Elias' longsword slashed at Makael's side. The retired king's blade landed, dragged against the saint's armor and whipped back towards him in a split second.

"Precision," started the archangel, "is the best quality a warrior can have." The archangel pitched his blade forward, a fountain of blood trickling down Elias' stomach and down his cyan polo. "Not speed, confusion or surprise." The archangel's rapier slammed against the blade of Elias' sword, sliding and slashing the floor.

"Speed," finished Saint Makael. "It's what really matters in combat."

"You're forgetting something important though," Elias retorted, spinning his sword and rashly battering Saint Makael. "I don't work with speed; I use frustration," he continued, twirling his blade and slamming it against the pious archangel saint's, "use it to fuel me, channel it into my attacks." His sword swarmed Saint Makael like a pesky mosquito, but Saint Makael's moved like a slow, spinning tornado. Eventually, he overwhelmed Saint Makael and landed a blow. "Speed," Elias bragged, "is what's important to me at least."

"You're forgetting something too," muttered Saint Makael to Elias.

"And what is that?" Elias mused.

The archangel smirked before saying, "You dropped your guard." Saint Makael spread his wings and darted into the air, swooping back down and pummeling Elias with defeating blows. Elias fell to Saint Makael's sword, dropping to the ground and coughing up blood. "Remember to never drop your guard; never falter and never lose control."

Saint Makael stowed his rapier away, offering Elias a paw as his golden fur swayed. "And get yourself a counselor. You deserve love."

"I should've known this conversation was headed this route," said Elias, taking his paw and climbing to his feet. "You know it as much as I do: I don't need a counselor or something." He flourished his sword, cleansed it against the steel cuffs on his arms and they dueled again, their swords meeting in a cluster of light. "It's a waste of time, I tell you."

Saint Makael stepped back, heaving with exhausted breath, sweat dripping between the hairs of fur on his neck. "You stepped down from your position as king," he argued, posing his sword against his body. "And not only that: you shield your face from myself, your brother, your wife and the public; you drink from sunrise to sunset and you never attend any of our nightly banquets." Saint Makael pounced with his sword and slashed Elias' elbow, taking him down in one fell swoop. "I'd argue that your actions warrant some sort of aid to your mental health."

"That's what they all say," Elias spits, jumping up, rolling around in the air above like a glistening disco ball, spinning a full 360 degrees and scratching his longsword against the archangel's blade, "but we all know that I can handle things on my own. It'll just take me some time."

"And how much longer?" Saint Makael cried, pursuing the retired king around the chambers, the feathers on his fleshy golden wings barely clinging on. "And what happens if you continue to fight these battles alone and you lose? What happens if you decide enough is enough, hm?"

The holy archangel gave his opponent a moment of silence and contemplation, descended to his aid as he shattered into plentiful tears and stayed by his side until under the slithering raindrops his tears washed away.

Wiping away a fraction of a glimmering teardrop from his eye, Elias muttered, "You return too soon from Furrza," he spat at the ground and wiped the remaining puddle of saliva off his lips with his elbow, continuing, "and for what reason?"

"I was acting as the queen's consort over there," said Saint Makael, placing his furry paw on Elias' shoulder and sitting down next to him, reeling his wings inward and folding them down as a breeze tickled his fuzzy ears. "Queen Destiny Sundalo finished her duties as marshal here and has returned to Furrza. I established myself in the political system there, completed the services required of me and returned here."

"Huh, explains things," Elias grumbled, getting to his knees and pointing his longsword against the archangel's chest. "Anyhow, a third duel is in order."

-

"I'm the king now," Zacchias repeated to himself. "This is my duty, and I won't be bothered about it or nothin'." He sauntered down the hallway in his bright-orange polo shirt and orange denim jeans, mumbling, "I'm the king now; this is my duty, and I won't be bothered about it or nothin'. I'm the king."

He entered his tailor's office, who was weaving up a new checkered flannel shirt on his sewing machine. The contraption with which the tailor was crafting this shirt bumbled, and its sound rang even as Zacchias cracked the door open.

When the tailor noticed the king, he greeted him: "Well hello, dear friend." He continued to run the unfinished flannel shirt through the sewing machine, masterfully weaving together a series of orange strings to craft a patch of orange and white checkers. He took one hand off the machine and waved at Zacchias; he motioned for Zacchias to sit down in the seat opposing him, which he did. The tailor exclaimed, "What brings you here?"

"I've come to check in on the progress of my new uniform," said Zacchias. He observed the tailor's movements. The tailor grabbed a string, moved it through a needle with a precise waft of the hand and slipped it through, swiftly swirling the string into the orange polo and doing a flurry of other things in a moment. "And, well, I've come to rant about some things."

"Rant away, my friend!" cried the tailor, stopping the machine and rushing off into the adjacent room. Another machine suddenly activated, whirred and grinded for a few minutes, and the tailor returned with a pot of coffee and two mugs that he juggled in both hands, splattered onto the table and quickly sat. He poured the coffee into both mugs and offered one to Zacchias.

Zacchias accepted the mug of coffee and mumbled, "The people, they demand too much of me."

"What do they demand?" the tailor asked him curiously.

"Well, ever since Elias stepped down," Zacchas continued on, sitting down on the stool opposite the tailor and crossing his legs, outstretching his arms and yawning, "The citizens have been asking for impossible things. What, free rent was fine–but now: free gold from the reserves, free royal garments? What do they expect of me?!"

"No more than you could provide for them," the tailor said thoughtfully. "You're a good king, Zacchias. A good hari–whatever they call it. You provide for your people and are stern; you don't push yourself to meet their demands."

"I know that," said the king, crossing his arms and looking to his right. He observed a microwave–how the timer on it ticked down to 00:00, how the steak inside it emanated smoke and slowly turned a crisp, dark brown. "I just wish my people could take it easy with the unnecessary complaints." His eyes moved into the distance as he muttered, "Especially with the new serial killer on the loose–we don't have time to deal with these pushy civilians!"

The tailor lifted his head, a sudden silence filling the air. "A serial killer?" he asked him, drawing his face closer to hear what the king had to say.

"Yes," the king said with affirmation, his voice struck with exhaustion. "There's been some random hustling across the landscapes, and we've been unable to catch them."

The tailor shook his head, muttering, "Well, that's no good."

"We're allocating a lot of our resources to catching the perp, but it's still not enough," the king complained. "Queen Hekezel has volunteered to take herself and a troop of soldiers out to patrol the outskirts of The Outside Lands, but we've found nothing." King Zacchias hopped down from his stool, drawing a comb from a pocket on his button-up polo and running it through his hair. He shuffled to the door and pushed it halfway out, and before he left he said aloud, "But I can't give up."

-

Queen Hekezel marched down the swampy marshes, the disgusting sound of mud sinking into the creases of furry boots making her cringe inside. The trees were slimy and a tinted green, and foliage grew down from branches. Her troop followed her, dressed in a similar shade of purple and side-stepping ant-mounds and past gremlin mounds as they walked through the misty landscapes. Queen Hekezel drew her sword and her friend Damara–accompanying her on this terrible night–drew her eskrima batons upon stumbling upon a grim scene.

Soldiers: fallen, scattered. The sight was ghastly.

Damara approached one of them. An oily hand reached out–wrinkly, slithering, a devilish shade of crimson as it grabbed handfuls of dirt and pulled itself out of the fallen man's mouth. She quickly whipped the hand with an arnis blade, flourishing her pair of escrima sticks as the queen cleaved off the grotesque hand. A worn screech echoed, and a voice–human in nature–cried out from inside of the body.

A second grimy hand reached out, one crooked and an off shade of maroon, a shivering and thin and burnt hand that lashed out at the muck.

An ear appeared below that–plump and flappy, reptilian in nature. Then another ear, flapping forward as a pair of crimson eyes and a pinched up nose popped out. It was a tall creature with a slender stature, and it towered over the queen, Damara and the others; despite this, no scent of fear emanated from the queen and her troop's skin. The thing screeched, waving its pitchfork around, "Who dares intrude upon my territory? Who dares–"

The queen interrupted, "You are a demon. Your territory belongs to the earthly. What happened here?"

"Unlike what the media would like you to believe, us demons, gremlins and other ghoulish things don't have good memory," claimed the demon. "I simply woke up one night and you know," the demon said, dancing two fingers across the asumium sleeve of the fallen soldier, twisting its crooked neck joyfully saying in a teasy voice, "I just happened to wake up in this handy-dandy corpse. Maybe I'll make it my permanent place of residence and get a better memory that way, hm?"

Queen Hekezel spat, "Go find some place else to haunt!" She drew her longsword; as the demon ran at her–its clawed feet dragging against the mud below–Queen Hekezel cut the thing down, her blade slashing through the demon's hip and inky blood splattering all over her face, sending the horrible monster plummeting towards the floor. She grabbed the demon by its upper jaw and opened up its mouth, slashing off a fang for her to keep in her belt. Then she spotted something in the grass nearby, ordering everyone to stay except for her and Damara.

It was a dagger, and it was plunged into the chest of a bleeding soldier. Just a few paces behind Queen Hekezel and Damara was a tree they noticed while patrolling the area, the same incisions the dagger made on the soldiers in this gory fest also on the tree; also, a chunk of the bark was sliced clean off, as if the blade was thrown from a distance, both clues subtly indicating that the blade was thrown and not used as a melee weapon. Hekezel deduced all of this and comforted the soldier, muttering, "You'll be okay. We'll get you help, but you need to tell us what happened first."

"I–it's an assassin," the soldier coughed up. "They're going around and killing people."

"What assassin?"

"It's terrible," spattered the soldier, thick, runny blood drooling down his mouth and a trail of runny blood dribbling down his nose. The soldier pointed west, turning his head to the left and using his other hand to draw his own dagger from his sheath. It was silver, the hilt was wrapped in leather and the crest of Rivalo was on the hilt, alongside the inscription of Rivalo's motto and the last words to ever come out of the wounded soldier's mouth: "The only way forward is life." The soldier quietly held the dagger to his chin, revealing a stick of dynamite that was about ready to blow.

The queen pushed Damara away, the soldier sliced his neck and all of the shrubbery around them erupted into flames.