile winged she-beasts filling the belfries of towers, and the chimneys of abandoned homes. Once the throne was restored to purity, evil will fade from the castle and all will be well, and the journey across the bridge may have taken weeks on foot, but to reach the castle gates took mere hours. 

The parted gargantuan iron doors were flung wide open, inviting any to enter the inner sanctum of the royal house. Snores of the sleeping Dragon were echoing high above, Y Ddraig Goch sounded as if he was in absolute misery. 

Taking in its blood had caused a mutation in its divine body, making it age swiftly, and losing its mind to a violent dementia. Still retaining its strength, it was begging for death, which will only come with the end of King Arawn. 

Entering the silver stone keep, she saw the architecture of ancient dwarves being built over by grand human designs. Everywhere was a monument to the God Dragon, nothing was meant to divide praise between the Dragon and the Royal family. If anything it was obvious the royal family were merely the best servants under the rule of the Crimson Dragon. 

Gazing up at the mountain high ceiling, she moved her sight to beyond the staircase where a colossal stone mural was made. Depicting the glory of the Crimson Dragon as it overlooked the Castle Labyrinth, and spurning the eld’dwidian evils from down below. 

Placed on an elevated platform, with narrow stairs leading up to it, stood affixed to the marble pillar was the Crimson Throne, a metallic seat of power, made of many spikes and bejeweled edges. Seated on the throne was the Mad King Arawn. Face riddles with open sores, where underneath his malting flesh were crimson scales. 

Eyes dark with blood red embers for eyes, he looked more draconic than man, yet had a sense of evil about him, as his long golden hair became rigid and sharp. 

“My boy…didn’t have the courage to die by my blade?” Arawn’s wings outstretched, revealing he had crowned the wings of a crimson Dragon. As he climbed down from his throne, his scorpion-like tail swayed all around, dripping blood red venom. “A filthy vampyre he sends?!” 

“I am Anymore, Schymtar of the heavens, come to put you to rest noble king.'' She tried to gauge the progress of the Dragon’s blood in his veins, but he had undoubtedly a taunt of Cancer in his body. 

“How kind.” Arawn spat it out as if his mouth was filled with poison. “Let me return this kindness—” he conjured from the ether into his hand, the fabled Tyraianaax sword, passed down from King to his successor since the beginning of the line. The crimson blade Excellmuter, a sword five times the width of an average weapon, with the waverly edges of fire, it burns as it slices through foes. Since its corruption, it bleeds black-crimson ichor as Cancerous flames eat at Arawn’s hand. “—accept it with my blessing.” 

Soaring towards Schymtar, Arawn’s wings were widespread, as his talons and sword sought to test Anvyre metalwork. Clutching her forearm, the deranged king tried to pierce the talons on his heel, into her armor, to dig into her flesh. However the metal of her people was strong, almost as strong as the knowledge and skills of her people, in their mastery of metal smithing. 

Despite the force of the talons to the metal, the spear sharp nails cracked and snapped, sending them to the ground with a scattering scratching sound. Ichor poured from the severed claws, and as they bled on her armored forearm, it bubbled as it ate at the protective metal, barely melted off its finishing. 

Swinging her sword, Qwentyear at the mad king, her blade met with the crimson sword, and both hummed with siren vibrations. Both were nearly equal, but to which blade was superior was a question that needed to be tested. 

Landed on the ground, Arawn put his weight into the blade, believing his strength would floor her, but she was wise in the ways of close combat. Where Arawn excelled in open field combat, he was easily out maneuvered by dishonorable tactics. Just as the Mad King bored down with Excellmuter, she planted her foot in his lead ankle, and tripped him, as he fell forward, his eyes went wide in surprise as he fell chest first into the phylactery sword. 

The cloth of his raiment tore apart, as he impaled himself on the sharp glass blade, which tore through his chest and pierced his heart. 

In the throes of sardonic madness, Arawn believed his wound was not mortal, even as the sword drank his vile blood, and refined it into the finest water. Swinging his sword at the disarmed Schymtar he barely managed to scratch the back of her cuirass. 

Leaving a deep, wounding scratch, that would burn her flesh if the metal in her armor was not of more resilient binding. Not having the strength to lift Excellmuter, Arawn dropped it to the ground, as it burned the stone tile around the weapon. 

Looking at the Demon Slayer with an exhausted face, and dying eyes his defeated shock turned to a sadistic sneer. “Would you kill my son when his time comes?” 

“I believe Prince Kin is a valiant heart, and will not fall into the same temptation.” she narrowed her sight, feeling slighted on behalf of the Prince. 

“You think it's purely temptation…fools…all of you, don’t you see…without the blood…we will—” the last of his vital blood was drained from him, and he died on his last words. 

Ichor and Divine Dragon blood churned in the swords distillery, and into the flask poured the sparkling prize of the purest, and rarest of waters, the Water Of Life. Just seeing it fill the flask made her thirsty, but she had to deny herself, for it wasn’t hers to drink. Blood of the father purified must be given to the son. 

Drawing the blade from the deceased King Arawn, she watched as the once formidable strength of the monarch was reduced to bones and ashes, as the fire was extinguished and devoured all but cinders. 

“Rest well your Highness, may the Dragon’s Flame light your way.”

Leaving the keep, she went back across the bridge, now hearing no more sounds of the Crimson Dragon, but far up in his perch, she saw a brilliance of chaotic flame, wanting to be reborn. 

***

Kneeling before Prince Kin, Schymtar presented him with the flask filled with the Waters Of Life. “Drink this, and you shall be King.” she assured. 

Taking the flask from her hand, Prince Kin turned to his guardians, both Swordmaster and Spearchampion couldn’t disguise their pride, in watching their charge ascend to a seat most highest. Rewarding their loyalty, he took the flask, and drank deep the waters, feeling it wash away the impurities of his blood. 

Once he finished every drop he was reborn, his eyes once gold turned crimson, so did his hair, he was of the Dragon, and he was King. 

Kneeling before him, his loyal champions silently swore fealty undying. In the distance the smog evaporated from the city, and the monsters were blinded by a brilliant golden-scarlet light from the tallest tower in the Castle. From there the Crimson Flame was solidified, growing in size and scope, and in its light all evil was disintegrated and the loyal were rewarded with a realm resurrected. 

A cry as playful as a birdsong, yet as fierce as thunder rang out, and the newborn Scarlet Dragon flew to the new Kings side. He would be known as Nimbate and though he was the size of a crane, he would be ridden upon by King Kin, The Scarlet King. 

Days later as people returned to the Labyrinth Castle, Schymtar departed with her bounty of water, given to her in a horse drawn cart. Despite the desires of the Castle court to hold celebration and spectacle for Schymtar’s service to the crown, King Kin obliged her wishes and allowed her to leave without fanfare with her prize. 

Standing at the west gate of the castle, there were only the King’s guard, the King, and the Man-Slayer present there, as Schymtar and King Kin shared their farewells. 

“I understand your desire to leave, but do not underestimate the debt the crown and its people owe to you. This water is to settle the contract, but you can ask for much more.” Kin tried to change her mind, he wanted her to stay, become one of his champions. 

“If I were to stay, swear loyalty to you, then my obligation will be towards you primarily, and not to those who need my service. Your Grace, I beg your pardon and though I am sure we can spend lifetimes in conversation alone, Fafhalla calls to me, and I wish to follow." Her words were filled with sympathy, offering no concession or debate. 

“I shall see you off then, and I beg return from time to time, I have grown used to having you around Schymtar, Demon-Slayer.” King Kin, boyishness though matured in his rebirth, had blushed to the surface on his masculine nose and high cheekbones. 

“Perhaps.” she said as if she believed that to be a possibility. With no more words shared, she climbed onto the wagon, and drove the horse on, down the road into the haze surrounding the now glowing Castle.