Chapter 80: DD3 Chapter 026 – Insanity

Arilla moved the wooden brush in small, concentric circles over the surface of the fire-blackened metal. With a firm grip, she held the helmet in place with one hand and slowly scrubbed it with the other. The amount of force she was exerting through the brush was quite extreme, and if she wasn’t careful the helmet was liable to slip from her grasp. The last time she’d let that happen, it had flown across the room and gone on to crack the wooden panelling that lined the chamber. Arilla had enjoyed startling the nobles who crowded in around her, but it was hardly productive and she felt guilty for wasting money on what would inevitably result in an frivolous and expensive repair. 

The reason for her forceful actions was simple. Her runeplate was filthy and she could no longer bear to wear it. Arilla intended to fix that, partly because it would be a grotesque waste to discard it, but also because she knew that it was tied to her. Its stains reflected the stains on her soul, and if she could clean it, then maybe there was hope for her yet. 

A thick layer of ash had bonded to the metal, and the iron bristles affixed to her brush had so far been unable to remove them. When her servants had cautiously conveyed their initial failure, she’d sent her runeplate to her armorsmiths who’d hesitantly handed it right back. 

There was nothing they could do because in their eyes nothing was wrong.

[The Ashen King’s Crown]

First forged in Rhelea’s Grand Furnaces, and then again above ancient stones of the Old Road, this suit of adamantine and steel alloys carries with it the ashes of the unjustly fallen.

Having been quenched in dragonblood and then carved with numerous protective runes, this helmet offers excellent protection against both magical and mundane attacks. Once it has exhausted the mana stored within it, it will draw upon the user’s reserves to mitigate damage and enact a limited self-repair ability.

When worn as a complete set, the Ashen King’s Crown grants an additional 50 to the wearer’s effective charisma score, and a scaling fear effect that is limited to affecting humans.

This item is capable of growth.

Mana [500/500].

[Slayer’s Sight] had finally reached a point that it now let Arilla read the descriptions of items the System deemed sufficiently magical to warrant them. It was a prized ability, especially for those who made a habit of looting artefacts from the dead or found themselves forced to deal with untrustworthy merchants. Arilla was neither of those and instead of celebrating this important milestone, she found herself frequently cursing it as she missed the ignorance she’d once enjoyed.

Simply glancing towards her armour left her with a profound feeling of self-disgust. Her formerly red runeplate was now stained an incriminating black, and every piece of it had spontaneously changed to form the lofty-sounding ‘Ashen King’s Raiment’. When worn together it was by far the most powerful suit of armour she’d ever seen, yet how could she be expected to wear it when she knew where that impressive strength came from?

It was like Typh said; ‘belief has power,’ and in their final moments, the innumerable foot soldiers of the north had believed that the Dragonrider—not the dragon—had demanded their deaths. Large parts of Astresia still thought Typh was nothing but a dumb beast, and that it was Arilla who was the brains behind it all. That misconception had crystalised on the day the north had fallen. The mana all those soldiers had released when they died beneath a blanket of golden dragonfire had changed her armour just as surely as it had changed her. 

Typh had reaped the majority of the experience, but even with the Old Roads’ habit of twisting things, more than enough mana had been left over to feed her class, the kobolds, and her runeplate. Perhaps, if she had been a triumphant hero on that day, then maybe the System or the Gods would have given her a golden suit to show her virtue. But she hadn’t. On that day, she’d accepted the need to perform a necessary evil, and had been rewarded with something undeniably malignant. 

It was a monstrosity too valuable for her to ignore, a perfect reminder of her choice to prioritise necessity over morality.

Gauntlets for strength, greaves for speed, a breastplate for vitality, and pauldrons for will. Gods help her, even the fucking gorget was enchanted, granting her an impressive increase to her intelligence score, and letting her spit a cone of scalding ashes in exchange for its stored mana. She hadn’t tested it—she hadn’t worn a single piece of her armour since returning to Helion, and she planned on keeping it that way for as long as she could.

But Arilla knew that one-day necessity would demand that the King of the North don her raiment. She just hoped to clean it a little before then.

Arilla glared at her helmet—the worst offender in her eyes. The ashes that coated her armour were not entirely uniform, and around the brow of her helm, a fucking crown had formed. She squeezed it between her fingers and it crumbled, flaking off into dust that coated her lap. A few seconds later it reformed, perfectly regal as ever. 

If she ever put it on, she’d look like an archvillain out of the stories; clad in black and trailing the cremated remains of her victims. She hated it, but what she hated more was that given all she’d done, it was growing increasingly hard to argue that she stood on the side of good and justice. The only upside to her ‘crown,’ was that the prattling nobles she now had to deal with had stopped demanding she wear one made of gold since they’d heard about her armour.

Apparently, her ashen crown was impressive enough.

“Your Grace, if you could leave your armour alone for just a moment: we have some very important matters to discuss,” Lady Iulia said, and Arilla pointedly ignored her. 

The warrior moved her brush harder over the blackened metal, causing the iron bristles to bend before the unyielding ash. Arilla frowned and felt her frustrations against the stubborn obstacle mirrored in the noblewoman before her. The fact that Arilla knew she was being a piss-poor ruler didn’t exactly incentivise her to be better. She hadn’t wanted Rhelea and had largely turned over the city’s administration to Typh—which effectively meant Halith was in charge of the day-to-day. Now, Arilla had twenty-two high nobles sworn to her name, and a thin tendril of power connected her to each and every one of them. It was maddening. 

They kept her awake at night with their constant streams of resentment. She felt their jealousy, rage, and hatred towards her all transmitted through their shared bond. It was nothing like the reassuring warmth she had once felt back when she’d been tied to Typh. Now instead of comfort, all she got was hostility, and was unrelenting. She was so desperate for that to change that a part of her ached for them to betray her—so she could justify killing them and carve their whining thoughts out of her head. 

She suspected they could feel that urge through the bond too. 

What remained important, was that their hateful intentions never stepped over into the treasonous, and while Arilla didn’t understand how she knew that, she did.

The northern nobles of Terythia despised her, and—whether it was truly her, or her classes agonised wailings—Arilla despised them in turn. She loathed the responsibility they’d foisted onto her, yet as much as Typh complained, Arilla couldn’t pass the burden of their ‘loyalty’ onto the dragon—the nobles wouldn’t stand for it and thanks to their bond, Arilla couldn’t even contemplate the thought without feeling their tethers threaten to snap. 

Her head was a tumultuous mess of conflicting thoughts and urges. She had been struggling with her class before, but now twenty-two nobles were fused to her soul and Arilla couldn’t handle it. She neither had the intelligence score to parse through the myriad of voices nor the willpower to ignore them, all she had was the charisma which, crucially, allowed her to maintain her sense of self. Which was perhaps the only thing allowing her to keep it together. 

It was all too much, and so Arilla sat in her fancy chair while she moved her brush in slow, deliberate circles. It was grounding—reassuring even. It didn’t matter that her attempts to clean away an unwanted enchantment were arguably insane, she kept at it because the alternative was to draw her sword and swing until the voices were silent. 

Arilla’s prolonged lack of a response hadn’t gone unnoticed, and Lady Iulia along with the handful of others who’d journeyed south to help establish Arilla’s court, looked at her like she was unhinged.

Maybe she was.

Arilla glanced over at Rolf who had quietly taken a seat and joined her Privy Council’s table. The ghost sat in a conveniently empty chair and seemed content to grin with delight as he silently watched over the proceedings. He was getting blood everywhere and Arilla had to remind herself several times that the stains he was leaving behind weren’t real.

Nervous looks were exchanged between Lady Iulia and Lord Kiose. Arilla didn’t even have to look up from her helmet to know that. Amongst the dizzying clamour inside her head, their feelings were the strongest thanks to their proximity. They’d risked more than most by coming to Helion. Not a lot—Arilla’s eventual victory over the south was all but assured—but if she did somehow fail, the nobles in this room were looking at much stiffer consequences than those who’d remained in their northern strongholds. She should reward the risk they’d taken, but the best Arilla could manage was words.

The reluctant King sighed. Her brush briefly paused its repetitive motions and she looked up.

“What do we have to discuss?” she asked.

“Many, many things, Your Grace,” Lord Kiose said despairingly, and his tone earned him a raised eyebrow from Arilla, along with a communal look of exasperation from the other nobles in the room. Everyone knew that Arilla was a terrible King, but he’d come the closest to actually saying it. It made her smile despite herself. The aged noble quickly realised his mistake and cleared his throat as if to begin again. “Most critically, Your Grace, you have yet to formally establish a court. While we understand the palace is currently unavailable, you need a location to receive dignitaries, formal petitions, and guests. This is to say nothing of securing space for your administrative staff to work—administrative staff who you’ve yet to hire.”

“Isn’t this place good enough?” Arilla asked.

“Gods no!” Lord Kios exclaimed loudly.

“What my noble colleague means to say, Your Grace. Is that we are currently squatting in a manor owned by Lord Nauron. While this is barely tolerable for now, it is only because he has raised arms against you. When peace comes you will have to give it back,” Lady Iulia said. “Which brings us smoothly to our next issue. The Northern Lords have signed a joint petition requesting their estates within Helion be returned to them with the utmost urgency, and that anyone—humans or otherwise—currently residing in their properties be promptly evicted. The petition also demands compensation for damages, inconvenience and… overdue rent.”

“You’re kidding… they want back-rent?!” Arilla said in disbelief, and the nobles sitting around the table simply stared back at her with stone-faced expressions. They were not kidding. Arilla sighed. “I’ll raise it with Halith the next time I see her.”

“That’s another problem, Your Grace,” Lady Iulia continued. “Halith has far too much influence over your affairs. It was one thing when you were merely, Lord Traylan, and it was Rhelea you were neglecting, but this is Helion. It is the pride of Terythia and it can not be administered by a ratling.

“Furthermore—”

“There’s more?” Arilla asked, and Lady Iulia shot her a furious glance.

“Of course there’s more! Issues don't just magically disappear when you avoid them for a week!” she snapped.

 

“If I may interrupt, Your Grace,” Lord Kiose said while Lady Iulia fumed. “The issue with Halith can be summarised as this; we’re paying you a considerable amount of gold in taxes only for you to then hand it all directly over to a beast most of us are still struggling to accept as a person. You are our King, not the dragon, and certainly not the rat. We have no idea how our money is being spent and it’s concerning that you don’t seem to know either.

“You need to immediately disentangle Terythia’s finances from the dragon’s and appoint a proper finance minister to oversee the realm. If you want to pay the Lord Sovereign a tithe, fine, but the current state of affairs is unacceptable to us.”

“Is that all?” Arilla asked, and her brush moved faster in her hand as her frustrations grew.

“No. There’s still the issue of unrestricted classes that we need to address,” Lord Nixian began. “It’s one thing for us to accept giving them to anyone who asks—and for free no less—but some classes are frankly abhorrent and have no place in a civilised society. We’ve drawn up a list of those we wish to outlaw immediately.”

A folded piece of paper soon found its way into Arilla’s hands, and when she read it, it was more or less what she’d expected. Bandit, Diabolist, Thief, Murderer, Assassin, and of course, Necromancer, were all on the list along with a few others that raised an eyebrow but not much else. Arilla folded the piece of paper once and put the list to her side, allowing her to resume scrubbing with her brush.

“I can see why you want to get rid of some of these, but Typh’s law is clear, we’re to punish people for their actions, not for the urges their classes may impart,” Arilla said.

“You’re our King, we don’t care about the dragon’s laws, and we want you to outlaw them,” Lord Nixian continued.

“Necromancer is on this list,” she said simply.

“So?” the nobleman asked.

“So, it’s not going to happen, Tamlin—Typh’s apprentice—is one. He saved a lot of lives in Rhelea, and I’m not going to sentence him to death for it.”

“Perhaps he can be made an exception, but we need to resolve this before class stones arrive in my city. I will not have heretical abominations, thieves, and murders, walking my streets with impunity,” Lord Nixian spat.

“You will because in this, Typh and I speak as one. Outlaw undead within your walls for all I care, make desecrating corpses a crime within your entire territory, but you will not persecute classers for merely existing. Now, what’s next?”

The Northern Lords looked sheepish. Their eyes flickered towards one another rather than towards her and Arilla’s brush very nearly slipped from her grasp as it moved even faster as she channelled her rage.

“Oh this is going to be good,” Rolf commented.

“We’re your Privy Council. We can’t advise you on how to run this country if you don’t tell us what’s going on. We understand that rulers have their own… private projects, but we’ve read the reports and seen the work crews... We want to know what she’s building,” Lady Iulia said carefully.

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“Helion’s merely growing to accommodate the influx of refugees. We’re building houses, schools, clearing more farmland, and improving every fortification and outpost within a day's ride of Helion,” Arilla answered.

“Yes… we’re aware of that, but we’re talking about the work crews ferrying cartfuls of mana-infused gemstones and metals below ground. Runescribes putting down sigils we don’t understand on every street corner and hammering fresh silver into the city’s walls. This has nothing to do with growing Helion and given the astronomical costs involved, we have a right to know what is going on. 

“What exactly is she building? Is it another weapon? Has the dragon even told you?” the noblewoman finished.

“I’m not talking about that. You’ll be apprised at a later date,” Arilla said firmly.

Her refusal plunged the room into a tense silence and from what she was feeling through their tethers, Arilla wouldn't have been surprised if someone drew a blade. The tension was broken with a loud hammering on the door, and Arilla grasped the opportunity the Gods had presented her with.

“I think that's enough for today. Show my guest in on your way out,” Arilla said, rudely dismissing them all.

Lady Iulia looked like she was apoplectic, but the highborn woman left with the others. When they were gone, Arilla breathed a single sigh of relief and slumped in her chair. The brush in her hands briefly paused before resuming its slow, deliberate strokes and Rolf cackled from across the room.

“Shut up,” Arilla snapped, but the ghost ignored her. 

She’d have liked to say that she enjoyed the short time that she was alone again, but four lines of incensed fury corresponding to the nobles who’d just left the room shone like stars in the forefront of her mind.

The door then opened and a messenger finally came in—the girl looked vaguely familiar, but besides from a warrior tag and a shortsword at her waist, the youth seemed unremarkable for her station. The girl took five halting steps inside the room before she fell to her knees in a clumsy curtsy that was utterly wasted on Arilla.

“What is it, child?” she asked.

“Your Grace, there’s an iron-rank warrior by the name of Myorik requesting an audience. He says he knows you,” the messenger said.

“I do. Show him in,” Arilla answered, and the messenger girl hastily retreated.

When Myorik appeared, he looked off, and it wasn’t just the black eye or the new ring on his finger that he was mindlessly fidgeting with. There were only a few people capable of leaving a mark like that on a warrior as highly levelled as him, and Arilla wasn’t looking forwards to finding out the cause.

She was oddly tempted to study Myorik’s appearance more—to try and identify the source of that pressing wrongness—but Rolf was getting agitated in the corner, and so she turned to conversation to distract herself from the annoying gimmicks of her horrifically burned tormentor.

“What’s wrong, Myorik? Did something happen at the siege grounds?” Arilla asked, feeling a growing sense of dread form in the pit of her stomach.

“No. The siege is fine,” he said awkwardly, before gesturing towards the bruising around his eye. “This is from something more… personal in nature. Which is why I need a favour.”

Arilla placed her helmet down beside her and stood up from her chair. She didn’t need to think about her response, she just wanted an excuse to get out of the room and away from her armour and responsibilities. Whatever horrible thing Myorik needed her help with, it was bound to be infinitely better than staying inside and playing at being a King.

“Let's go,” Arilla said, and the bearded man gave her a very poor attempt at a reassuring smile. 

***

Moody was in a foul mood as she slowly carried Arilla through Helion’s streets. The atmosphere was surprisingly tense given the early hour, and on this particular occasion, the road outside her manor was free from the usual protesters. Arilla shook her head to try and clear it of the myriad of murmuring voices that were distracting her from the simple task of staying in Moody’s saddle. The lack of sleep must have been getting to her as it seemed worse than before. Her eyes felt itchy, and there was a disquiet in the air that told her something wasn’t quite right.

Myorik was clearly anxious about something, so much so, that even Arilla’s horse—a thoroughly unsympathetic creature—was picking up on the other warrior’s painfully transparent worries. 

With the iron-ranker as her escort, Arilla had been able to get away with a slightly reduced guard, just a bronze-ranked mage and healer trailed behind the two warriors on thoroughbred horses that stood a solid foot or two taller than Moody at the shoulder.

“This isn’t about Enora is it? Did you finally work up the courage to ask her out?” Arilla asked.

“Who?—No! Not her. Enora’s fine I think,” Myorik spluttered. “This is about Caeber.”

“Are you okay? You sound rattled.”

“Yeah, I’m alright… Just unsettled is all. I’ve known Caeber a long time, but I’ve never seen him like this,” the man explained. “I really thought he was getting better, but this morning he showed up drunk at Julian’s place, stinking to the high-heavens of booze and worse. He caused a big enough scene that he forced Julian to close early, and now Caeber’s refusing to leave. I tried talking to him, but—”

“But then he hit you,” Arilla said, finishing for Myorik. “And what? You think I can do a better job at calming him down?”

“Maybe? He likes you—thinks you saved his life in the tunnels,” Myorik explained. 

“More like he saved mine. Besides it's not like you haven’t done the same a thousand times over before that,” she said.

“It's different. He blames me for Mara,” he said.

“Oh…” Arilla trailed off.

“Yeah…”

The two warriors walked their horses in an awkward silence while Arilla tried to ignore Rolf’s crispy arms wrapped around her waist, and instead focus on the present and real. The distant sound of voices raised in anger briefly caught her attention as they rose above the rooftops, but whether it was another mob protesting Padian refugees, or a fight breaking out between humans and nonhumans, Arilla didn’t have the time to interfere.

She felt responsible for a lot of things that she probably shouldn’t, and Caeber’s grief was unfortunately one of them. Mara had died retaking Rhelea from the Monster, and the warrior’s subsequent fall into the bottle was just too familiar for Arilla to ignore. Father Mihalis had saved her from that, and even though the priest had turned out to be a delusional monster, he’d still saved her life. She wanted to be that person for Caeber. The man had simply done too much good over the decades to be allowed to waste away in the gutter.

The streets blurred together while they rode and Arilla tried to master her thoughts. Eventually, they arrived at their destination, and she was happy to simply stare at it for a time. Julian’s new tavern, the Wanderer’s Inn, wasn’t half the size of the Huntsman’s Rest. It was still a grand and luxurious-looking establishment that projected an upper-class atmosphere, but it wasn’t the same. It seemed lesser somehow even if it was majestic. She hadn’t visited it herself—taverns weren’t really her scene anymore—but Arilla liked to keep tabs on Julian along with the rest of the Shining Swords, and she was delighted to see that its well-groomed exterior matched up with the glowing reports she’d read.

Arilla dismounted her horse—much to Moody’s approval—and tied the stubborn mare to a post outside where the animal could drink her fill from the trough provided. Arilla instructed her guards to wait outside the door that Myorik opened, and then she followed him inside the tavern.

“Mind your feet, Julian just cleaned the floors and you know what he’s like,” Myorik said, walking a tight line between two rows of tables as he headed towards a door at the far side of the room.

“I really don’t…” Arilla muttered, but she followed the other warrior’s lead nonetheless.

Their steps sounded out as they walked across the hardwood floors, and with every step Arilla felt a nagging sensation tug on that pit of dread in her stomach. It wasn’t helped by Rolf’s incessant laughter, but when she shot him a searching look, the dead man had merely shrugged.

“He’s in the basement,” Myorik said stiffly, standing by an open doorway leading below.

“Why’s he in there?” Arilla asked.

“Gods, you can be really fucking stupid sometimes,” Rolf commented, and she immediately froze as all of her instincts screamed at once.

Arilla looked at the ghost in confusion and then past him as she felt her eyes itch. [Slayer’s Sight] demanded a torrent of her mana and when she granted it, for just a single, fraction of a moment the room flickered.

It was far briefer than a second, but it was enough. The pristine furniture that filled the room was replaced by broken wreckage. The cleanly painted walls were splattered in streaks of blood and ash where there weren't massive cracks or gouges in the plaster. On the few clean surfaces, hastily scrawled runes shone an ominous blue. Myorik wasn’t Myorik—instead, he was a slender woman Arilla didn’t recognise, and in all four corners of the room, armed iron-rankers were staring at her with naked greed in their eyes.

Arilla swallowed once.

Everything returned to normal. The room was suddenly pristine again and the clearly hostile adventurers disappeared, hidden away behind a canny illusion.

“Julian managed to persuade him to go down there. Don’t ask me how he did it—innkeeper skills are weird,” the woman posing as Myorik said.

“Huh, he’s a clever man that one,” Arilla answered with what she hoped was an easy smile.

Rolf cackled manically, and then the warrior turned and stepped down into the basement.

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