For a time, the Evil wearing Pepin’s skin did not speak. He sat there on his throne of gold, and he beheld the boy before him. He beheld the child in whose veins flowed a sacred blood and whose flesh and strength all sprouted from a lineage long consecrated. Karolus—nay, Charlemagne—was supposed to be his successor, the one who would become another he. That was his purpose, his very reason for existing.

  So why did he disobey his father’s command now?

  “Charlemagne, mine son. My vessel that which shall pass on my will. Even now, you continue to disappoint me.”

  Wreathed in the shadows of perpetuity, Pepin’s voice boomed with the force of Francia’s history. He embodied all that was the nation of now and the past, and despite all his atrocities, the weight of an emperor, the dignity of a ruler, had never left his countenance. The spirits of his ancestors rested behind his back; and they stared at the young emperor-to-be, judging him from beyond their golden veil.

  Pepin raised a crooked finger and pointed at Karolus. “You would raise arms against your own father, against the very one who gave you life? A paltry effort. You cannot even stay the tremble of your wrist, and yet from your lips spew a meagre rebellion.”

  The former emperor spoke true. For all his determination, Karolus was still a boy, a boy whose heart had long been drenched in fear toward his father. It seized his chest as if by instinct, screaming to give up, to obey, to fulfill the role assigned at birth as a puppet without a conscience to resist.

  But regardless of how his blood boiled, or the quiver of his eyes, or the terror that threatened to consume him whole, Karolus stood tall and directed his holy sword at the monster occupying the throne.

  “I know I’m afraid,” he said. “I’ve been afraid for a long time, and maybe this fear would go away if I did as you said. If I just obeyed, blindly did as everyone else wanted of me, then I wouldn’t need to feel so conflicted anymore. I could close my eyes and continue dreaming just as uncle wished. But all of this… even if it’s easier, I just can’t do it. I don’t want to pretend that everything’s okay or to hide when the people I care about are clearly hurting, so no. I won’t kneel to you anymore, father.”

  From within Karolus’s bosom, a gentle light poured out, wrapping around his body in a shimmering halo of white and gold. The Joyeuse shuddered in excitement. It gave the boy its everything: the power of the sword, the divine blessing he once sealed, and the hopes of all the souls still trapped by Pepin’s legacy. They propped his back and lifted his steps, urging him to the destiny he would forge.

  To Lucius, it was one of the most dazzling sights he had witnessed in this world. For the seed before him was undoubtedly holy.

  “Oooh… how the weak have corrupted you with their lies, mine son. It is regrettable, but what is a father if not a guide for his son’s path? So be it. I will correct your behavior, Charlemagne, and I will do so painfully. I will engrave in your soul a leash so tight that you will never dare to utter such drivel in my presence again.”

  With a slow, mounting groan, Pepin lifted himself from the chamber’s highest seat, and he descended the stairs, his foot stomping with a weighty thud.

  “It is an embarrassment that one like you shares my lineage, and dreams of such treachery, when you are nothing more than an inferior copy. Everything you are and will be shall always be one step behind my prime.”

  Karolus did not cower nor retreat. He faced his demonic father and took in a long, troubled sigh, collecting himself as the power he once abandoned came flooding back.

  There, on the floor, Ganelon looked up at the boy with a mixture of awe and shame. For so long he had been afraid of what Karolus would become, yet that very person now boldly held steadfast to his ideals, and he refused the inheritance Pepin would bestow. Such a tragedy it was that Ganelon would see such a sight only when brought to his lowest.

  “Karolus…” he wheezed. “You cannot win, even with the holy sword. Save yourself and run away. We do not need to all die here.”

  But the boy simply shook his head and then stepped ahead to shield the shivering Ganelon. “I’m tired of running away, uncle. For once, I want to fight for what I believe in.”

  The High Tribunal lowered his head, silent. Before, Karolus’s stubbornness would have sent him to a rage, but now he could only smile to himself and let the young man march forth.

  Finally, the father and son faced off against each other at the chamber’s base. Neither monarch was willing to relent. In the scrolls soon to be chronicled, only one could be writ as the victor.

  “Mmm… that scowl on your lips,” Pepin muttered. “It is not bad. Perhaps I can make a man out of you, yet. My heir.”

  Karolus readied his sword. “That is not for you to decide, never again.”

  The two struck at each other, and the castle trembled. The ground, the air, everything there was: it all recoiled from the aftermath of their single, brief clash. Here stood Pepin, a monstrous warrior who reduced the entire city to rubble with a mere stomp of his boot, whose wrath could not be stopped despite the full assault of Francia’s finest knights — unparalleled, unmatched in all the land. But in the end after years of reigning as this world’s strongest, he would find his equal in the room of his forebearers.

  Karolus, at the tender age of fifteen years, stopped his father’s advance. And he pushed him back.

  For a moment, Pepin was confused. He stumbled back whilst clutching at the deep slash across his chest; and he glowered at his son’s visage, whose blade now dripped with the Evil’s rancid blood.

  He was confused not because he was wounded, but by the pain in his son’s eyes. Karolus gazed down at him with an emotion the former emperor had never felt before. It was dark, weighty, and grim. Only after regaining his footing did Pepin realize what that emotion was.

  It was remorse. Karolus felt remorse, because in order to protect he needed to hurt another. Pepin saw in his son a mirror that would not reflect. He couldn’t see another he, but rather a soul with a will, a longing, a conviction of their own.

  Whilst he gorged himself and indulged in the fear and terror that slaughter wrought, Karolus was saddened by it. And yet the boy continued his fight in the hopes he would never need to do so again.

  “Why, mine son?” Pepin asked. “Why do you look so unhappy, when the shedding of your father’s flesh should please you?”

  Karolus bid him a bitter smile. “Because I don’t enjoy it, father, and you’ll probably never understand why. You’ll never know what it’s like to love someone. You’ll never regret hurting all the people you’ve wronged. That’s why I have to do this, even if it aches my heart.”

  The holy sword’s length extended along with Karolus’s armor of gold. With one swing, he carved through the Evil’s bone that no other weapon could. He fought back against Pepin’s wild, overpowering strength with a gentle finesse and a solemn stride, the polar opposite of his father.

  Columns and marble chunks began collapsing all around them. The castle roared in duress under the two’s deafening battle, and the stained glass above shattered into pieces. No longer was the noon’s light impeded. It cascaded down, but even those glittering rays could not pierce through the grey fog shrouded around Pepin. It was as if the man’s very existence refused to let it cleanse his putrid, darkened soul, for he was satisfied with it and took pleasure in its depravity.

  Young Karolus put on an admirable resistance. He drove the thing further beyond anyone else had accomplished, but it was not enough. The shadow of Pepin threatened to swallow him whole once more; and over time, his golden light waned, paler, even paler. He could not push back his father anymore. Pepin’s demonic heart thumped ever as composed.

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  Eventually, the man succeeded in breaking through Karolus’s defense, and he struck the boy’s stomach with a violent blow that knocked all the air out of his lungs. Tears welled in Karolus’s eyes; but he did not fall. Pain shot through his body; yet he did not falter.

  “Did you truly believe yourself capable of besting me?” Pepin said, grabbing his son’s skull and lifting him up. “I am the emperor. I am the lord. All these years you’ve buried yourself in dusty tomes, when I have spent my life in the midst of ruin and carnage. What do you wish to achieve? Nothing, child. You can do nothing alone.”

  The boy was talented, oh yes. Perhaps never again would there be an emperor with such innate potential than Karolus which was why his father desired him so. But the bridge between talent and experience could only be gapped so much, and for Karolus who had yet to know the perils of war, much less take his first life, he found himself ever gradually succumbing to Pepin’s domination.

  Fortunately, he wasn’t alone.

  “Isn’t it such a pleasure to see one’s child growing up? You are a lucky man, your Holiness. But being too clingy isn’t befitting of a father.”

  Lucius severed the tendons in Pepin’s wrist with a swift, elegant slash, causing Karolus to fall which the gentleman then quickly moved to whisk him away.

  “The masked creature,” Pepin uttered, reassembling his severed muscles with a grunt. “Whether feeling or not, I shall not stay my hand if you continue to be an annoyance.”

  Lucius chuckled and whirled his cane around in a playful show. “I must make the odds fair, no? A little balancing of the sides will make for a much more dramatic finale.”

  “So be it. My charity ends here.”

  The young Karolus was still a bit dazed, but the boy recovered just in time to witness Lucius and the former emperor engaging in a precarious dance. The gentleman didn’t quite have the same raw power as his fellow; however, what he could do was evade, dodge, and whittle Pepin down piece by flayed fleshy piece.

  "You are vexing, like a worm writhing just out of reach. Why can I not catch you? Why must I endure this frustration?"

  When a swipe came at Lucius's side, he'd veer at just the right angle to pirouette back and then lunge in with a sharp thrust, digging into the Evil's decaying body. Again and again Pepin tried to grab the gentleman only to be met with a riposte and a flurry of disarming stabs. The thing could not feel pain itself; yet, the more Lucius taunted him, berated him, mocked his attempts with a snide jeer, he soon came to realize that this gentleman before his eyes wasn't being serious whatsoever. Lucius belittled him like a petulant babe, and Pepin's mind could not fathom it. He, who once inspired fear in all, was being condescended by a cur that should be below him.

  It drove him mad. It sent him into a frothing, spitting rage. Such crudeness only gave Lucius a bigger advantage, for this bumbling manchild had only brute strength to flaunt, forsaking all else—technique, form, practice—and relying on instinct that had been only ever conditioned against the weak. He had never faced a foe more skilled than him before and that would be his undoing.

  However, dueling like this wasn’t a permanent solution. What the former emperor lacked in ability, he made up for vitality, regeneration, a body that would heal and reform no matter what little wounds came his way. He remained an unstoppable force that cared not of the destruction wrought around them. Everything was crumbling; the pillars could hold no longer.

  The castle had finally reached its limit. Lucius barely managed to snatch Sir Ganelon and Karolus, before making a swift exit as the ancient marble walls collapsed into itself, causing both the chamber and the jewel-lined halls to crash in a chaotic jumbling medley.

  Soon, Pepin disappeared into a cloud of dust. Lucius didn’t have time to check whether he gave chase; thus the three panicking friends skipped through the falling castle to the outside.

  “Why did you pick me up, too?” Ganelon said with a dark laugh. “Haha, you should’ve just left me to be buried there. It’s not like I can… help in this state.”

  Karolus admonished the man with a soft slap to his cheek, breaking the High Tribunal out of his self pity. “You should say ‘thank you’ instead, uncle.”

  “My boy, the only reason I’m not wringing this thing’s neck is because I can’t. Don’t be fooled by Lucius’s manners. If not Pepin, this nation’s destruction would have been wrought by him.”

  Lucius curved around a plummeting stone shard and daintily broke through the castle’s doors. “Do pardon me for intruding your conversation, Sir Ganelon, but I must remind you that my hearing is in perfect working order.”

  “That’s great! You can listen to me insult you more, then. It’s not as if you actually care.”

  “Uncle!”

  “Why should any of us care about anything? It’s all over. The castle, the city… everything is destroyed. Haha, Francia has no future left, Karolus! It’d be better for us to flee. Maybe, just maybe we can outrun that monster’s chase—”

  “Is that really what you want?”

  Karolus stared at Ganelon, waiting for him to respond. In the boy’s eyes was a gaze that seemed to pierce through everything, and the High Tribunal could only stutter over himself, before eventually biting his lip and shouting back, “Of course I don’t! Hells, out of everyone in this godforsaken nation, I’m the one who despises him most. But, haha, I’ve tried my best! We all did. The Peers, you, and even Lucius couldn’t bring him down.”

  “Maybe, but we’re still alive, aren’t we?”

  Karolus took his hand and placed it over the High Tribunal’s heart. Exhausted though it might be, he could feel it thumping, just like his own. They were still alive; they could still fight. And as long as that possibility remained, then not all was yet lost.

  “Trust me, uncle,” Karolus said. “We can win.”

  Finally, Lucius blew past the castle’s ruins and steadily approached the exit. The gentleman could sense the boy on his shoulder tensing up. Karolus looked at the light filtering through the doors’ cracks, and he clasped his palms together, both nervous and a bit excited. It was no wonder, for beyond those doors awaited a scenery he was never allowed to see.

  The castle was his home, his cage, his eternal prison. It protected him from the outside just as it stoked his curiosity, and to this boy who had never once seen the sky, storybooks and legends of heroes’ old were all he had to glimpse into that unknown, frightening world. Yes, frightening… and yet, it also represented freedom. The freedom to become who he, and no one else, wished him to be.

  Closer, faster, the light of the outside approached. And as Lucius kicked the doors open, a sudden gust of wind flew into Karolus’s face. His eyes widened, and his mouth opened in surprise. He choked on his words and struggled to reign in his joy, for there, far above him, was the sky he so yearned to see. It stretched far beyond the horizon, vast in its expanse and shining in long wavy rows of purple.

  “Sir Lucius, what’s that up there?” Karolus said, pointing up.

  “Those would be the suns.”

  “So that’s what they look like! Wow, I didn’t know it’d hurt my eyes. But what’re those faint sparkles?”

  “Those would be the stars.”

  “The stars… just like the Mother. There are so many of them!”

  Lucius grinned and patted the boy’s head. “Indeed, young Karolus. How do you feel, after seeing this small snippet of the world?”

  To that, he responded with a warm, loving laugh. “Like I’ve waited my whole life just for this moment.”

  Karolus stared starstruck at the beauty of the world, but when he looked downward there was only sorrow. The bustling streets of Francia’s capital were destroyed. Everything was in tatters, from the collapsed buildings, the fractured statues, even the once-green meadows… now upturned in mounds of dirt.

  It brought the boy back to the grave, sobering reality. This would be his future if Pepin was not stopped. The far reaches of Arabia, the Moors, the nations north and south: They, too, had people they wished to protect.

  The outside was full of wonder, of possibilities untamed. But to the Karolus of now he was concerned only with the city he once sought to escape.

  For better or worse, this was his home, as it was the home of many others.

  “... As much as I’d like to venture off and see those faraway lands myself, there’s still something I must do here.”

  Karolus jumped back to the ground and clasped the Joyeuse tight in his grip. From behind him, a rumbling grew louder, steadily drawing near.

  Eventually, a figure emerged from the fallen wreckage of the castle. There stood the Evil called Pepin, unbothered and unharmed by his destruction’s aftermath, and he muttered an annoyed rasp whilst trudging toward the final confrontation with his son.

  There would be no more stage changes, no more distractions. Here, at the very center of the leveled capital, the end to this long conflict would conclude.

  “Ready, Sir Lucius?” Karolus asked.

  “Of course.”

  The two drew their blades and prepared to enact their final resistance. Pepin threw his arms open, goading them to come as his shroud withered the surrounding gravel into a colorless mush.

  But just when they were about to rush forward, Lucius perked his head up and raised his hand to his ear.

  A familiar sound whistled from the distance. It had been quite a while since he last heard it, but there was no denying its source: the loud horn, the bells, the chugging of gears. And along with it, the shouts of a man who bloomed defiantly against the waves of prejudice. Yes, it was the sound of reinforcement and hope — what better to signal it than a reunion with an ever dependable friend?

  The Hippogriff Express had returned, and its owner was not pleased.

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