He isn’t sure if it will work. Isn’t certain his spirit is stable or complete enough.

Here, he will become a Monarch or die trying.

In a nearby cave, he carves a script into the stone with one finger. This should hide him long enough.

Then he sinks into meditation.

It takes him hours to manifest his Remnant in front of him, a clawed and scaled monstrous version of himself. It is made mostly of blood madra, with red curling horns on its head, and it looks almost as real as he does himself.

His own Remnant glares at him with the vertically slitted eyes of a gold dragon.

Northstrider draws his Remnant into his flesh, and his Remnant resists. Their wills clash, the spirit trying to consume him even as he does the same.

Though it involves no sacred techniques, only a straightforward competition of focus and resolve, it is the deadliest fight of his life.

Being a Sage makes this harder. His Remnant has power and authority beyond what an ordinary Archlord’s spirit should. If he fails, he can’t simply try again.

There’s a real possibility that his very existence will be erased.

But his will is steel. He weaves his own Remnant into his body, spirit becoming flesh and flesh fusing with spirit.

For the final time in his life, his body is remade.

Reality itself quakes at the birth of a Monarch. There is no Icon in the sky, as there was on his ascension to Sage, but the ground shakes and aura trembles for dozens of miles around. His enemies will find him soon, if they haven’t already.

He takes control of the changes.

The scales on his arms transform, turning black, but they want to spread all over his body. He restricts them to the arms, though they still take up more of his skin. Horns begin to grow on his head, and he puts a stop to that. No horns.

Finally, his eyes transform to resemble a dragon’s.

That he cannot stop.

His transformation reaches its final stages, and he stretches out with the sense of a Monarch—

Information lost.

Report complete.

Lindon returned to himself, still sitting cross-legged on his bed, and Dross manifested in front of him. His huge purple eye was downcast.

[I’m sorry, Lindon, I was sure I could hold it at the end there. If I get to see Northstrider again, I might be able to get more information. I’m sure I can! But I…well, I’m not sure I can read it. That’s just about the limit of my understanding.]

Lindon grabbed Dross in both hands.

It would be too strange to give Dross a hug. For one thing, Dross wasn’t completely material, and Lindon was worried about pushing the spirit through his rib cage.

So Lindon met his gaze and projected complete sincerity, hoping Dross would feel it.

“Gratitude. Everything we just learned, I can’t…I can only thank you.”

Dross perked up. [Right? Right! And we were right about the hunger madra, weren’t we? Well, I was.]

“You were.”

Northstrider’s hunger madra was almost the least of the secrets they’d learned. The nature of Heralds, Sages, and Monarchs…these things were considered secrets for anyone below Archlord.

Now Lindon had hints about all of them.

He was far too excited to go back to sleep.

3

Lindon and Yerin stayed with Eithan in the waiting room, anxious for the door to open.

Eithan sat on a bench between them with his eyes closed, cycling. For once, he was really dressed for a fight.

His hair was tied into a tail behind him, and he wore a practical set of gray fighting robes. Instead of the Akura or Blackflame symbols, the Arelius family symbol was displayed on his back in white: a crescent moon next to a pair of symbols in the old language that indicated power.

He had stayed so focused, unsmiling and sharp, that Lindon was starting to worry.

Little Blue gave a sad peep from her seat beside Lindon’s ear.

[He looks like he’s walking to his death,] Dross said.

“Two scales says he’s faking it,” Yerin said, but she kept her voice low to avoid disrupting him.

“I was hoping we could help somehow,” Lindon responded, but he felt foolish saying it. Eithan never needed moral support.

Yerin sighed. “I’m the same kind of fool as you, I guess. Thought we could do some good, but his own mother’s funeral couldn’t crack his mask.”

“I was quite upset when my mother died,” Eithan said. He cracked one eye. “I do have a heart, you know.”

“Prove it.”

He lifted his scissors—the black Archlord scissors that had been his reward from the second round—and drummed them on his thigh. He still didn’t smile, but he didn’t seem upset. Only pensive. Like he was chewing on a problem.

That was disturbing. And it reminded Lindon of Eithan’s expression upon seeing Penance.

“I was watching you last night, when the Abidan took out the arrowhead,” Lindon said.

Eithan nodded. “Yes, that was a…surprise. I had intended to spend several more years helping you grow, but now I’m afraid our time grows short. Which leaves me in a dilemma. I don’t know which way to go.”

Lindon leaned forward, hungry for more information.

“I will be unusually candid with you both: I had plans for losing this tournament. For helping one of you win. For Sophara winning. I try to make sure that no matter what happens, we benefit.”

Lindon appreciated being included in that statement.

“I am not certain that winning Penance is the most desirable outcome for us.”

Yerin and Lindon both stared at him, confused. Lindon felt almost betrayed.

He held up a hand. “It would be preferable for one of us to win, of course. But preventing the invasion of the Blackflame Empire is a temporary solution. It restores the status quo.”

Eithan stared off into the distance, still tapping his scissors on his thigh, speaking almost to himself. “We have to break what is normal. Rewrite the rules. And to do that, we must be strong.”

“Eithan,” Lindon said hesitantly, “what are you talking about?”

“Sorry! Sorry. I’m saying that the only true solution is for us to improve as quickly as we can. For me, winning the tournament might not be the best way to do that. Then again, maybe it is. So is it better to win or to lose?”

Eithan took a deep breath. “And what if I decide to win, but I lose anyway? That would be beyond embarrassing, wouldn’t it? But it is possible. Even likely, in some cases. What if I go all-out and win, only to find that I have revealed too much and regret it after the tournament?”

He took in the looks on their faces and winced. “I’m sorry. I habitually cultivate an air of omnipotence, mystery, and sheer charisma, but I have as many worries as the rest of you. No need to burden yourselves with them, I just wanted to assure you for once that indeed, I am human.”

For several breaths, neither Yerin nor Lindon knew what to say.

Little Blue gave an encouraging chime.

“You should drop that mask more often,” Yerin said at last.

Like Eithan, she was unusually sincere. She faced him seriously, arms crossed. “I’m not polishing you up when I say you’ve done a lot for us, and we’re grateful. You called us your family and stuck your name on us. But until you trust us, you’re no family of mine.”