Eric looked at himself in the mirror. Despite only having been on Elyndor for thirty-three days in this timeline, he had gone through far more than in the now-extinct, future timeline. He had delved deeper into The Twilight Depths than he had ever gone before. He had courted two noble women who were both excellent prospective matches that he felt that genuine, authentic connection with. He was far stronger than before. At this time, in the prior timeline, he was only level twelve.
But most of all, last time he had no idea that he was in the middle of a vast criminal empire that was rotting the kingdom from within. This time, he had already cut out the cancer, the heart of the circulatory system was cleansed, and soon the rest of the body would be on the mend. Sure, there would always be a lingering bit of the disease, as any place would always have some level of crime, and some level of corruption . . . but Tenebria would be mostly free of it.
His future stronghold was almost secure. The kingdom would not suffer greatly after the world war which was—checking his bracer—four years, two seasons, and one-hundred-twenty-six days away. Well, provided history remained the same.
For all I know, he thought as he adjusted the last few bit of his Hidden-Plate Armor Robes, and made sure the hood sat evenly along his back and shoulders, the wrecking of the Admiral’s pipeline of drug imports will cause tensions with the Allied Cities of Chisholm to rise, so we might face international tensions on that front. I doubt it will lead to war, but when Bhlast gets dragged into conflict, if Trok is allied with that country, Chisholm may choose to attack us instead of Flescion.
Eric knew that alterations to the timeline that he made could cause differences in the unfolding of events. Now, he supposed that Naomi, Peter, and Shannon were more well-informed; they, too, could have a more drastic impact. But, he was sure that Naomi was the only one who would have an actual greater impact. Her manatech devices were already incredible—a building that automatically generated a Silence Node when it was shut would be something that every wealthy merchant, noble, politician, spy—anyone running clandestine operations or secret dealings they didn’t want heard—would want active.
Ley Lines below, Eric wanted to have it installed on the entire estate, if possible. But still, that rapid of advancement showed him that Naomi was going to be causing some massive upheaval in the next few seasons. Perhaps, even, the advancement could be enough to avert wars entirely. For a moment, as he looked in the mirror, he envisioned the idea of being outfitted in his own suit of lightweight, mana-powered, flight-enabled armor.
As he finished cinching the last bits of buckles under the outer robe nice and tight, he reconsidered the idea and discarded it.
No, he thought. If that type of technology became widespread, then wars would just escalate.
He checked himself once more in the mirror, and then tapped his bracer to open up the Storage Dimension function, and he made sure all of the Healing Potions were at the front of the aperture, in easy reach, with the tops nice and loose so that he could grab them, use a little pressure with his thumb to fully remove the cork, and then chug them down all one-handed. He shut the aperture, and then tapped out a one-person message to Naomi with his concerns.
She almost immediately replied back. [Don’t worry. I will never give out the templates—Indedroma is locking them all behind the Makerspark itself, so only another holder of the primal force could access them. As for the piping raw mana for automated tools? I won’t be going overkill. I share some of the same concerns.]
That brought Eric some relief and he tapped back a simple [Thanks for alleviating those.] then finished his final preparations. Heading to the door, he went to the front entryway and stood on the porch.
Peter was already standing there, in his full armor, with his shield slung on his back, both hammers hanging from belts on his waist, and he was leaning against a pillar supporting the overhang above them. He glanced back at Eric. “Ready for the day of reckoning?” he asked.
Eric nodded and took up a leaning position against the opposite pillar. “Yeah,” he replied, feeling a knot of tension in his chest. Not fear, or anxiety, but anticipation. His foot almost tapped unconsciously, and he had to stop it as the old habit kicked in. “I am ready.”
“Not nervous about the whole trial and questioning and all that?”
Eric shook his head. Then, glanced at the door as Shannon came out. She was fully kitted out, but her crossbow had changed slightly. It was shorter, slimmer, and the arms that held the bowstring were partially deployed instead of being fully retracted. “What’s that about?” Eric asked.
Shannon looked at him. “Huh?” Then she glanced at the device over her shoulder. “Oh, Naomi just made a little upgrade. I can thumb something to prep it instead of spending the five seconds to set up the arms and lock them in place. A little time-saver.”
Eric nodded. “Cool.”
Naomi came out a moment later, and she was dressed in her chainmail armour that she had from the first descent into the Twilight Depths, though she had her MAB slung across her back. “Alright, we're ready to go?” she asked, a bit of her more chipper personality coming through, versus the cold, no-nonsense one she put on in the workshop.
“Looks like it,” Peter said as he stood up straight and walked down the steps. The raindrops tinked off of his armor as he made for the gates.
Eric held his hand up above him and as he cleared the covering of the porch he manifested raw Blackflame from his right palm, letting it spread upward to burn away the downpour, which hissed and dissipated to steam that curled up into the sky. The ladies stayed close to him, but Peter kept moving forward, and the gates were opened by one of the king’s guards that Eric recognized: Heavy Knight Rickard.
“Hey there, Rickard,” Eric said as he waved with his other hand. “We ready to head out?”
“Been waiting, Blackflame Mage Mercer,” the man replied with a low, slightly aggrieved tone. “Miserable business standing watch in the rain. May I be frank?”
“Sure,” Eric replied as he and the other Summoned were led into the center of the formation. Eric let more mana out as the flames grew larger, covering the whole group from the rainfall, and earning him muttered, ‘thanks’ from the various guards. He knew that such uses of raw mana converted to elemental energy—while unusual as such Classes were almost always dungeon divers, and thus rarely seen outside of locations near dungeons—was not looked down upon . . . just a bit awe-inspiring.
“I can’t wait until this whole business is done,” Rickard said as the group moved towards the citadel. “I was supposed to rotate to citadel guard duty—”
“The cushy gig,” another guard quipped.
“Yeah,” Rickard replied. “But because of your tripled protection size, that’s been put on hold.”
Eric frowned, and sighed, making sure to be overt about it. “Sorry. Hopefully once this trial is over and done with, your wish will be granted.”
“Know what it’s about?” another guard asked.
Naomi said, “We shouldn’t say. I’m sure news will come out after the trial’s conclusion and the king’s judgement has been rendered.”
“What have you all heard?” Shannon asked.
Rickard shrugged. “Beats me. Deepwater Hold got attacked by some criminal organization. The Admiral was assassinated, her flagship was burned, a bunch of warehouses and businesses were burned down, tons of people died. A few places were hit in the lower-city as well, but it wasn’t nearly as bad. Supposedly, the Spymaster figured out who was responsible, and they’re going on trial.”
Another guard asked, “You all helped catch them, right? That’s why you’re going up there?”
Peter grunted an affirmation. “Something like that.”
Eric added, “We shouldn’t talk about it too much more. I doubt the Spymaster would like that.”
The rest of the travel to the citadel passed in silence save for the trod of metal feet on paved road, the hiss of rain on flame, and the breathing of those around them.
***
Eric remembered the room they were seated in, only this time he was not forced into the pillory and chains. Instead, he was seated in one of the two galleries. They had been escorted into the citadel, checked for any weapons, and then after having those investigated, the Spymaster arrived and gave the Summoned permission to have them on their person.
She escorted them through several large hallways, going straight back from the main entrance, into the receiving room. This was where the king would meet the public and address their grievances. It had his ‘pomp and circumstance’ throne, which was a huge, ornate slab of black granite that was hewn from the mountain below and looked more like a primeval hunk of rock than a throne, with several slabs places on each other to give the appearance of a chair—the seat of the first King of Trok from millennia before.
Behind that throne room was a four-way intersection of halls: one led to the royal apartments which were heavily guarded, one led to the small council chambers, and another led to the diplomatic throne room, where the trial took place. It was a massive, rectangular room, easily two-hundred feet across on all sides. Eric, along with the Summoned, were seated on the lowest level of stone bleachers, carved into the far walls, along with the nobility who were to be present, the small council. Across from him, on the other side of the room, were more stone bleachers which were currently empty.
To his left was a long table, at which the King, Richard Tremaun, was seated at along with his two healers. Seated next to him was a woman that Eric instantly recognized as someone who was of high ranking in the religious hierarchy of Flescion’s theocracy. It had to be the Judge, Theresa Chajain. She had dark, brown skin, piercing, almost ruby-red eyes, and her hair had been tied back into an ornate bun which sat atop her head and spread outward almost like a lily, accentuated with ribbons.
At the center of the room were a few tables. One where Alp Nash, the Steward, was seated. Eric kept his gritted teeth behind closed lips as he saw the architect of his demise, sitting there, oddly calm and seemingly coolly collected. He looked like a snake, with pallid, white skin and a thin, small nose. Scraggly black hair that had been combed over to one side complemented the look and made him appear smarmy. His voice even sounded sinister, as Eric overheard him whispering to the person who must have been helping with his defense. That other person was a sharply dressed woman, who had immaculate dress robes and looked poised, with blonde hair that cut against the black clothing.
The second table was occupied by a person whom Eric did not recognize. A middle-aged man, with salt-and-pepper hair, a scruffy beard, and soft, gentle eyes, but also dressed just as sharply as his opponent. Considering the man was next to Persim and Seraphine, Eric assumed it was the prosecutor.
Between both tables, and set in front of them toward the table with the King and Judge, was a single seat with a smaller desk in front of it. The witness table. It would face the tables with the prosecution and defense.
Eric wished that Alp was forced to be in shackles and bound in that defense spot, like he had been, during his own trial. He wished that it was as one-sided as his own trial had been. But no, there was a proper way of doing things . . . more than anything, though, Eric wanted to be the one to deliver the punishment. He wanted some time alone with Alp, just like he had with Trisha, to tell him the truth of the future, now extinct timeline, and reveal the horrors that Alp had wrought.
Eric wanted to see the horror in the man’s eyes as he realized that Eric had come back in time with the purpose and intent to bring him down, and he never stood a chance.
After another ten minutes, the doors to the room were closed. King’s guards were arrayed all around, and ten were right behind the Steward, with spears pointed at the man, ready to plunge deep if he tried anything, or made any sudden movements. Eric noted that the man didn't’ have any Sigils.
The Judge stood up and spoke, her voice loud and high-pitched. “Greetings. I am Judge Chajain, from the Theocracy of the Womb. Today, I stand in judgement of Alp Nash, current Steward of the Kingdom of Trok, who has been credibly accused of high crimes and treason. The case has been brought by other members of the small council, Spymaster Persim Mistra, and Magistra Seraphine d’Orveil. The counsel may now introduce themselves.”
The two people Eric didn’t know stood up. The woman next to Alp spoke first. “My liege, Judge: my name is Solicitor Denise Favreau. I represent my client, Steward Alp Nash.”
Then, the man next to Persim. “My liege, Judge: my name is Solicitor Wren Tessdale. I represent the kingdom of Trok.”
Both sat down and the Judge spoke once more. “The parties have been recorded.” She raised her hand, and a shimmering, golden Sigil on the back of her hand exploded outward, covering the whole entire room in a golden glow. Then, another Sigil was expended, and the whole room sparkled with light. “In this chamber, no lies may be told. I will know if any lie, half-truth, or misdirection is attempted, and will notify the party telling such falsehood that they have been detected. They will have a chance to rectify their error: for sometimes there are errors in the telling, as memories are not perfect, for we all are human, and to be imperfect is to be part of the creator’s majesty.”
She sat down, and gestured to Wren. “You may proceed with your case.”
Eric tented his hands and leaned forward.
***
Aside from a break for food, which was brought in by servants, the entire prosecution’s case was very straightforward. Persim’s presentation that she had brought to the Summoned had been made much larger to be presented in front of everyone, and clearly showed the connections between the Admiral’s businesses, the Steward’s contacts, and showed all of the different lines that bridged the two.
The entire time, Eric was staring at the Steward. He searched Alp for any sign of discomfort, but the man seemed supremely at ease.
What in the depths is going on? he thought. He’s way too calm for that level of damning evidence.
Finally, it came time for witnesses. First was the Spymaster herself, and the testimony she gave was damning. She revealed how she unraveled the tangled web of industries that led to the acquisition of the various ledgers . . . and that naturally dovetailed right into the Summoned’s testimony.
Oddly enough, there was no cross examination.
This isn’t right, Eric thought. Any good lawyer would be trying to tear apart testimony. His eyes flicked over to the King, who was sitting there in rapt attention at the going-ons, and the Judge, who was staring at Persim as she left the witness chair. This is just weird. Indedroma, any ideas?
[I am as flummoxed as you are.]
Then, it was the Summoned’s turn. Naomi first, then Peter. Their testimony was almost identical, as the two of them had performed many actions in Deepwater Hold together. The only differences occurred when Peter described the events of the warehouse and the ship, where he executed people whose crimes he could see through a Trait. At that, the Judge sat up straighter, and she cleared her throat.
“Truesteel Paladin Peter Steele, you say you have the ability to look at someone and see their past sins. Tell me, when you look at the accused, what do you see?”
Peter looked at the Steward, and Eric saw his eyes flash silver. “I . . . there’s shadows of conversations and papers, but nothing I can actually see as warranting the label of sin.”
Of course, Eric thought. He did everything through contacts, letters, and ledgers. He kept his hands clean. Peter’s Trait could never pick up on anything.
The Judge gestured for his testimony to continue, and Peter did.
Shannon went next, and she shared what her and Eric did, where they gathered up the ledgers and burned down the businesses.
All three of his companions did not say anything about Eric’s knowledge of future events, not even hinting at it, and Indedroma spoke in his mind.
[I am actively guiding their testimony in such a way as to help them avoid any half-truths that would trigger the Judge’s Skills, while also avoiding your actual future-timeline insights.]
Good job, Eric thought back. But still . . . the defense council isn’t cross-examining at all. The fuck is Alp thinking?
Eric stared at the Steward, and the man seemed supremely at ease, as if he had not a care in the world. He was leaning back in his chair, hands clasped on his lap, and had that smug, shit-eating grin on his lips.
“Next,” Solicitor Wren said, “the prosecution calls Blackflame Warlock Eric Mercer.”
Eric stood up and left the bleachers, heading to the witness chair. He sat down and faced the man he wanted dead, the person who blamed him for every crime in that now-extinct future timeline, and began his testimony. Eric had committed it to the Paths Within, and thus was able to recite it perfectly, without issue.
Everyone listened with rapt attention as he described his actions as a member of the Black Ledger—minus capturing the prince and rescuing the princess: that was left out of every Summoned’s account. As Eric recounted his whole story, he could see the looks of concern on the various high nobles—many of which he recognized from when he had first shown off less than a half-season prior upon his arrival.
He was now a known killer for the crown. A Reaper in not just Class identity, but action as well. He had executed traitors to the crown, and under the guise of a criminal syndicate had killed off operatives of other illegal enterprises: even taking it upon himself to obliterate the Admiral. A justified killing, but an execution nonetheless. Not to mention the sinking of several ships of the fleet and the deaths of, quite literally, hundreds at his hand.
The rest of the Summoned would not have such a stain on their names, as they did not have the Class-type known for killing. Peter might have a bit of a lessened reputation, but the fact that his new Class was known publicly as one that could discern guilt at a glance would absolutely blunt the impact to his image.
Eric knew he would be looked at with fear. He could still try to be a mercenary with a heart of gold . . . but that veneer he had built, that identity he had tried to construct in this timeline, would, going forward, be marked. That mercenary side could be paid to do horrible things, and now the public would know that. He was a killer for hire; at least if the action was morally justifiable.
I really hope that Misty and Xera will understand, Eric thought. If they are really, truly interested in me, and have feelings of actual love, then they will understand . . . I did what I did for Trok.
[This does impact your future plans. You will be a pariah in some circumstances. Fear can be a powerful tool, but you will also suffer for your actions. I believe that if those two ladies are truly invested, they will see the necessity of your actions for the good of the kingdom.]
I know that. I am pissed off that I had to share my part in all of this . . . but I know that it’s all for a greater good. The Steward needs to fall.
As he concluded, there were a handful of follow-up questions, but after those clarifying statements, surprisingly enough, the Judge had a question of her own. “Blackflame Warlock Eric Mercer, you caused many deaths. While they were done under the auspices of the crown, there were a handful of innocents who were presumed to have perished. My query to you is this: will you take responsibility for your actions, here and now? Are you prepared to face judgement for those actions? According to the documentation I was provided ahead of this trial, three such individuals were slain in a warehouse explosion.”
Eric felt that like a punch to the gut. He cleared his throat and filled his voice with as much remorse as he could as he said, “I am willing to compensate the families of the deceased monetarily for the lifetime earnings of their loved ones. Where I come from, in the past time period that matches this—Elyndian society—it would be called a weregild. I’ll double it, in fact. But, I refuse to be imprisoned for my actions, or to suffer corporal punishment.”
He took a deep breath and chose his words carefully. “In war—and make no mistake, I believe that this was a war on corruption that was like a cancer within the kingdom’s beating heart and arteries—there are casualties you can never account for. It sucks, but I’ve seen war. Where I came from, I saw war-torn countries when I went overseas to help the sick and injured. That included healing people who were innocent bystanders.” Eric looked down at his hands. “I mean, I tried . . . I lost many of them.”
The Judge nodded. “Your words are true, and I sense no falsehood in them. Your intentions were honest, and your cause righteous—if you were a woman in Flescion, you would be named a purifier of our sects. I will make the recommendation, then, to his highness and representatives, that the families of the slain be notified to contact you for recompense.”
She turned to the King. “I believe that is the most prudent path to take. The deaths were caused while working on behalf of your small council member, and were collateral damage. This weregild seems more than reasonable, and whilst a family member can never truly be replaced, the proposed weregild is in line with Flescion’s codes and creeds, and the laws of the land of Trok which you requested I utilize as guidelines.”
The King nodded. “So it shall be.” He coughed slightly, then said, “Pardon the lack of formality on titles. Mercer, you are to pay recompense to the family of the three slain workers.” He gestured to the Castellan, Marcella, who was on the bleachers closest to him. “Arrange it.”
“Yes, your highness,” Marcella said.
Eric felt that punch turn into a lump in his stomach, and bowed his head. “I accept my punishment, and thank the King for his lenience.” The Judge took her seat, and Eric glanced at his allies, trying to read their faces. Shannon looked on with a grimace, but he gave him a curt nod. Naomi’s face was inscrutable and unreadable. Peter’s lips were drawn tight, but he, too, gave a little nod.
Then Eric was dismissed.
There was no cross-examination. Eric went up to his seat, and resumed his seated position with hands tented and elbows on knees, staring at the Steward. There were whispers and mutterings all around him—Eric knew that he would be seen very differently by the public at large.
[You did as well as you could, given the circumstances.]
Thanks, Eric thought. I wish I could do more, like bring back their loved ones, but nothing can reach past the abyss of death.
[And that right there tells me that I was right in backing you as much as I am. Plus, you offering to pay the weregild shows society as a whole that you are not all about money. I think your reputation will recover because you show that your ‘mercenary’ personality is willing to give up that earned wealth to pay for your mistakes.]
I suppose you’re right.
It didn’t stop the feeling of guilt he had that roiled in his innards. Eric had killed three people whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He had been caught up in the moment, surrounded by people and high on adrenaline, and the desire to see things burn, fueled by his primal force and its call to incinerate.
And he knew that guilt would be something he would live with his whole life.
“Next, the prosecution calls the defendant,” the prosecutor said.
Alp stood up, smoothed his robes, and took the witness stand. “I am ready to proceed,” he said smoothly.
Wren said, “Are you guilty of the crimes you are accused of?”
“Yes.”
Immediately, there were whispers around the room. Eric did not feel triumph though, he felt worry. There was no way that Alp would give up that easily. Something else was at play, and he began scanning the room trying to see where his escape route was. Perhaps a king’s guard was going to help him run? Maybe another spy he got to with a Skill for rapid escape? Maybe he snuck a piece of gear to allow for rapid accelerated movement?
“That concludes the prosecution’s case, Judge.” Wren sat down.
The Judge stood up. “With the prosecution’s case concluded, we now shift to the defense’s case. Solicitor Denise Favreau, you may begin.”
The woman stood up. “The defense rests, your honor.”
The room was filled with whispers and mutterings. Everyone was talking, and it persisted for several seconds. Eric let his fingers drift down to his grimoire, and pooled his mana into his fingertips, ready to activate Skills and Rotes at a moment’s notice. Alp had to be up to something: there was no other reason.
The Judge nodded. “Then I will give my recommendation for sentencing.” She turned to the King. “King Tremaunt, first of his name, protector of the realm . . . I recommend death. The preponderance of the evidence is overwhelming, and while the tactics employed and utilized by the Spymaster in pursuit of the truth and administration of justice are, at first glance, underhanded . . . they are just. The accused confessed to all of the crimes they are proposed to have committed. The harms they have caused lead me to no other conclusion.”
The King let out a cough, and it wracked his body. He stood up, then the cough continued to hit him. His healers tended to him immediately, and Eric saw the familiar glow of green from several powerful Skills available to Healing Mages and their upgraded Class variants. Finally, the man recovered, and looked at the Steward. “I declare him innocent of all charges and free to go.”
The gallery exploded in conversation—shock, dismay, and confusion, and Eric’s grip on his grimoire tightened to white-knuckled in shock.
The Steward stood up, shook the Solicitor’s hand, and began to walk toward the door. King’s Guards stood aside, and he exited the chambers.
The Spymaster touched her ear while pulling up her hood and mask, and before anyone else could move, the King’s voice boomed once more.
“Furthermore, I find the actions of Spymaster Persim Mistra and Magistra Seraphine d'Orveil treasonous. Guards! Arrest them!”
Alp did something, Eric thought, his mind racing. He has some Class, some Skill, that allows for mind control. He got it from a Scroll, or Tome, or possibly even a wild dungeon.
He stood up, shouting as loud as possible, “The King’s mind is not his own! He is being controlled!”
Everyone quieted at that and looked at him—the king included.
The Judge, whose Skill still coated the room, added, “He speaks truth! My Skill is absolute! A Skill whose origin is not from Elyndor influences his majesty!”
Huh, Eric thought, handy. I didn’t even think of that.
Seraphine took advantage of the momentary silence to proclaim, “I declare a meeting of the great houses! The King is compromised, and until his mind is his own, a regent must take his stead!”
Eric moved for the doors, sprinting past the still-confused king’s guards who were torn between an obviously compromised ruler and a very-much-in-control small council member. He got to the four-way intersection and spotted the tail-end of Alp’s cloak dipping around a corner, and he sprinted after the man.
Just in case Alp had some defensive countermeasure, Eric activated Cinderscale Shroud and spent one of his sixteen Sigils—putting him at fifteen—to activate Bristling Bastion. The draconic scales surged around his body, sucking in his armored cloak close to his body, and his shroud of black armor, crackling ash and cinders, stuck to his body as he sprinted.
He reached that intersection and was met with several wooden doors—the small council’s chambers where they could stay if they did not want to go to their estates. It was a long hallway, and he knew right where Alp’s room was. Eric sprinted to the farthest end of the corridor, his incendiary cloud crackling with fury that echoed his own wrath and desire for revenge. Manifesting the ten spears, he willed the cloud to burn away the wooden door. The wood lit and turned to ash within a second.
Alp’s room was richly appointed, and Eric let his flames scour the entire chamber. “Where are you!” he shouted, his voice trembling with fury of repressed rage and desire for revenge cultivated over years of exile. “Get out here!” Eric rushed to the back chamber and his burning cloud destroyed that door.
The bedroom was surprisingly barren, and Eric let his cloud of flames burn everything: it all was incinerated. Everything turned to ashes and dust. But behind one of the tapestries which faded to nothingness, he saw something that shook him to his core.
It was a rift. A wild dungeon entrance. And the dark, brown glow surrounding the edges was unlike anything he had ever seen before.
[That is not good. This close to a Ley Line, and with how long this might have been here? I have little doubt that this is an invasion dungeon.]
Eric willed his bracer to his skin level and raised it to his mouth. “I’m in Alp’s chambers, there’s a wild dungeon rift here. I’m going in.” He didn’t wait for any reply. Eric ran into the portal, driven by his desire for revenge.