The black was cold. Freezing. Everything was still, and nothing was all there was. Faintly. There, in the empty dark, were the notes of a song. Words, incomprehensible, ancient, rhyming, skirted the edges of hearing. They spoke of a death, they spoke of a regret, they spoke of a refusal.

Mortal man soon to die,

hearken now to twilight's cry.

Cease to listen to death's call,

Do not abide the final fall.

Waken, wounded, half alive,

The heart that's striving to survive.

There it taps, a too tepid drum,

Strengthen, stronger, will not succumb.

Silence gave way to a distant, sporadic pounding. Moments, minutes, hours passed. Time had resumed, and with it there was a whisper-thin warmth. The song was all around, pulsing outwards from two points. One was impossibly far away, while the other was in his centre. They were connected by a fine ghostly bond, a string that hummed with subtle power. Through that gossamer thread, more words came. They were closer now and he could understand them, though they were in no language he knew.

The pounding slowed and the warmth receded.

Foolish, fleeting, all too frail,

this mundane vessel, born to fail.

Bone and blood, flesh and skin,

restore the vigour lost within.

Pristine, icy fingers gripped, squeezed something deep inside, then eased. It was agony. Again, it happened, then again. A cruel, steady rhythm until the pounding returned, stronger than ever. The horrible grey hand retreated, but the voice, low, melodious and deadly, still sang. The words rang with bitter disdain.

A death so peaceful, will not be yours.

A fate, to climb, and herald wars.

A tool, a spark, to bring about,

The end of kings and certain doubt.

Do not think to run and flee,

Your debt, your life, belongs to me.

A last crashing tide of song tore away the nothing and replaced it with indescribable pain, then excruciating warmth. Stars, rain and a great willow tree spun through his sight. Then it was Spires, all manner of them, from silver to gold, then from living wood to molten glass. Too many, too tall, too hateful.

Infected. Imprisoned. Insane.

The chains binding him grew tighter than a coiling serpent and heavier than a mountain.

Then it was quiet again. Darkness, warm and still. Enveloping. And all was forgotten.

---

When Fritz awoke, it was with prickling skin and a profound sense of wrongness. He was lying down somewhere dark, but he didn't open his aching eyes. That wasn't the only part that ached. His whole body was sore, far more than it should have been from his wounds. They hadn't been too serious, and he was used to the overexertion of his muscles due to his rigorous regimen.

There were voices, but it was hard to hear. It was like he was still underwater.

Fritz tried to listen and found he couldn't make sense of the words. His head felt like it was full of acidic sludge. His calf throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and his heart itself writhed like there were worms crawling within it. He felt hot, too hot. He was sweating terribly. With a weak, sluggish squirm, he pulled the damp, scratchy sheet away from his body.

The voices stopped. Then they came back clearer, urgent and insistent.

"You said he had passed! That doesn't look 'passed' to me!" a man barked. A face came with the voice. The name attached to it eluded Fritz for the moment, but he knew it was his tutor.

"Preposterous!" an unfamiliar man blustered.

There was a rustling and some quick steps, then someone took hold of his wrist.

Fritz tried to fight, but he was too weak. He groaned instead and opened his bleary, blurry eyes to a slit. The light was far too bright, so he shut them quickly after seeing a smudge of white robes.

"My word, he's alive," the someone announced. Probably the Healer, Fritz assumed.

"Of course he is. A puny sea snake's venom couldn't kill him," another voice joined in. This rough tone was one that filled him with relief. Bert was here.

"He wasn't breathing, he was cold as ice, and his heart had stilled," the Healer protested. Then, in a lower tone, talking to himself, he added, "He was gone for a full six minutes. This must be some magic. What luck."

Fritz took in what they were arguing about. He had died? From the small bite of one of those conjured sea snakes? He had thought the moonsilver lacing his bones had delayed and allayed the deadly peril the venom presented. Apparently not, judging from the commotion and the faint weeping he could hear coming from outside the room he was currently recovering in.

Idly wondering who was crying, and desiring answers to his other questions, Fritz tried to speak. It came out as another groan.

"Lord Hightide, do you have some Power or Treasure to combat potent venoms or poisons?" the Healer demanded.

Fritz's head hurt, and his ears rang from the too close and too loud inquisition.

"Water," he croaked. "Thirsty."

"Answer," the Healer said. "It's of the utmost importance."

"Oh? And how is that?" the tutor asked.

"That's none of your concern, Sir Needle," the Healer replied in a huff.

"How is it important?" Bert broke in.

"I will not explain myself or my healing arts to lowly figures such as yourselves. If you persist in persecuting me, I'll have you expelled from here at once," the Healer stated.

"And how will you expel us?" Sir Needle asked. "Will you call your guard friends?"

"Yeah. Or are you going to make us leave yourself, you half-scaled halfwit?" Bert added.

"You will leave or I won't aid the Lord Hightide," the Healer threatened.

There was a silence; they must have all been glaring, because the mood grew tense.

"You better watch what you say," Bert growled. "If I hear another threat, I will leave you so broken your magic will do nothing to save you."

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"How dare you!?" the Healer shouted. "Guards! Remove this man!"

Fritz groaned from the yelling.

There was a clatter of armour and the thud of heavy boots, then there was the arguing, pleas and insults of many different voices, Fritz's siblings and his team amongst them.

"Move aside, or you'll suffer a night in the dungeon," a loud man commanded.

"Piss off, drizzler," a woman said, then she spat.

From there, the argument descended into screaming and shouting. None of it did anything good for Fritz's condition.

In the raucous din, the Healer knelt beside the bed and said. "Drink this, it will help with the pain."

Fritz struggled to open his eyes again, but managed to do so after some effort. He found that a fraction of his strength had returned in the past minute or so. His vision was clearer now, able to make out the face before him, and his head felt less muddled.

The Healer proffered a small vial. It had already been uncorked, and a bitter tang emanated from its oily, black contents. Fritz reached for it, desperate for anything that would stop the agony. His trembling hand took the remedy, and just before he brought it to his lips, he felt a foreboding.

He didn't know if it was the strange, nervous strain in the man's face and the halo of apprehension that hovered around him, or the evil look of the tonic that alarmed Fritz more. Either way, his Awareness was warning him that something wasn't quite right. In fact, it was wrong. And it wasn't just the nightmare of near-death that had made him wary.

No, the way the 'Healer' held the vial out of the other's sight while they were distracted, and the kindly, though furtive, way he spoke was telling Fritz the man could not be trusted. That, and he could see an identical, although empty, vial on the small bedside table, right next to a mug of water.

He dropped the vial on the floor and shook his head lightly. The glass clinked against stone and the Healer stooped to pick it up.

"Come now, don't be stubborn," the Healer said reproachfully. When Fritz turned his head away, the man sighed. "Here, I'll help, just open your mouth."

Fritz pushed the Healer's hand away, refusing the tonic. The man became more direct, brushing aside the interfering arm and attempting to force that black liquid onto him. Desperately, he struggled, but he was as weak as a kitten. He formed a pathetic fist and struck, hitting no harder than a raindrop. It was a futile effort, the vial and its deadly contents were almost on his lips.

Luckily, Bert was there, and he was watching.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, grabbing hold of the Healer's shoulder with one strong hand.

"Get your hands off me, you brute," the man cried. "Guards seize this man, he has attacked a Healer of the arena."

The clamour grew louder, the drizzlers began to push and shove.

It might have come to blows if another shouting voice hadn't joined the fray.

It was a man clad in green scales, he sternly ordered the drizzlers to stand down and disperse. From the grumbles and the fierce expressions, it was obvious they didn't desire to heed the commands, but they also couldn't afford to ignore him. Reluctantly, they stood back and made way for the Scale Guard, who strode right up to the Healer and Bert.

"What is the matter, good man?" the Scale Guard asked the Healer.

"This ruffian laid his hands on me," the Healer claimed.

"He's trying to force-feed Frit-Lord Hightide some kind of tonic," Bert said.

"It's merely a remedy for the easing of pains and the relaxing of muscle," he explained.

It took nearly all of Fritz's strength, but he spoke loud and clear enough to be heard. "Poison."

"Poison?" The scale Guard asked, then he turned a suspicious stare on the man in white robes. "What did you say your name was, Healer?"

Quick as lightning, a knife was in the Healer's hand, plunging towards Fritz's heart. Unfortunately for the would-be assassin, Danger Sense was still functional. The blade pierced shadow rather than flesh, sliding right through the insubstantial shade that was Fritz's body.

Both the Scale Guard and Bert acted in the same moment, slamming into the Healer and dragging him down. As slippery as a squid, the man slithered from their grips only to be seized again and thrown face down on the floor. He struggled, but with the combined might and leverage of the two men on top of him, there was no escape.

Until he began to sink into the ground, slowly melding into the stone. With a shout, Bert struck the back of the assassin's head with a fist rippling with waves of force. Whether he was trying to stun him or kill him, Fritz couldn't tell.

He supposed it was both, knowing Bert.

Bert succeeded, with a crack and a splatter, the man's skull was shattered. Whatever magic he was using ceased, stopping him from gliding into the stone. The assassin lay still, limp and probably dead. The Scale Guard turned the body over, only to discover that its skin was writhing and the robe was deflating. Flesh began to melt, pooling into a viscous red puddle around the corpse.

Bert stepped back, as did the Scale Guard that Fritz only now recognised as Quinn Cold.

"You murdered him," Quinn accused.

"He had it coming," Bert stated.

"Not for you to decide, I'm afraid," Quinn said. Then he sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"Who decides then?" Bert asked, nudging the stained white robe with his toe.

"The King. Obviously. He'll want to hear about this. I have to report to my Captain," Quinn said. "Get your Lord out of here, find him somewhere safe to recover."

Bert grimaced, but nodded all the same.

Quinn returned the nod curtly, then he strode out of the small room, pushing his way through the crowded corridor.

There was another commotion, but Fritz paid it no mind. He couldn't keep his wits about him any longer, and sleep was closing in whether he wanted it to or not. When he had phased, it had felt surprisingly raw, there was a weight and a pull that tempted Fritz to stay a shadow longer. It was good that he didn't have the power to do so; in his weakened, wary and weary state, he might just have listened.

As it was, he found himself nodding off.

"My Treasures? Quicksilver?" Fritz slurred. "Were they stolen?"

"No, they're right there," Sir Needle, no, Adam said, pointing to a box.

"Of course, those are your first words, Fritz," Bert scoffed.

"My first word... was poison," Fritz corrected, though it was quite the strain. He tried to smirk.

Bert grinned.

That was all Fritz had in him. Bert helped lift him from where he lay, and soon he was being carried. Then he was plunged into darkness again.

---

Days later, Fritz felt much restored. It was a combination of bed rest and mana-dense food, as well as a few remedies and an antidote from Naomi, who had been sought out by Lauren as soon as the explanation of poison had been provided.

It turned out Fritz's would-be murderer had thought that the sea snake's venom, while quite potent, would benefit from the addition of a supplementary toxin. And so he had administered one in place of a potion. Or that's what Quinn thought to be the case.

The member of the Scale Guard had explained some of what was found during the investigation into the assassin. Though no culprits were brought to light. He thought it likely that it was one of the noble Houses, attempting to save some honour by having Fritz 'die' of his wounds after his duels.

It seemed too thorough, and Fritz said as much.

Quinn had simply said, "There's no such thing as too prepared. And noble plots run as deep as the sea."

Of the assassin, there was not much known, save that the dissolving of his flesh was from some potion, or poison, imbibed beforehand. It was meant to only react when the heart stops, ruining any chance of recognition and, therefore, retaliation.

Fritz was just glad he hadn't been fed that particular potion. From what he understood, he had died for some minutes, if the 'Healer' was to be believed. That bastard seemed to think so, at least. And he had sounded just as surprised to see Fritz move.

It was a frustrating set of dead ends and mysteries, but as no one else had attempted to take his life while he was ill, he had to accept there was nothing he could do.

Quinn hadn't been there to inform him of all of that was found anyway; he was simply there to take back Mermaid's Respite. Fritz grimaced when he had said so, but he was mollified when it was traded for another precious object. A singular Rainspire Badge, its rainstone gleaming with a soft blue light.

Apparently, the King was mightily impressed with Fritz's performance. The humiliation of two noble Houses and the disgraceful actions of the Storm Guard brought to light had aided the crown quite nicely. In fact, with the neatly compiled evidence about a villainous daughter and the constant protection she received, that Mr. Worth had brought to the Court. The Captain of said Guard was forced to resign, and the minister for law had lost much standing, weakening their faction. Nearly killing it, if what Quinn said was true.

This was all hearsay, though. Fritz didn't know the truth of the matter and would never likely find out. He had played his part, and he was satisfied with that. Or he would have been, if not for the assassin. That still kept him wondering. Though, to be truthful, there wasn't much else to do but wonder when one was bedridden.

Fritz had been warned off exertion, told to focus on recovery. He heeded his tutor's words, but soon found himself bored, so he took to reading 'The Observations' more deeply and glanced over the Mist Arts Technique. Sadly, with his mind still somewhat hazy, he discovered very little and learned even less.

And so the days had passed. Not pleasantly, though they weren't torture either. It was a malaise of boredom, aching and frequent visitors.

Each of his team would check on him now and then, and Bert was in and out as always, making sure Fritz wasn't doing anything stupid or dangerous.

Sylvia was not happy. She heard the rumours of the duel and wanted to know why he hadn't even so much as mentioned the peril. They had fought, hushed hisses and quiet accusations of idiocy abounded. Fritz pointed out that she was constantly putting herself in dire peril, and that she hadn't complained nearly as much when he'd risked his life for the refuge, just as she did.

Their squabble didn't last long. Fritz was just too relieved to be alive to argue. And Sylvia, for all her fury, wasn't going to judge him for the things she also did herself. That, and she had difficulty staying mad at him. He was rather charming, after all.

She didn't stay long, but she saw him every night, just for an hour or two when she could spare it. He welcomed it, she kept the nightmares away, even the new, frightfully unreal ones with the seductive, sinister song and the bleak black of nothingness.

Steadily, Fritz grew stronger and his mind quicker. At the rate he was recovering, he assumed he'd be able to do some light training in a week and be in good health again in two.

On the third day after the duel, just as the King had declared, came the decree.

"His Majesty didn't want this disappearing too," Quinn had said as he delivered the document personally.

Acting a messenger was below his station, but seemingly Quinn thought the two of them had a rapport and he had volunteered for the task. Fritz didn't know what to make of the man yet, but considered it a boon that he was on good terms with at least one of the lawmen in Rain City. He still hadn't heard what had happened to Louisa, she had helped him and he hoped she hadn't suffered for it.

Unfurling the rolled-up decree, Fritz found it was sealed and signed, proclaiming him as head of House Hightide and worthy to inherit its estates. He sighed, feeling a deep relief wash over him.

Fritz wept when the Scale Guard had finally taken his leave. Holding the fine parchment between his fingers, knowing it was real, knowing that there were no more tricks or tasks to delay or foil him.

It was too much. He'd finally reclaimed what was lost to him. Soon, he could go home.

Back to the manor.

Back to his manor.

To the room where his mother had been murdered.

Would there still be blood on the floorboards? Just how much had been burned away in the fire? Is the garden overgrown or an abandoned swamp?

Fritz shook his head. He would find out in time. No sense worrying.

For now, he had triumphed. He had his decree, he had the winnings from his wager, near on a thousand gold triads, a new Treasure sword, and soon enough, he would have his health back. He'd fought so hard, struggled fiercely and now he had finally taken back what was rightfully his.

And in the future? Well, he had a Spire to Climb.

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