"Must be hope... must be..." the Champion murmured repeatedly, as he kept his stare at the window ahead. Night would be over soon. He just had to wait.

A sudden figure popped into focus, which startled him into clearing his view. Though dark, he could still make out who it was along with few details of what it was wearing. Black hair with a red stroke hiding the right brown eye—it was obviously Nightstrider. Why he cared about her name was unknown, but he needed to know names to get business done.

"Alone this time?" he asked.

"I'm not happy with him," Nightstrider replied, then stopped in her normal position, her arms crossed. She narrowed her eyes in grave seriousness. "Listen, the work is easy and all, but I need more money. I'm in high demand, you know."

"Done," the Champion agreed carelessly, bored at her presence.

"Well, that was settled rather quickly..." Nightstrider coughed. Her eyes sparkled for a brief moment. "Um, anyway, just to make sure, the next target is the woman with ties to the ruling cabinet and is responsible for..." She rolled her eyes in annoyance. "Eh, whatever. They all do the same crap. Why bother taking up a title when the jobs are basically identical. It's pathetic!"

"Hmm," the Champion muttered, as she laughed to herself. "I suppose so."

"You suppose?" Nightstrider narrowed her eyes, then turned around and shrugged. "Good enough for me. See ya tonight. I hope a whole boat load of king marks are waiting for me!" She happily left the throne room after singing the final sentence whimsically. Once she was gone, day began to seep into the darkened floor and walls.

"Never a dull moment with this bunch," the Champion whispered, sighing. He pushed himself off the throne and jumped to his feet. At long last, he was standing. With a huff, he made his way out of the lightening room and out into the hallway. Servants and guards were already appearing on his left. Though, on his right, nothing. That side of the castle would remain untouched and unseen.

"Morning, milord," the soldier outside the door greeted. The other bowed. They were the first to arrive at their posts.

"Hmph," the Champion replied. After eyeing them, he proceeded down the hallway with his cape fluttering behind him. His gauntlets clenched but lowered at his side, he walked past his faithful servants and guards. They would fight for Good and give their life for him. Of course. It was part of the job—but a time would not come. His life would never be endangered.

As he walked around and scanned his surroundings with a distant mind, he slowly realized how long he had been here: a few days. Already, time was passing by without meaning, it seemed. There was no battlefield to give him any sense of a purpose. No Shimmer to fight for and confess everything he's done.

"Milord!" a voice called out, which brought him out of his trance. The Champion looked beside him to see the man from yesterday who relayed the news. He was more red-faced and exhausted than last time, and he was already a nervous wreck then.

"Speak," the Champion requested impatiently. He moved his gaze ahead, wanting to leave the castle and venture around the streets. He hoped Shimmer would be out there...

"The cabinet has been collected in the dining room," the man relayed, and aimlessly tugged at his feathered hat. "They wish not to be in the throne room, standing for hours on end they say. And they also wish to eat."

"Lead me to them," the Champion ordered. The man obliged by scrambling forward. He seemed to know the castle quite well, weaving through the crowded hallways without any hesitation at all. It was a relief for the Champion knowing he didn't have to know everything—others could guide him through it. The path could always have light in some places. But without Shimmer, it was quite dark.

"In there, milord," the man informed, before bending over in exhaustion. The Champion redirected his focus onto the door he was standing by. It was identical to the rest of the doors—dark wood with golden engravings as well as handle. Nothing new or exciting. The whole place was monotonous.

"This is the dining hall?" the Champion asked, hesitant to enter for whatever reason.

"Yes, milord."

With a nod, the Champion grabbed the handle and walked inside the room. The ceiling pushed upward for a much higher ceiling than normal, similar to the throne room, having a chandelier above the long, narrow table in the middle of the room. From the door, the Champion could see the table as a means of a divide, only bolstered by the back and forth arguing of the two sides. No side was ever correct, for it was a stalemate. Talking did nothing. With strength and force, a side could triumph and take the throne for itself.

At the sound of his entrance, the people inside cast their sharp gazes over to him. Their arguing now stopped, they stood and all began to say their own things. Fingers were pointed either at him or another person. Anger was the most common emotion, though worry and desperation were also apparent.

"At ease," the Champion ordered, holding up a gauntlet to silence the loud chorus of jumbled up complaints. He took a long walk around the table until sitting at the very end, away from the door. Behind him, a fireplace calmly burned and provided adequate warmth and rest. Its cackling flame brought a peaceful atmosphere, but it was quite easy to overrun.

"One at a time," he decided, just for everybody to begin shouting. "One, I said!" Silence. With a huff, he shook his head and waited for somebody to speak. If the screaming returned, without any politeness and formalities, he would leave right there and then.

"The messenger's returned, milord," one of the men declared in a low voice. "He's pale and shaken with fear. Do you wish to bring him in?"

"What messenger?" the Champion asked, confused. Everyone exchanged puzzled glances around him, then put all their eyes on him. It was unnerving to the point of him having to lower his gaze onto his gauntlets resting upon the table.

"You ordered for news to be relayed to our neighbors regarding their demands," the man replied.

"And it was a foolish choice!" the mustached man exclaimed, and pounded his fist against the table. The shouting returned in great number.

"He's the king! He knows best!"

"Foolish! He's new and has no idea what to do!"

"This is making me hungry..."

"Enough!"

Everybody fell silent and turned toward the speaker. The Champion was surprised as well, identifying the owner as Grivdon. If the arguing went on for a moment more, he would've left.

"The decision has been made and that's that," Grivdon announced, impatiently tapping his fingers against the table, the long cuff acting as if it were sliding down. "We mustn't bicker and complain about impossible matters. The past is said and done. We cannot change it. What is the point of reprimanding His Majesty for a mere decision?"

"It was incredibly stupid and will send us all to our deaths!" a man shouted. The Champion chuckled as he hoisted his helmet onto his raised gauntlet. Their words had little effect on him. If they wished to settle their dispute, let a duel commence. Let them fight purposelessly and die. But cowards never fought. They only rambled about useless nonsense.

"We must think ahead, not behind," Grivdon advised, fanning his gaze around the table. His slick, brushed back brown hair and rich royal blue outfit did much to make him look like a professional noble. Just like the Champion, who increasingly liked this fellow by the day.

"I say that we bring in the messenger," the woman added, for nods to follow, mostly out of hesitation.

The Champion looked at her and frowned. She was quite young with no wrinkles showing. Her neat and formal hair was a deep purple as was her attire, which also had faint shades of blue blended in some places. Her dark blue eyes remained trained on a current speaker, Grivdon, who the Champion couldn't hear.

So this was the woman plotting against him. Young or not, she would still die for a traitorous act.

"Where's the food?" a younger man complained, rubbing his stomach underneath the table. "I came here just for that, but it seems I've only bitten my teeth into hard, solid stone. They already ache, with my wee belly making matters only worse!"

"Wee belly?" The mustached man chuckled. "You have quite a large one, Loof! Loof the Doof... a Glutton as well!"

Laughter rang around the table as Loof's sorrowful eyes went to his stomach.

"I just want a nice, big turkey and some rich dessert—"

"Don't we all," Grivdon interrupted, then pointed toward the door. "The messenger is coming. Excuse his nervous stammering. He must've picked it up on the journey alone."

"Was it really that bad?" the woman asked, frowning.

"If I was given such news as this, I would go all out on the messenger."

"I thought dwarves and elves didn't speak our language—" another man remarked.

"They do. It's practically the language everybody wants to learn," Grivdon interrupted. "The one with the most success attached to it. We're the best after all." Snorts erupted from the rest of the men with a few rolling their eyes. Though, the door soon opened to end whatever chaos was bound to occur.

A lanky, thin boy stumbled into the room, his face pale and hair drenched. His domed helmet was off centered and hung over the side. A few feet in, he abruptly stopped and scanned those around him; however, his grave, brown eyes latched onto the Champion, who could see the horrors within clearly. It was a very troubled soul.

"I... I..." he sputtered, rapidly clicking his tongue and pressing his fingers together. His chattering teeth could be heard from all the way across the room.

"Well, speak, boy!" the mustached man demanded.

"Give him time, Fronce," the woman requested, her eyes boring into his head.

"A messenger comes to speak, not to dawdle!" Fronce exclaimed. "You out of all people should know that, Violet."

"Quiet down now, he's beginning to speak," Grivdon declared, as everyone became silent. All eyes went back onto the boy who remained in his frantic tapping and stammering. His gaze wouldn't leave the Champion for a mere moment.

"I... they... the..."

"He just won't speak!" Fronce shouted in a fit of rage, throwing his hands up.

"He won't if you keep doing this!" Violet snapped. She stood and stared daggers at her opponent, who matched her movement across the table. Others around them watched the event unravel in amusement.

All the while, the Champion kept his focus onto the boy. Troubled... his soul was permanently damaged. Some horrors would never leave. They clung onto souls and hearts alike, never to be removed. In the darkest nights, shadows would come alive and bring into sheer form the true face of horror. Terror. Their victims would be petrified on their backs, forced to watch as the predator circled the prey.

Something clicked in the boy, something that the Champion felt in his gauntlet. He turned over it to see the gem shine and seemingly expand. Words had already come before they could be spoken moments later by the boy himself in a dreadful, dry whisper:

"A war is coming right to our home."