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Chapter Text

Agatha didn't really care what the people of Galvadon think of her. For all she knew, they were right to shun her. She was hideous-looking, with filthy black hair, deathly pale skin, and eyes that looked like they would belong to some giant insect. Her clothing consisted of a simple ragged black dress and clumps for footwear, which she almost never changed. Finally, those brave enough to interact with her would only find an odious spirit within, full of dark comments and matching her appearance almost perfectly. All in all, she was not the kind of person any normal human being would ever approach.

But Agatha knew how to turn this prejudice into her advantage.

They were afraid of her. That meant she would be left alone most of the time. Being with other people, including her own mother, was a bother to her.

They looked upon her with contempt. That meant she didn't have to feel guilty for having an extremely low opinion of them or anyone that looked and talked like them.

They made stories of her enchanting men and circumcising misbehaving children with a toothpick. Agatha found them glorious and laughed to herself thinking about her performing such acts. Apparently, decades ago, before Agatha was born, a witch used to terrorize the people of Galvadon by turning their pigs into chickens and their chickens into fish.

And sometimes the kids threw objects at her. There were plenty of mean kids in Galvadon. She had a collection of stuff that had flown in her direction ranging from rocks to footwear to half-eaten turkey. Dodging them had also been a way for her to exercise her body and stay fit. 

For the very least, no one was openly hostile to Agatha. She knew better than to aggravate anyone into that territory.

At one point, all of the above stopped. The people of Galvadon simply stopped caring about her and pretended she didn't exist. And that sat well with Agatha who got had grown bored.

Except there was one problem.

As Agatha was returning home after a day picking materials and ingredients for her mother who worked as an apothecary (recluse or not, the family still needed some sort of income) from the mountain. She spotted an injured cat with pink fur. One of its paws appeared broken and the poor creature was sprawling on the ground, meowing pathetically. Agatha paused for a moment. The cat's eyes met hers. It was pleading.

"What should I do with you," Agatha muttered. She already had a cat at home and taking care of it hadn't been easy. No way was she ready to take on another. And what if they had kittens? She didn't know how to spay cats, and she didn't know if her mother could. She was loath to go to town and asked someone to do it for her, in front of all the hateful eyes glaring at her.

The cat continued to wail pitifully. Agatha sighed in defeat. Against her best interest, she picked it up.

Immediately, the fluffy creature snuffled into her. Agatha blushed, feeling the softness on her hands and arms. Its skin was silk-like as if she were touching a stuffed animal rather than a real one.

"So your heart is not as cold as they say after all," said the cat.

Startled, Agatha threw the creature back as it formed began to change. It was a trap after all. The cat was neither injured nor a cat. In seconds, it revealed its true form as a handsome boy at her age with lush blond hair, white teeth, and deep blue eyes. The only son and heir of the Magistrate of Galvadon. 

"Very funny there, Filip," Agatha remarked sarcastically.

"Come on, I got you that one, didn't I?" Filip laughed. 

"I was just thinking of having cat stew for dinner," Agatha replied darkly.

Filip was unbearable. Ever since coming to Agatha's world one year ago, he had turned it upside down. He was everything the exact opposite of her. He was always smiling even when it wasn't funny, a hypocrite. He was always clean and well-dressed, probably spending hours to take care of his appearance before ever going out. But worst of all, he seemed to like her. That idea made Agatha want to puke.

"Maybe one day you should show me your cooking," Filip returned. "Not cat stew, of course. That's barbaric." It took Agatha's all her mental strength to refrain from strangling this boy and dumping his body in the mountain. That would be impractical because despite his appearance of a spoil pipsqueak who never lifted anything heavier than his own hands in his life, the power he possessed as a legal sorcerer could not be denied. If anybody within twenty miles could circumcise children with a toothpick, that would be him.

"What are you doing here?" Agatha grunted. "A good boy like you shouldn't be hanging out with an outcast like me."

"Not handing out, but how about just a walk home?" Filip suggested.

Reluctantly, Agatha consented.

Alone the way, Filip gave her biscuits. They were really soft and came in different shapes, sizes, and colors. She could tell he put a lot of effort into making this, more than what the son and heir of the Magistrate should.

"I baked them myself," said Filip.

"What kind of boy bakes cookies?" Agatha groaned.

"What kind of girl goes around dressing like that?" Filip shot back, indicating Agatha's disheveled black dress and clumps. "You look like you just came back from Shyish."

"Which might be a much more pleasant place than where we are now," said Agatha. The biscuits he gave her were, surprisingly, good. It seemed he knew her taste well. She knew he would never eat these himself, too much sugar and unhealthy for a warrior.

"Who knows," said Filip, the smile on his face gone. Agatha realized he was serious.

"So what's going on?" asked Agatha.

"I am going to battle tomorrow," said Filip. "The Orruks are close to defeat. Now it is time to land the final blow and break the horde. This will be the final push and I will take my place in the vanguard."

Agatha paused. Though Agatha detached herself from the rest of the world most of the time, she didn't live under a rock to not know the war going on. With the skirmishes spread to Galvadon, more and more injured men-at-arms and militias had turned up at her mother's apothecary shop which now also functioned as a clinic. She also supposed this was the reason why the people had ceased their hostility to her - all their sense of dread and trepidation was focused on something else at the moment. For her part, Agatha had stayed away from the wounded, not that she could do anything to help them without getting into her mother's way. The ingredients she gathered from the mountain would be what would go into saving their lives.

"So?" Agatha asked, unfazed.

Filip raised his brow, expecting a bit more reaction from the girl. "I am out to fight the Orruks. And you know what those green beasts are capable of."

Agatha vaguely remembered King Arthur of Camelot was slain in a disastrous battle at the early stage of the war two years ago. The news didn't bother her much. In fact, as far as she was concerned, very few people mourned the death of that despot. 

"I haven't got all day," said Agatha impatiently. The nobles always liked to blow hot and cold as if the saliva in their mouth could fill entire lakes, and she hated that. "Cut to the point."

Filip was surprised by Agatha's apathy. "Well, I could very well die, you know."

"You want me to polish your gravestone daily or something?" asked Agatha.

"No, that's not what I want," Filip replied. He took a deep breath before saying, "This might be the last time we meet. The last time we are together."

"Doesn't sound too bad to me," said Agatha. While she was not one to take death lightly, the prospect of Filip joining the rank of the hallowed martyrs any time soon was as slim as her chance of becoming the princess of Camelot. 

"You mean you don't care whether I die, at all?" asked Filip, feigning heartbroken.

Agatha wasn't impressed. "One, cut the drama. Two, if you dying means I won't be bothered by any conniving person for the rest of my life, that'd be a boon."

At this point, most people would have stormed off in anger and disgust, but Filip let out a hearty laugh. "Oh, come on, Aggie. I have a legion of admirers swarming me all the time. And yet, you are the one I always long to meet. You should be glad."

Agatha considered for a moment. "Well, I guess am. I am special to you. Happy now?"

"That's a good start," Filip chuckled. "How's your mother doing?"

"Fine," said Agatha.

"I mean, how is her work?" Filip continued.

"Lots of people are coming in with all sorts of injuries," said Agatha. She went on naming the types of injuries and where they were inflicted in details to the point where Filip felt as if his own body was getting shredded by an invisible force. "We are, or mostly she is, doing our best."

"Are they going to make it?" asked Filip.

"Some will," said Agatha, not willing to go into details this time. "Some won't."

"I expect as much," Filip replied. "Not everyone is getting out of this war in one piece."

"You expect my worries for your putting your life in danger," Agatha pointed out. "But you don't seem to do so yourself. It's your own life. I thought you, out of all people, would be more concerned about it."

"It's my duty," said Filip briskly. "As the protector of the realm, I must...."

"Liar," Agatha retorted. Even living away from the rest of civilization, Agatha knew that this kind of chivalry died off as soon as Lancelot betrayed King Arthur, which triggered the gradual decline of Camelot into the war-torn hellhole it was today. 

"Alright, fine," Filip conceded. "I've been waiting for this for a long time. I was, in a way, born for this. It's my destiny It's in my blood. I have to do it. And this is the perfect chance to make that happen."

"Make what happen?" Agatha pressed. "And stop beating around the bushes. Don't use fancy words on me."

"To make a name for myself," said Filip. "I'm heir to a Magistrate in a tiny region most people can't find on the map. I know I am better than this. I know I can be more, and you know that as well."

"What are you aiming for?" asked Agatha.

"Nothing particularly," replied Filip, slightly embarrassed by his lack of preparation for a question like this. "With the ongoing war, there are many shoes in high positions that need to fill. A place in the court would be nice, perhaps even as Knight of the Round Table."

"That title is defunct," said Agatha. "You don't even know who's going to rule this country once it's over."

"Still worth a shot," said Filip. "Once I prove my worth, once people realize what I am capable of, they will see me for who I am."

"Well, I already am," Agatha replied blankly. "You are that conniving rich boy who likes to turn into animals and flirt with girls."

Filip smiled. "Then I consider changing your opinion the quest I vow to accomplish."

The two of them continued their way down the mountain as the sun's light grew dimmer. Filip reached out to hold hand with her as they walked, but Agatha turned him away. The journey took half an hour but felt much longer due to Filip relentlessly coming up with ways to make Agatha try out new clothes and make-ups to make her more presentable. In turn, Agatha tossed back well-founded explanations why his ideas sucked and that she was fine with how she looked.

"I guess I better get going then," said Filip as the two of them reached Agatha's home. Callis was still working diligently inside tending to the wounded to notice her daughter with the boy. It was probably better that way, Agatha thought. Her mother loved to tease her on this. 

"You don't want to come in?" asked Agatha.

"No," said Filip. "I would only get in the way. But I should also thank you for doing your part in the war. Many of these men would not see the light of day again if not for you two. I will not forget the contribution you made to this kingdom."

Agatha was quiet for a moment. She didn't like the thought of war and killing, especially when they were so meaningless and miserable. For all the mistrusts between her and the villagers, no blows had ever come to pass. Filip seemed to have a different idea, however. As a noble, this was his chance to prove himself and obtain fame and status, which was why he was so eager to be in the vanguard. Agatha remembered him in previous conversations telling her what would be different if he were in charge of Galvadon, or even Camelot. Filip always liked to imagine himself standing at bigger and higher than where he was right now. She didn't quite enjoy his ambition.

"That's fine," said Agatha. "I guess that's goodbye for us." She couldn't wait to see him off.

"I'll see you again," said Filip. "I promise."

"In the afterlife, perhaps," Agatha replied dourly, earning a round of chuckle from the Magistrate son.

"And the biscuits," Filip stated. "If you enjoy so much, I will make them a regular delivery."

With that, Filip turned into a pink wolf, waving his fluffy tail at her, and then finally scuttered off. 

Why does everything have to be pink? Agatha thought, exasperated. Seriously, what kind of boy even likes that color?

That night, Agatha couldn't sleep. The moanings of the wounded men in her house had died away once they were carried back to the barrack, either in stretches or on cadaver carts, but what gave her stomach-churning was the conversation she just had with Filip. In many ways, she found his presence a nuisance for they were the exact opposite. After today, that characteristic became even more intense with the revelation that he was aiming for something big while she only asked for a quiet life. Yet, for all their difference she could never bring herself to hating him. And she couldn't put her finger on why.

Why, really, couldn't she hate him?

If she did, she could just ask him to leave and never come back. He had been visiting her at least once every month for more than a year by now, each time bringing her a new kind of discomfort.

What if he did die? That possibility, as slim as it was, couldn't be ignored. What if Filiped got reckless in his pursuit for power and fame and paid the price for it?

How would her life be without being annoyed by that intelligent idiot?

"Ughhhh," Agatha whined. She hated having to think so much. Part of the charm of living in a reclusive environment was not having to think. "Why should I care. If he dies, it's on him."

With that, Agatha covered up herself in the blanket and shut her eyes tight. Still, sleep didn't come.

Chapter Text

Agatha didn't expect this many people to come to her mother's clinic at this time of the day. Normally, the townfolks would ignore them and pretend they didn't exist while surreptitiously doing business with them under the moonless night skies. The two of them were considered a pair of witches, not that either of them minded, but that didn't mean Callis's esoteric knowledge and skills in potions weren't in demand. Unconventional needs required special attention and talents. These days, however, people had been coming in droves, and almost all of them were bearing physical injuries clearly caused in battles.

Galvadon was a peaceful little town at the edge of the Kingdom of Camelot. It was sometimes referred to as the Woods Beyond because of its sheer distance from the capital as well as its overall insignificance, if not backwardness. When the war against the Orruk broke out two years ago, Galvadon was spared of much of its devastation, though many of its healthy young men and boys and physicians had been conscripted into the army. For this reason, the town had lacked both a labor force and doctors for some time, which increased the number of people visiting Callis's clinic. As war swept across the country, even Galvadon eventually found itself in the midst of the action. Mustering what force it had available in such a short period of time, the town had gone to war with little in terms of preparation and manpower. The town had already committed its best resources for the war before the war came to it. Under the new law by the Magistrate of Galvadon, all well-off families had to pay a portion of their wealth for the war effort. A more controversial law that would increase the number of recruits and financial contribution was said to be in the work but never saw the light of day, presumably because of its unpopularity and people's readiness to revolt.

As for the result, seeing the lacerations, mutilations, bruised skins, and crushed bones in front of her, Agatha could guess things didn't go so well. She had not seen the Orruks, but she knew they were beasts who could rip a man in half with bare hands. Then again, the very fact neither Galvadon itself had been overrun with green monsters nor the despised law above had been passed meant something must have gone right. Perhaps they were winning as Filip said. Agatha didn't pay too much attention to the war. She was the type of girl who preferred to mind her own business. 

Unlike a particularly thick-skinned boy that kept irritating her to no end.

Still, more and more she found it difficult to be detached from the conflict. Much like Galvadon which got dragged into the mess because Camelot's rulers had been so incompetent in dealing with the green horde, the horrors of the war came to Agatha regardless of whether she wanted it or not. Today, there were fifteen wounded in the clinic, more than double the day before. Remembering what Filip said about an uptick in military activities as a result of a major push, Agatha supposed it made sense that more people would get killed or injured. She also knew that Filip's father, the current Magistrate of Galvadon, was leading the war effort in the region.

"ARGHHHHH! The pain! It's excruciating!"

"OWWWW! My leg. I can't feel my leg!"

"I can't take this! Please, put me out of my misery!"

The moans of the dying men had a more profound impact on Agatha than she thought. Since she was young, Agatha had always taken interest in morbid things. She used to collect dead insects and put them in jars as a hobby. During her creative writing class - one of the few classes she attended - she wrote stories about Cinderella dying in a horrific traffic accident on her way to the prom and Sleeping Beauty waking up in the realm of Shyish where she became Nagash's bride. Now, upon seeing human sufferings and deaths at first hand, the experience felt much different than Agatha imagined, and, for the first time, she wasn't too sure of herself anymore. Agatha had always appreciated the quirk of being a recluse - it meant she didn't have to worry too much about the worldly concerns of others.

Fifteen men were far more than what her mother could handle on her own. Callis had no assistant aside from Agatha, and even then Agatha only knew the basics. It was then that Agatha came to the grim realization some were dead either way. The townfolks couldn't treat them, so they dispatched to Callis whose unique medicines could tranquil them and make them forget about the agony before their imminent demise. In other words, they were literally sending breathing corpses to her mother. 

It was a sordid business for sure, even worse than the shady deals her mothers made with those pessimistic men who wanted to charm women or desperate women who wanted to have babies. For the very least, the pay was decent. Physicians and apothecaries were currently hot in demand in Galvadon, as was the case elsewhere in Camelot, and even drunk college dropouts and barefooted witchdoctors with unkempt hair and crazy eyes were being called upon. Callis told her daughter with a smile that, with the money being made, she should be going back to school soon, and that they would be enjoying more decent meals from now on. Agatha wasn't too fond of the former - most of the girls there didn't get on well with her, especially now that they knew their idol Filip was into her. The latter didn't sound half bad.

"Agatha, I need you to fill me a bucket," said Callis.

"I'm on it," Agatha nodded. She was glad her mother asked her something. Working was one way of ignoring the horrid thing happening before her.

As she grabbed the bucket outside, away from the coughing and whining, the smell of blood and body odor, her thought wandered to Filip. Though she wasn't about to pray for his safety, she could imagine it would be extremely uncomfortable if he were to end up on her mother's operating table. Agatha hadn't been able to sleep well last night. She really hated to think the thought of him getting hurt was keeping her up at night.

Then again, she was certain that the scenario would not come to pass. That boy was thick-skinned, after all.

"Watch out, Filip," Hort cried as an Orruk swung its cleaver at the Magistrate's scion. Filip ducked to evade the clumsy blow before bringing up his pistol and shot the creature in the eye through the visor of its helmet. The bullet ricocheted within the Orruk's helmet and turned its brain into scrambled eggs.

"Right at you, Hort," Filip shouted back. His most trusted bodyguard cleaved his two-handed greatsword in an arc, decapitating one Brute and slicing another at the midriff. The two boy's faces mirrored one another with blond hair and sharp eyes but, in terms of bodybuild, Hort was easily one and half the size of his master though he was still diminutive when next to an Orruk. While Filip trained himself in the art of arcane and gunslinging, Hort was a dedicated brawler who thrived in melee combat.

Fighting back-to-back in perfect unison as they had drilled for hours on end, the duo dispatched a number of foes. Around them, the ebbs and flows of the battle were turning in favor of Camelot as the opponents, despite their far superior physical strength, were outmatched in terms of numbers and tactics. Groups of green-skinned beasts were isolated and defeated. Both sides had taken great losses and the battlefield was littered with mangled bodies, but the human force had been able to inflict a far more grievous blow to the foe.

The battle began with the human militias on the backfoot. They were slightly more numerous than the Orruks, but a quarter of them were old men, women, or young children who weren't fit for frontline combat. Many of them were drafted in recently and had never seen combat until today. The very idea of fighting against such massive opponents and the knowledge of King Arthur's grisly fate made their hearts unsteady. But Filip rallied and ordered them to dig in at the top of a tall hill. Many simply refused at first, realizing they would be attacked from the gradual slope where the high ground advantage would matter almost nothing rather than the steep one. Many called it a suicidal maneuver, pointing out that their commander was mad to believe it would work. Filip had to convince them, even threatening some at gunpoint to have it done.

As the Orruks arrived, Filip sent a small skirmish force riding on horses was sent as bait. Hungry for war after a week of constant raining, the Orruks pursued immediately. The vanguard and the main force became split as the thirst for combat took over. So intent on the destruction of a few horsemen sent to harass them that the Orruks blindly followed them all the way. And so, instead of attacking the defensive position from the original direction, they were led around and had to climb a steep slope to reach the barricades. At this point, the initiative was well within the forces of Camelot. The Orruks scrambled up the slope and hit the dug-in positions with far less force than they would have in a more balanced terrain. A barrage of musket fire knocked down the first wave of Orruks. As the distance closed, the human defenders held their formation, stabbing and slashing at the incoming foes with a forest of halberds. The militias were by no means professional, but their weapons were easy to operate and Filip made sure to drill them thoroughly before the battle. The defenders held their ground and sent bodies after green-skinned bodies down the hill. For all their prowess and ferocity, the Orruks were repelled. Thus, the first phase of the battle was won with minimal losses on the militia.

"First blood goes to the defenders of Galvadon," Hort cheered as he raised his sword in triumph. As the fighting temporarily died down, the militias were ordered to tend to their wounded while putting down any Orruk on the ground that still drew breath. Filip urged them to do so with haste before the next wave of enemies arrived.

"Sir Filip, sir Horatio," a scout reported. "The rest of the Orruks are heading towards our position. We count thirty of them. All of them Ardboyz."

"A tough fight," Hort remarked. "What should we do?"

"We hold our position," Filip decided.

"Are you sure?" asked Lieutenant Nicola. Though she was younger than Filip and Hort, she had quickly proven herself a worthy combatant and a talented tactician with a quick wit. "Those things are harder than diamond. Our weapons will be useless against them."

"Then let's put their armor to the test," said Filip.

Nicola was far from convinced. "Is that rhetoric, or do you actually mean it?"

"Do not insult the young lord," Hort admonished. Filip wasn't comfortable with Nicola being around, and neither did his bodyguard. The girl was too inquisitive for her own good, and Filip didn't enjoy being rebuked by people of lesser positions. If not for the fact Nicola's family committed both a larger amount of wealth and their only offspring to the war, he might have simply dismissed her on the spot.

Filip sighed. "Need I remind you that Sir Horatio's sword is blessed by the arcanesmiths of Arabia? And before you ask, the circumstance of its acquisition is none of your business. Camelot's laws do not forbid its citizens to obtain and perform contracts with other nations, as long as they are not against Camelot's interest."

"It can cut through anything," Hort assured. "You'll see."

"Of that, I have no doubt," said Nicola. "It's not like I don't think we can win. But what are the rest of us supposed to do? Surely, we are no cannon fodder for you two to show off."

"Watch your tongue, girl,' Hort spat. "Or it is the thickness of your flesh that will be tested on my blade."

"I have a plan," said Filip, holding out a hand to calm his second-in-command. "Follow me and you will live through this. But we are not moving from this spot. My father and the main force are engaged with the enemy as we speak. Meanwhile, the region is infested with Orruk stragglers moving in small to medium mobs. We need to eliminate as many of them as possible before they regroup. If they match as a unified horde, our lives will get significantly more difficult."

By the time the Orruk lumbering rearguard consisting entirely of the heavily-armored troops called 'Ardboyz moved up, they were met by a force seven times their size in an entrenched position. Against the odds and without any thought of self-preservation, they attacked. This time, the human defenders met them head-on.

Musket fire failed to cause any damage and the melee was well-joined. Halberts and swords clashed against axes and cleavers as bodies were hard-pressed against each other. This time, however, the defender line buckled.

"Spread out and try to flank them," Filip shouted his order amidst the raging battle. The 'Ardboyz wore crimson plate armors that seemed to double their weight, and they were already as large as rhinoceros even when naked. As the name implied, they were extremely resilient and unsusceptible to most forms of shooting, slashing, and stabbing. Thankfully, these creatures didn't have chainmail underneath their plates, which mean their joints were vulnerable. This weakness, however, was not easily exploitable. Being able to land a blow at these sections of their bodies was no mean feat and many militias paid the price for their overeagerness as they were hacked to pieces while trying to meticulously aim their weapons at the joints of the foes.

"Will that help?" asked Nicola. During the first engagement, being in a tight formation was part of the reason why the militias weren't overrun by the sheer might of the Orruks. When many people stood together, they could withstand a much greater force, after all. 

"Trust me," said Filip. "I bet they can't see too well in those helmets." 

And he was right. The 'Ardboyz' field of vision was very poor, which didn't bother them too much because all Orruks were tunnel-visioning anyway. The militias broke formation and spread out.  Though the disorderly manner of the maneuver means many were felled at the hands of the Orruks, they were in much better positions to strike blows at their confused enemies. The human defenders had superior numbers, and by surrounding the 'and striking from different locations, the lumbering Ardboyz had a very hard time retaliating. While it still took a lot just to bring one down, the tactic led to a dramatically more favorable casualty ratio for the militias. 

"The tide is turning in our favor," Hort boomed as he loped off the head of another Orruk. As expected, his enchanted two-handed sword cut through their thick armor like a hot knife through butter. The sword was meant to be a gift from Arabia to Filip for his mercenary work a while back, but Filip's disdain of swords and melee weapons, in general, meant it went to the hands of his second-in-command instead. So far, Hort had made good use of it. He had cut down nine Orruks in this battle alone.

Made that ten, Hort mentally counted as he thrust his blade into the face of a foe who froze in shock seeing how little protection its helmet provided from the enchanted sword. 

"Don't let up," Filip warned as he completely erased the existence of an Orruk with a concentrated arcane bolt. It was excessive and wasteful in mana which he didn't possess in unlimited supply, but he knew it had the intended psychological effect. Orruks only respected strength. By showing what he was capable of, even if overdoing in the process, he would strike fear into their hearts. "The battle is not over yet."

"It's as good as over to me," Hort insisted as he claimed the twelfth kill. The boy was making this look too easy.

Demoralized, the 'Ardboyz made their last stand as the human militias closed in to wipe them out. Here and there, a human fell to a monster's blade, but the overall outcome was already set in stone. Filip saw Nicola thrusting the tip of her poleaxe squarely through the visor of one of the creatures and was immediately rewarded with a satisfying gush of red blood from the helmet, followed by a pained yelp from the dying beast. The girl would make an excellent subordinate, if only she kept her mouth shut.

As the sun went down behind the mountains, the hill was littered with the dead. Most of them were Orruks, but the force of Camelot had not emerged unscathed. Still, it was a decisive and undisputed victory. Had the battle been in open ground, Filip predicted the defenders of Galvadon would have been completely slaughtered without inflicting a tenth of casualties on their foe.

"Defenders of Galvadon, victory is ours!" Filip declared loudly as he stood atop a fallen foe, holding high the banner of Camelot which fluttered rigorously in the air. He had practiced this pose carefully and was hoping at least some would feel inspired by it. "You thought these creatures were unbeatable, that this battle was a fool's venture. Yet, here we are still standing while they lay slain beneath our feet." 

"All hail Filip, the hero of Galvadon!" Hort declared. "Slayer of Orruks and savior of Camelot. Maybe his name resonates through eternity."

The response from the townfolks was less enthusiastic than both of them wanted. Then again, most of these were forced into battle against their better decisions and irrespective of their ability and willingness to fight. The concept of chivalry didn't occur to these peasants and most weren't even keen on remaining loyal to a kingdom that had served them so little. The pay was at least decent, though, including a stipend for martyrs. That reason alone was why so few had turned back. Still, it took a lot of effort just to keep this bunch stand in one place when the Orruks came. With their morale receiving a boost following their first taste of victory, so Filip at least wouldn't have to threaten to shoot anyone for abandoning their post from now on.

"Hail Filip, I supposed."

"Yeah, what he said."

"We're alive, so that's great, I guess."

"I must admit, you are more competent than I thought," said Nicola. Filip took that as a compliment. The girl was cynical just about anything in this world. Filip would have given her the boot if her father hadn't been covering the expense of the war.

Filip turned to the Storian he had hired to capture him in his best moments. The Storians were a cult of humans who were bounded by ancient pacts to never utter a single word nor let their faces be shown. They used magic to quickly draw up detailed sketches depicting the moment as it happened before his very eye, accompanied by writings to describe what was happening. This was how essential stories, both heroic and tragic, were recorded and told across generations, all of which nothing but truths no matter how tyrants and criminals of the past had sought to change that. The Storian's job was to capture the scene and immortalize the human subject within it. During his youth, Filip was galvanized by the exploits of past heroes told through stories penned by the Storian. He always imagined himself being in the shoes of these celebrities. Now that he finally had the resource to do so, all he needed was the stars to align. 

Having an accompanying Storian cost Filip a fortune. His father didn't quite agree, but Filip convinced him it was well worth it. Galvadon was a far-flung colony in the middle of nowhere that didn't even appear on half the maps. If that name could be heard a bit more often because of their victories against the Orruks, perhaps Camelot would see it fit to invest in here more. In the end, Filip's logic was heard.

Soon, the people across Camelot would learn of his exploits and glories.

Soon, words would reach the capital of a young man from an obscured town who handily defeated the Orruks. 

And then, Filip would get his due. So would Hort, to a lesser degree. And the rest of Galvadon as well.

"So, what do you have for me?" Filip addressed the Storian.

The hooded figure took a bow and receded from his most recent work as Filip, Hort, and Nicola all took a look at it. The newest piece showed Filip in his greatest moment where he shocked a giant 'Ardboy out of existence with a pinkish beam from his fingertip. Next to him, a smaller but still discernible figure of Hort could be clearly seen, chopping up green-skinned beast like vegetables. In the background, the townfolks hammered at the Orruks.

"That's overkill," Nicola remarked.

"That ought to scare them a bit," Filip vindicated. "That's how these creatures' mind works. Besides, you can't deny how good it looks."

Further justifying Filip's decisions earlier was the description underneath the painting.

Twice the Orruks assailed the defenders of Galvadon and twice they were repelled. As two sides clashed, Filip and Horatio fought shoulder to shoulder like King Arthur and his First Knight Lancelot in their battles of old. Though the fight was hard and many brave souls were claimed by the King of Kings on that day, Filip's actions led to the swift and total destruction of an Orruk band before they could regroup and amass a force that would become an insurmountable threat. At the height of the battle, Filip erased a giant Orruk with his spell. This act demoralized the horde and secured victory for the defenders of Galvadon.

"See?" Filip was smug. This was the story he wanted to be told with him being the main protagonist. He could already imagine how his father would be pleased to see this. "It did matter." 

"If that's what the Storian says then I won't argue," Nicola conceded.

"I don't like how it compares us to Arthur and Lancelot, though," Hort remarked. The Storian-written tales of how King Arthur united the kingdom and led it to unprecedented prosperity during his early years remained popular across Camelot, which was mainly why the mass and nobles had not rebelled yet despite the nation's long decline to the point it was deep in the mud right now. Filip knew quite a few who still thought King Arthur was the greatest monarch to ever rule Camelot.

"I thought they were quite popular," said Nicola.

"I will never betray you as Lancelot did to his liege," Hort snorted.

"I know you won't," said Filip.

"As long as you don't make the same mistakes as King Arthur did," said Nicola. 

"And what's that?" asked Hort in a bellicose manner.

"Thinking you are in charge of everything all the time," Nicola replied.

Instead of retorting, Filip and Hort thought about it for a moment. When news of Lancelot's betrayal came, Filip had felt nothing but disgust and outrage towards who was once his idol he would like to grow up to become like. But as King Arthur's descend to madness worsened, Filip had begun to think there might have been a good reason why Lancelot broke his oath and turned his back against his former liege. It didn't absolve Lancelot of his guilt, though.

Both of them were responsible for the kingdom being in such a mess.

Both of them were horrible people who didn't deserve their titles.

"I will take that in mind," said Filip. "King Arthur and Lancelot were great once, but bad decisions brought ruination upon them both. I know their stories well. I will not let that happen to me and Horatio."

"What should we do now?" asked Nicola.

"Take some rest and wait for the scouts to return," said Filip. "If nothing happens, we will set up camp here. We shall match to giant turnip farm the next day and stop the Orruks before they threaten a vital food source."

"Ughh, I hate turnips," Hort moaned. 

"They're quite good, if you know to cook them well," said Nicola.

"It's Galvadon's most important export," said Filip.

"And I can see why we are so forgettable," Hort sneered.

Filip frowned. "They have a lot of health benefits. But that's besides the point. Doesn't matter if you are abstaining from them for the rest of your lives, someone will still gladly have them on their table. And for that, they must be protected."

"As you wish," Hort concurred.

"I'll see to the troops, then," said Nicola. And then she left.

"I suppose I'll help her on that," said Hort. "Get some rest, Filip. You deserve it."

Alone in his tent, Filip's thought went back to Agatha the girl he found oddly attracted to. He wondered how she was doing. Certainly, the increased in the number of patients, some of whom only waiting to die a more peaceful death, was a boon to her mother's business.

In a way, Nicola reminded him of her. Both were cynical and unimpressed with Filip. They didn't understand why he was driven to obtain as much fame as possible. It was more than just pleasing his father. It was Filip's destiny, and he swore upon his mother's grave he would make it happen.

He wondered if he would be able to visit Agatha often once he got a rank within Camelot's military. Surely, with great status came great responsibilities, and it wouldn't look quite right for a heroic figure worshipped and respected across the kingdom to be associated with a pariah. He didn't want their friendship to suffer for anything, yet the feeling was nagging.

Filip perished the thought. There were ways to compromise. He wouldn't have to sacrifice anything.