Damian had stayed up late into the night, mulling over a pair of tankards of warm apple cider. By the time he’d finished them, they weren’t warm anymore. It had cost him almost as much as a meal, but he’d needed something to keep himself awake, and he’d ended up eating his travel ration to save money, so he felt it was justified. As he’d suspected, the relative position of his skill didn’t move one iota. Or at least, not enough to suggest it had exited the keep.

  Whoever he was looking for was there overnight. So presumably, they weren’t a servant or [Guard] who left to go home every evening. He could try waiting to see if they eventually left, but who knew how long it would be until one of the gods showed up to murder this one? No—he’d have to get proactive.

  As he waited for sleep in an extremely comfy bed with furs that reminded him of home, he realized he had no idea how one was supposed to gain access to a royal keep. Obviously, people must come in and out a lot. Not all the servants and [Guards] and [Knights] could be expected to live there. And surely diplomats, advisors, and other royals would visit from time to time, right?

  But they were probably checked on entry, and Damian didn’t exactly have a good reason to get in. Especially under a truth stone, which they’d definitely be using. Maybe he could sneak in. He was small and often went unnoticed without trying, after all. Half of him expected the Great Game to level him up and give him some skill to help; it hadn’t spoken to him once since Jahrmarkt.

  Damian resolved to tackle the issue tomorrow, after some well-earned rest.

  As it turned out, getting into the keep was going to be harder than he’d thought. There was exactly one way in and out, and it was guarded at all times by a pair of [Royal Wolfguards], like the [Wolf Knights], except Damian shivered just looking at them. Their armor was simple steel and fur like the rest of the Wolf Knights, but the fur was pure white and looked distinctly thick and shaggy in a way Damian recognized but couldn’t put a name to.

  When he asked one of the townsfolk about it, they gave him an appraising look. “Good eye. It’s Goliath fur. A local monster what looks like a bear but is much larger, with white fur and a frost breath that’ll freeze the flesh right off your bones. Each one of them royal guards is tasked to hunt one to be inducted into the ranks.”

  Bear fur. Damian had seen bear fur before, and that’s why it looked so distinct and familiar. Seeing as the woman he was speaking to seemed to have taken a liking to him for recognizing the special fur in their armor, he decided to push his luck. No doubt [Natural Charm] was helping him out as well.

  “And who all gets into the keep?” he tried to ask as innocently as he could. “I see a lot of people pass through.”

  The woman barked a laugh. “Takes lots of folk to attend a royal family and all their goings-on. The King is an active one at that, just like his father and his father’s father. Can’t say I know everything about it, but once a week they let in anyone what wants to petition the King for him to weigh in on grievances. Dunno how he does it meself—there’s a lot of people who want to bend the King’s ear, and not always for tasks deserving of royalty.”

  “What day?” Damian asked.

  “Eh? Sundays, after worship,” the woman answered, adjusting the furs wrapped around her neck. “King says it’s the mandate of Cirael himself that everyone what wants is seen.”

  Barely, Damian managed to hold in a wince. Everything came back to the gods eventually. They were just so... entrenched in society. Even more so than they’d been in Bekham.

  “I appreciate you telling me,” Damian said, looking to disengage now. “I’m new and wanting to learn about the city.”

  The woman waved a hand at him dismissively. “Happy to speak on it. Hope the chill doesn’t scare you off—Solgorod is the best place for us common folk to live. The King and them wolf knights actually care about what we think. Not like them warrior kings or greedy kings. S’just good people.”

  He smiled thinly. “Glad to hear it.”

  The woman smiled back—much fuller than he did—and nodded before going on her way.

  Sunday was in two days. Damian absolutely, positively did not want to wait two days. That left coming up with some reasonable excuse to get past the guards, without lying or sneaking in. He decided to do a quick lap around the perimeter of the keep to see if there were any obvious options.

  He ended up doing three laps, each increasingly depressing as he observed the sheer stone-brick walls dusted with snow. There weren’t even any windows until far higher than the roofs of the surrounding buildings. It made sense, but it was not helping his case at all. Technically, he thought it might be possible to climb the wall, assuming you were a [Natural Born Absolute Talent Climber] with fifty levels and the appropriate skills. And assuming your fingers didn’t freeze off.

  There were no visible drains, no back exit doors, no obvious ropes or ladders. It was sheer stone and ever-present freezing snow on all sides. Except for the front gate, of course.

  Damian spent the rest of the day fuming and hoping his inner compass from [Locate Chosen One] would suddenly swing around. Of course, it didn’t. By the third day in Raya, he was absolutely stumped. Everything he tried to come up with as a reason to get inside inevitably ended with the conclusion that the guards would see straight through him. And every hour he waited, his anxiety got worse and worse.

  Even though [Dangersense: The Chosen One] was completely silent and [Sense Divinity] was only giving him light reactions to the churches in the city, he was certain they were coming. One of them was on their way right now, and they wouldn’t need to get past the stupid guards. But he wouldn’t help anyone stuck in a freezing prison cell, so despite feeling a desperate need to find [The Chosen One], he bided his time.

  He’d thought he’d gotten up early enough to be near the front of the line to speak with the King. Boy, was he wrong. It was barely past first light when he trudged through the snow to the plaza, and his jaw nearly dropped in surprise. The line stretched all the way across the plaza, looping back halfway, and was growing by the minute. He hurried to stake his spot as early as he could.

  Then came the second bout of bad news. They weren’t going to let anyone in until after morning prayers were over. Everyone else seemed prepared for this, bringing magic warming stones, hot food, and drinks kept warm with mugs inscribed with runes. Needless to say, he was pretty miserable for a while. At some point, one of the elderly women in line ahead of him took notice and offered him warm chicken and mead. He turned her down at first, but she insisted so strongly that he ended up taking some. It made waiting significantly more palatable.

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  “And what’re you here to see our King for?” the woman asked as Damian gratefully sipped the warm mead.

  He wondered how they had honey to make mead with in lands like these. Maybe it was imported. Or a skill, of course.

  “Son?” the woman prompted, shattering his absent-minded pondering.

  “Oh, er...” He wasn’t sure what to say. He hadn’t thought about how he might actually need a reason to be here. Then he remembered something Mother Revna had once told him—the best way to lie was to tell the truth. “One of my skills told me he might be able to help me with my class.”

  That much was true. The King certainly could help him find [The Chosen One]. He certainly wasn’t going to ask him to, seeing as everything he’d heard indicated the man was a devout follower of Cirael, but he could in theory.

  The woman smiled a gap-toothed smile. “Ah, the Great Game speaks true. The King is a great man.”

  “That’s what everyone says...” Damian muttered as he went back for another sip of warm mead.

  So far, Solgorod had been potentially the nicest kingdom he’d been in. Not in terms of the place itself—it was as cold as Damian had ever felt—but in terms of the people. Father Garm’s warning had turned out mostly true in his traveling experience. Everyone was looking for an angle, or at least wasn’t willing to stick their neck out for anyone. A ride that would cost them nothing, sure. But he didn’t expect anyone to get his back if he got in a fight or anything.

  But Solgorod was different. Everyone loved the wolf knights and the king, and frankly each other. He’d been offered free food, never been insulted, and even socks when one of his rides noticed he was having issues with cold feet. It was so kind, in fact, it almost put him more on edge than random townsfolk telling him to watch where he was going and to put a proper head on his stunted frame.

  The line started moving shortly before midday, and thankfully it went relatively fast. In no time at all compared to the wait, he was approaching the royal guards, who were today being assisted by a dozen less-royal but equally hardened-looking castle guards. When they sent the old woman ahead of him through, he stepped up and removed the fur wrapped around his face so they could see him properly.

  “Good morn,” one of the royal guards said. “Name and purpose of your audience?”

  “Damian—Bekham,” he said, hesitating for just a moment on the surname. “My skill directed me to seek an audience with the King to resolve my personal quest.”

  The royal guard paused, and though he couldn’t see much of the man’s face through his helmet, he thought the guard might have raised an eyebrow. He looked over to his partner—a woman judging by her armor—who stepped forward. She gave Damian a once-over, and he could feel a skill probing at his body. She’d used it unspoken, which was slightly odd. He’d never understood why most people didn’t practice using their skills without speaking, but it was just unusual. He tried practicing that as often as he could.

  “And what is your class?” the woman asked. “Non-specific is fine.”

  “[Squire],” Damian said with a steady voice.

  The royal guards exchanged another glance, and then the woman reached out and clapped a hand on Damian’s shoulder. He flinched slightly but held his ground. If he was caught, it wasn’t like running would save him. They knew his name, knew what he looked like, and were probably much, much faster than him.

  “Good luck, young man,” the woman said earnestly. “You are seen.”

  “Er... thank you, ma’am,” Damian said awkwardly, shuffling past them.

  What had that been about? Clearly, they’d accepted his answer, but that was a strange interaction. Did they get a lot of [Squires] to see the King?

  Damian decided it didn’t matter, because he wasn’t planning on seeing the king anyway. He was directed by several helpful servants into what looked like a large feast hall, where the people from the plaza were milling about and there was more warm food and cider for everyone to enjoy. There were some [Castle Guards] and servants about, but after a few minutes of observation, he managed to slip away through one of the side doors unnoticed.

  Now he just had to find whoever his skill was pointing him toward in the maze of a castle. Surely not a problem. As it turned out, it was quite a bit of a problem. Even finding stairs took him a few minutes of wandering.

  While he wandered, he was begrudgingly impressed by the castle’s furnishings. There were ever-burning torches along the walls for lighting, which provided some heat—unlike mage lights—though they were supposedly far more expensive. The stone floors were often covered in bright carpets to cut the cold, and the walls were adorned with furs, suits of armor, and stuffed animal heads. Yet even with all that, it didn’t feel like the king, or the royal family or whatever, was trying to show off their wealth and power.

  Everything felt practical and utilitarian, like a quiet pride in their culture rather than a bird pruning its own feathers. It made Damian deeply suspicious. Marduk's law had turned out to be a fucking living nightmare, even though it had looked like a good idea on the surface.

  He tried not to get distracted as his skill directed him to the fourth floor. But as he turned his first corner, he nearly ran face-first into a middle-aged woman in a clearly expensive dress. For a second, they both froze, staring at each other.

  Damian quickly stepped out of the way, lowering his head. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “Ma’am?” the woman asked with a hint of disdain. “I am a [Lady] of the court.”

  Quickly, Damian bowed at the waist. He didn’t have any experience being around [Lords] and [Ladies] or the court, but he’d heard enough stories. And he also knew flattery and deference went a long way.

  “Please accept my humble apologies, my [Lady]. I’m new around here.”

  The woman scoffed, and Damian winced, thinking he’d somehow misstepped again. But to his surprise, he felt her lightly tap his back. “Stand, stand. I didn’t intend to be so snappish—I’m in a poor mood. But that’s not your fault, Mr...?”

  Damian straightened as he was bid but kept his chin and eyes low. Best not to draw attention to himself if he could help it. “It’s just Damian, my [Lady].”

  “Well, just Damian, please accept my apologies in return. I won’t hold you up any longer. Carry on.”

  Deciding to err on the side of caution, Damian executed a smaller bow and waited for the [Lady] to walk past him and around the next corner before he straightened again. He let out a strained sigh, hands shaking slightly. That could’ve gone poorly. But good to know he was either doing a good job pretending, or [Natural Charm] was absolutely his best skill. Hopefully both.

  Luckily, this floor was much easier to navigate than the first. He took a few turns, walking slower than before to avoid a repeat incident, and passed only a few demure servants who nodded at him as he went by. It wasn’t a perfect process—he backtracked a couple of times—but eventually narrowed it down to a single hallway with a few doors. After walking up and down the hallway a few times, he determined it was the middle door. Probably.

  It really wasn’t perfect in terms of fine-tuning. Besides, he could always just say it was the wrong door if someone who wasn’t [The Chosen One] answered, right?

  Damian took a deep breath to steady himself, raised a hand, and knocked on the door.

  Cold steel pressed itself to his neck, and Damian froze.

  “Turn around,” a voice demanded from behind him. “Slowly.”

  He turned, eyes going wide as he saw he was not, in fact, alone in the hallway. Somehow, an entire group of royal guards had shown up. Or maybe they’d always been there. Marduk had proved there were ways to conceal oneself like that. Damian’s mind raced as he tried to figure out how the fuck he was going to talk his way out of this.

  The lead [Royal Wolfguard]—and they really felt like they deserved the full class name in Damian’s mind, considering his helmet was stylized like a wolf’s head and had golden detailing—removed his blade from Damian’s neck but kept it pointed at him as he stepped back. Damian could only see his eyes and mouth, but those eyes were hard as ice and that mouth set into a grim scowl.

  “What are your intentions with the princess?”

  Damian had only one thought.

  The what?