The following week was met with ever the same idleness for Lucius’s fellows. Well, except for Roland. From explosions to poison and even the occasional midnight raid, the Peers’ leader was given little chance to rest as the people of Arabia exhausted every trick in their arsenal in an attempt to slaughter him. They failed, though not without some advantage: Roland was irritable, sleep deprived, and more haggard by the day. Nonetheless he pushed on and assured the players that he would handle everything.

  Astolfo, frustrated by the nation’s blatant transgressions, spent his time protesting at the main government building. Unfortunately for him there was one thing not even a warrior as tempered as he could defeat, and that was the tedium of bureaucracy. The city’s officials led him around on useless errands, directed him to offices where he waited for hours on end… only to be pointed to another agency where the cycle would once again repeat. The young Peer was at his wit’s end, yet there was naught else he could do if he wished to remain a ‘guest’ and not an enemy.

  The players attempted to find more information on their own. However, the citizens kept their silence and treated them with no more respect than a passing stranger—at least they weren’t trying to kill them. The players’ caution also lessened as time went on and, as a result, they abandoned their duo system and left to explore as they wished. It was amongst one of these outings that Lucius came across a familiar face.

  “Hm? Oh my, to think we would cross paths here of all places! It is a pleasure to see you again, Mister Hemingway.”

  The gentleman approached a burly man armed with a rifle and a cowboy hat by the side of the street. It was the very same hunter Lucius had encountered back at the city of Burgundy with Renaud's expedition. This time, though, Mister Hemingway wasn’t stalking him, and he instead sold a variety of bones and animal products at a makeshift stall.

  “Well ain’t you a sight for sore eyes!” The man bid Lucius a dandy smile and waved him over. “Didn’t think we’d meet in a shindig like this, Lucius, but I’m glad to see you safe. Did your business with those priestly folk go well?”

  “I would say as such, but never mind me! What brings a man of your hunting talents out to the desert?”

  The man scrunched his face for a moment, carefully considering his words, before replying, “Got tired of the forest, is all. I hunted every type of beast there was to hunt, so I wandered the land looking for bigger game until I found myself here. Let’s just say a… certain friend encouraged me to settle down for a bit - said that I’d have a proper challenge around the dunes. Boy were they right! Nearly lost my life to a Great Sandworm while trekkin’ here”

  >[The Primal Hunter scoffs at his protege and says that he shouldn’t have run away like a coward]<

  >[Virtual Goddess of the Wired stares at the Hunter in disbelief and asks if they intend to lead their incarnation to an early death]<

  >[The Primal Hunter shrugs their shoulders. You can’t grow without a little pain]<

  “You certainly have had quite the adventure,” Lucius said. “Whilst we’re on the topic of Arabia, may I ask if you’ve noticed anything odd about the people as of late?”

  Mister Hemingway rubbed his chin. “Odd, huh? Guess you could say that. When I first came here, the city was all smiles. Lotsa friendly folk, real welcoming, but last week they became… what’s the word? Tense, yeah. Like they’re preparing for a witch hunt or something. Still treated me nicely and all that, but the air around here’s gettin’ too risky for my tastes. I was thinking about packing up and leaving for another city once I slay that damned worm.”

  “Is that so? I wish you the very best then, and if I may offer a suggestion… how about you visit the wetlands? I’ve heard tell of a ferocious beast called the Behemoth there. I’m certain it shall pose the challenge you desire.”

  “The Behemoth? Now that sounds right up my alley.” Mister Hemingway tipped his cowboy hat in respect and then set to work closing up his shop. “I’ve scrounged up enough funds, anyway. It’s time I hightail it out of here. If you know what’s good for you, Lucius, I suggest you do the same. This place’ll turn bloody any moment now.”

  Lucius extended his arm out and exchanged a parting handshake with Colt. “I appreciate the concern, my good man. May we find ourselves in good health another time.”

  “Likewise.”

  With that, Lucius hummed a jolly tune and continued his remaining days of peace.

  That would all come to an end soon, for the Emir’s ascension ceremony had finally been announced. The date? Tomorrow morning.

  Everything would come to pass then.

  It was during the evening hours when the players had all grouped together in the hotel’s foyer that Sir Astolfo and Lady Angelica came to visit them, alongside with a hooded figure.

  “Sir Lucius, may I ask your party to come outside for a bit,” Angelica said to him. “I feel it best to converse in a more secluded location.”

  The gentleman raised his brow in question, but nonetheless followed along. He had a guess as to what this sudden meeting was about. “Of course, my lady. Lead the way.”

  After nodding to his fellow players, the group discreetly left the hotel and made their way through the residential area before arriving at a familiar location: a blacksmith’s shop.

  Marco started to open his mouth. Thankfully, Lucius motioned for him to keep silent just in time - wouldn’t want to leak any secrets now, would they?

  Miss Enapay crossed her arms, expression guarded, and demanded for Angelica to explain herself. “Why have you brought us here? These shadows are far beyond the city’s square. It is a convenient location for an ambush.”

  Angelica stammered, “Oh, no! Forgive my silence until now, but I assure you there are no such ulterior motives.”

  “Then who is the one by your side?”

  The shadowy figure hesitated for a moment, before pulling off their head and revealing the soft face of Medoro.

  “I know it is hard to trust one of my people,” he said, raising his arms and showing that he meant no harm. “However, I am here to help.”

  Angelica nodded and gestured for them to enter the shop. “Why don’t we talk more inside? The longer we stay out here, the more likely someone will discover us.”

  The players looked at Lucius and waited for his decision.

  “Certainly, if that is your wish,” the gentleman replied, before promptly heading in and making himself comfortable in the guest room. “Be at ease, everyone. I sense no peril here. There is no reason for Lady Angelica to endanger us now. Why don’t we listen to what she has to say?”

  After some encouragement, the players eventually entered and huddled together. Angelica breathed a sigh of relief and ordered Astolfo to stand guard outside while she and Medoro faced the others, their gazes stern.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” Medoro said with a bow. “I am Medoro, a blacksmith by trade and a former soldier of the Levantine Corps. You must have many questions surrounding this city, correct? Please ask away. I will answer to the best of my abilities.”

  Miss Rhodes squinted her eyes, doubtful. “Well it’s mighty kind of ya to do that for us, but what’s in it fer you?”

  Medoro stalled for a moment and carefully pondered over his words, before replying, “I am… a friend of Lady Angelica. She saved my life during the Holy War, and for that I owe her much. Think of it as the favor of a man who wouldn’t be here today without her kindness.”

  The players were still a bit wary, but the sincerity of his tone allowed them to relax, even if just a bit.

  Mister Crowley coughed into his hand. “Alright then, let’s start with this: Why’s Arabia so dead set on killing Roland?”

  “Because of his actions during the war.”

  Harper raised her hand. “Why him specifically, though? I understand holding a grudge, but wouldn’t you Saracens hate Francia as a whole more rather than one guy?”

  “That is not necessarily the case. While the Franks were the ones who invaded us, there were those sympathetic to our plight and sheltered what lives they could, such as Lady Angelica. Those few, but heroic, souls showed us that not all Frankishmen wished for conquest. Roland, however…”

  A pained look enveloped Medoro’s face. He took a long, deep breath, and then continued with his words coated in a slight malice. “If you were to pile up all those personally felled before his blade, it would not pale in size compared to even our largest dunes. He slaughtered thousands young and old alike, flooded our towns with the blood of those simply innocent. His massacre was second only to that monster whose title I dare not utter, but now there remains only one. The very mention of his name brings such fury to my heart. I—”

  Angelica laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder, comforting him. Medoro took a moment to collect himself, his breaths shaky and uneven, but eventually he persevered. “I am sorry. In my heart, I understand he was merely following the orders of the one above him. Yet I cannot help but question why he did not follow in Angelica’s mercy. Surely there was more he could have done…”

  “Roland had far too much to carry, back then,” Angelica said. “It does not excuse what he did, but he is not an evil man: just one who has made mistakes.”

  “Yes, mistakes. It’s those very mistakes that have led Arabia now to such bloodthirst. Was it about two weeks ago…? The head advisor, Ibn-al-Arabi, gathered the cityfolk to the lake, where he announced Sir Roland’s coming. Naturally our people were enraged. The thought of needing to bow our heads before him after all he caused was too heartbreaking to bear, but imagine our surprise when we were told of a more secretive plot.”

  Mister Medoro walked to the window and gazed out toward the city square still so bright with lanterns and waxen candles. “It was simple, really. We were only given one command: turn your head the other way. Do not interfere, do not help, avert your eyes to whatever comes what may. Whatever damage was to become of our homes and our businesses would be rightfully compensated. If an official requests for our support, then we must comply without a word. As a result, every stretch of this city became Sir Roland’s execution grounds, yet there was not a single soul who protested otherwise—especially the older generation, the ones with memories still awash in flames.”

  The players glanced amongst themselves, fidgeting in an uncomfortable silence. Lucius could see their wordless questions plainly: did Sir Roland really commit such atrocities? Was the man they knew, the one who had helped them and fought for their rights, someone capable of such wanton cruelty?

  It didn’t matter what conclusion they came to. The reality was that the Saracens wished for Roland’s death, and nothing would change that.

  “Okay, yeah, that makes sense I guess,” Mili said, picking at her guitar. “What I wanna know is if they’re gonna target us. There was that explosion during that first day so I thought we were being roped into your crazy grudge too, but after that it’s been kinda peaceful actually. I’m getting a whole lotta mixed signals and it's making me paranoid.”

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  To that question, Medoro didn’t seem confident answering. “I am not quite sure. Matters relating to assassination involve the Levantine, our division of warriors, but I am no longer a member of their forces. Perhaps they decided making enemies of your people was an unnecessary effort?”

  “Hm… I dunno. Guess that could be it.”

  Lucius reclined into his seat and acted innocently.

  The next question came from Mister Bernardi. “Do ya have an idea what’s goin’ on with that ceremony everyone’s been talkin’ about? Seems like somethin’ big is gonna happen there.”

  Once again, Medoro didn’t have an exact answer, but what he could give was his suspicions. “The ascension ceremony of the next Emir is typically a time of celebration. It is not filled with the violence and hatred you see amongst our people now, however… what I can say is that Arabia’s next leader is perhaps the one who despises Sir Roland most of all. He will no doubt seize this chance to enact revenge, no matter the cost.”

  With those last few ominous words, the party’s curiosity was mostly sated. There was nothing else to do but walk boldly into the Saracens’ trap. Thus, after indulging in a late night tea party hosted by Lucius (decaffeinated of course), everyone headed back to their rooms for one last night of sleep.

  The next day came as it always did, only there was something different in the air this time: anticipation, tension, a roaring tide threatening to break free.

  Lucius rose from his hotel bed and strolled to the window. He looked outside, out to the blazing sky of purple without a cloud in sight, and he knew that this day would be the start of something grand. His fingers tinged and the hairs on the back of his neck raised.

  Perhaps this coming event was to be even more dangerous than the gentleman’s last adventure.

  A loud knock on the door interrupted Lucius’s musings. He opened it, only to reveal the wide smiling visage of Mister Ibn-al-Arabi himself.

  “Lucius, my friend!” he said, extending his arms out in the traditional Frankish greeting. “Forgive me for the early awakening, but I thought it best to alert you sooner than later. The official start of the Emir’s ascension will begin in three hours. I have already prepared a set of formal garments for you and your fellows to wear. Simply gather at the building's entrance once you are ready, and my associates shall lead you to your seats at the ceremony.”

  “Oh? I am quite excited to see your people's festivities,” the gentleman replied. “One second if you would… am I correct to assume that a certain surprise shall await Sir Roland at the ceremony’s end?”

  A mischievous glimmer shone in the Saracen man’s eyes, and he clapped his hands together before leaning in and whispering into Lucius’s ear. “I knew you would notice as such. Do not be concerned. I shall ensure that you, your kindred otherworlders, and even the other two Peers will not be involved in what is to come. All I ask is that you do nothing. Easy, hm? Very easy. So long that you listen, everything will proceed as planned.”

  Lucius smiled and bid Mister Arabi a friendly wave in the Arabian ways.

  “Of course, of course. You need not worry, my Saracen friend. I will absolutely not do a thing,” he lied as naturally as he breathed.

  Mister Arabi nodded, satisfied, and left to inform the other players. Lucius quickly prepared a relaxing cup of morning tea and then headed downstairs, where indeed a troupe of dressmakers promptly introduced themselves and then outfitted him in a stylish Arabian gown. He liked it so much that he saved it to his tophat’s skill!

  Eventually, the others all made their way down as well. A grim expression settled onto their faces; and though the Saracens’ hospitality was nothing but pleasant, the players couldn’t help but worry over what awaited them.

  With the last of the party fully spruced up, a group of armed warriors guided them outside, where long lines of people had already begun forming. They all had the same destination; all channels led to the source of the Rivers’ Cairo’s prosperity.

  Lucius and his fellows joined the crowd. The suns' beam pounded on them fiercely. The heat spread amongst them all, drenching the citizens in sweat, but none were deterred. They dutifully marched forth until the sand-colored buildings parted way for a massive reservoir situated right at the very center of the city. The waters glimmered with a crystal clear purple, the light refracting off the surface to form sparkling white rays.

  It was here that the citizenry descended on their knees near the reservoir’s edge. This was a holy site. Lucius needed only take a single glance to witness this lake’s hallowed antiquity, but what drew his attention in particular was a monument in the middle of the water. It was a temple decorated in stained glass of blue and green, and a wide yellow dome jutted high above a long winding stairway that appeared to lead straight into the lake itself. A lone altar laid at the top of the temple.

  This was it, the grounds that would decide Roland’s fate.

  The Saracen warriors guided the players to a ferry. A somber procession followed them, the workers dressed in flamboyant attire and waving around lanterns with depictions of what Lucius assumed to be the Emirs of ages past. The ferry took them across the lake as the people silently watched on.

  It was quite odd. This didn’t seem like a celebration, but a funeral. The people of Arabia bowed their heads whilst united in a common, mournful trance, and all the while a low drum echoed through the open air.

  When the party finally arrived at the temple, they were ordered to ascend the stairs and take their places around the ceremonial altar. Sir Astolfo and Lady Angelica had already arrived before them, although their expressions were starkly grim.

  Suddenly, the sound of the drums stopped, and the Saracen officials clanged their blades together in a formal welcoming. Lucius’s party waited; it did not take long before they began to hear the soft taps of footsteps. Slowly, gently, the steps grew louder as it trampled upon the temple’s stairs. When the source finally revealed itself, Lucius was surprised. For what awaited him was a young man no older than twenty.

  “I greet you, envoys of Francia,” he said. “Welcome to the holy venue of the Rivers’ Cairo, the Temple Mount. I am al-Balijan, soon to be Arabia’s next Emir.”

  The young man was a striking figure compared to the other Saracens. He had thin gold hoop earrings, silky black hair, and a sharp weathered gaze far older than one his age should have had. Lucius felt it in his bones: Despite his youth, this boy had the presence of a ruler.

  Mister al-Balijan closed his eyes for a brief second, soaking in the tense air. When he opened them once more, a fierce light blazed in his eyes, like wildfire, a determination to see through his resolve to the very end.

  The young Emir-to-be stepped up to the altar and raised his hands. He muttered a Saracen prayer and grabbed a jug of water, splashing its contents whilst performing a hypnotic dance. Sixteen candles laid unlit atop the altar. As al-Balijan’s ritual progressed, each one gradually flared in a blue flame, and those flames grew hotter, larger, until the entire space was cast aglow in their sacred light.

  When he finally finished, he took out a candle of his own and placed it on the altar. It was of a different design compared to the others, unique and carved in a way to represent the new Emir’s personality, his beliefs, his wishes for the future. This was his candle; and as he personally lit the top, al-Balijan clasped his hands together and whispered a final message.

  “To you, o’ great ancestors, I now join your ranks as Emir-al-Balijan. May your wisdom be with me always, so that I may lead our people to prosperity.”

  He took a deep breath and then blew the candles out one by one. He nodded to the surrounding officials, before turning around to face his people. Not a word left his lips, and unlike the speeches and loud proclamations of Francia, the boy simply let the people’s gaze fall upon him, as well as their hopes, their expectations, and their burdens, so that he might always remember the weight of his responsibility.

  Thus did Arabia gain a new leader on this day. Instead of fanfare to welcome his ascension, there was only the tender breeze of sand.

  But the ceremony wasn’t finished quite yet.

  There, at the very bottom of the Temple Mount, a new ferry docked at the base. There was but one person there. The boy's eyes fell upon him; his expression quickly turned sour.

  “Roland!” he bellowed, extending his arms out in mock greeting. “You do not know just how thankful I am to see you here.”

  The Peers’ leader sucked in his breath and looked around, confused over what it was he should be doing. No one guided him anywhere nor gave him directions. They simply left him to stand there far, far below the altar.

  “Will you finally cease these juvenile attacks now?” Roland asked. “I do not know what my uncle said to you, but know that following his will shall only pain our nations, both. He does not have your best interests in mind.”

  Emir-al-Balijan bid him a short, dark chuckle. “That is where you are mistaken. I am following the will of none but I.”

  He took a step down the stairs, then another, and another. He taunted the Peer below him with a slyness not so dissimilar to Ganelon’s own; and when he had reached about half way down the steps, he beckoned for his officials to follow him, where they soon placed two large casks by his side.

  “Do you remember this place, Roland?” Emir-al-Balijan said. “It would disappoint me greatly if you did not.”

  Roland winced, and for a moment Lucius saw something dreadful pass through his eyes. It was a memory he didn’t wish to remember, a deep sin that washed through his very soul.

  “I…” he muttered. "I only did as ordered.”

  “And what was that, exactly? What did you do on these sacred steps, Bloody Reaper?”

  Roland turned away. “It wasn’t my will. I never desired to… how could I have possibly wanted…”

  “Say it!” the man scoffed. “Say it, and prove me otherwise. Prove that you are a man worth forgiving.”

  A slight tremble invaded Roland’s body. He raised his arms, pleading, and tried to respond, but no words came out. He couldn’t admit it, even now. He couldn’t bear to confront the horrors wrought by his own hand.

  “... How pathetic. Then I suppose I shall have to do it for you.”

  Emir-al-Balijan knocked over the casks, spilling forth a stream of red, viscous dye. It poured down the steps of the Temple Mount, dripping down, deeper, toward the very bottom where it pooled underneath Roland’s feet.

  “I never had the chance to meet my father,” the man solemnly said. “Yet every mention of him was one of respect. He was admired as a wiseman, as one that brought kindness wherever he went, so why did someone like him have to meet so brutal an end? Strung up before his people, forced to display his wretched, flayed skin before the masses of Arabia.”

  Roland slowly raised his shaking hands and grasped at his face. “It… it wasn’t me. It was his late Holiness’s order. He was the one to—”

  “He gave the order, but who was it that did the deed?”

  Roland remained silent.

  “Who was the one that slit his neck for all to see?”

  Even still, he couldn’t utter a sound.

  Emir-al-Balijan shook his head. There was rage in his eyes, yes, but there was also a deep disappointment. This was the man who had taken everything from his people, and yet the one before him now was more miserable than he could have imagined.

  “You were a coward then, and you are a coward now,” he said, as if he were a judge before a sinner. “I hereby declare Roland of Francia—guilty. For your crimes against the Saracens of Arabia, your punishment is death.”

  A loud crash echoed around them. Lucius and his party looked around, confused, for the once-calm lake around them surged to life, thrashing and whirling around in great waves before quickly draining into the city’s channels. All that was left in the end was a great chasm, one that led straight into a pitch-black void.

  “Commander Ferragut, enact our vengeance.”

  No sooner did the Emir’s command ring out that a giant Saracen warrior, one thrice the height and size of Roland, broke out from beneath the temple and quickly trapped him in a crushing hold, before diving straight into the chasm.

  Within a second, the two were gone.

  Angelica and Astolfo stood frozen, stunned by the display they had just witnessed. When reality finally hit them, however, they soon burst to life and jumped into the chasm as well, following Roland to wherever the darkness ended.

  “Holy shit,” Mili gasped.

  “Language, my dear.”

  “Sorry, but, uh, what do we do now?”

  The players stared, dumbfounded, amongst each other, unsure if they really wanted to risk death by plunging into the impermeable void below.

  In the midst of their hesitation, the new Emir walked up to Lucius and challenged him with a choice. “The young lady is correct. What will you do, Lucius of the Peers? You can simply walk away from all of this. I will inform Ganelon of our dealings here and sing your praises, if you so wish. All you have to do is avert your eyes. Pretend that nothing has happened. Ibn-al-Arabi said that you were a smart man, so I do hope you meet my expectations.”

  Lucius rubbed his chin and pondered for a moment. He could certainly take the Emir’s deal. Diving into the chasm without a plan would certainly be a foolish decision, so it would make sense to preserve his life and take the easy way out.

  But where would the fun in that be?

  The gentleman broke out into a wide smile, and then turned toward his fellows. “Everyone, shall we go?”

  Harper and Marco shared a mischievous glint amongst each other, before grabbing the others and giving Lucius a wink. Miss Enapay groaned; Mili pumped her fist in excitement; Mister Crowley hung on for dear life; and Miss Rhodes passed out.

  “Then away we go!”

  Without a morsel of hesitation, Lucius and his party boldly ran forward and then jumped into the chasm. As they fell, the Emir’s voice slowly faded away.

  “How disappointing… you shall regret this, otherworlders.”

  Lucius raised his hand and bid the young man a parting wave. “Until we meet again, my friend!”

  Thus were they swallowed whole by the void.

  The Esteemed Gentlepeople of the , to whom I am forever grateful.

  [The Distinguishedly Dandy Gentlemen Hall of Fame]