The War Room

It was likely dusk now, but the artificial window in the infirmary suggested it was a sunny midday atop one of many rolling hills of golden wheat, filling the room with the earthy scent of flour. Foster sat in bed, holding an ace/king full house, contemplating the implications of raising the pot on Randall. His meeting was long over, and when he'd heard of the incident in the dueling pit, he'd rushed over to find Foster and Monica still asleep, snug as two bugs in a rug. Apparently, nobody in the war room had any sense of privacy because August had suggested they play a few rounds of Arid Illusions, otherwise known as Mage's Poker, to kill some time while they waited for them to wake up. It was a nonsensical game—made by mages, for mages—that encouraged cheating and bluffing with magic as much as possible—so long as you could do it without getting caught. They had woken up the sleeping hero and princess on a particularly violent hand, with an uncharacteristic shout from Aurora at a smug Randall. 

After that shock awakening, they dragged the table closer to the bed so Monica and Foster could play. Normally, Foster loved a good game of A.I., and he was generally quite good at it. But alas, he was forbidden the use of magic, making him an invalid at a table of silent casting immortals. His lack of Zyph sense, also significantly impaired by his injury, made it hard for him to even call his friends on their bullshit. Foster glanced to the pot, then to Randall's face, then back to his full hou—his triplet of kings, single ace, and a two.

"Grrr—Monica! Give me my card back!"

Sure enough, she handed it back with a simpering look as the illusion of the two in his hand turned to mist. Only Monica, a witch capable of altering reality itself, would use such terrifying power to create something as intricate and pointless as a playing card. Finally, with a hull house and a dream, Foster hedged his bets and raised the pot by five gold.

After all the bets were in, they all placed their cards face down on the table. Then, at once, they counted.

"""One, two, three… Flip!"""

Simultaneously, they all began to flip their five cards. This was when all changes made during the betting phase were final—also making it the last moment to sling a spell. Once the cards were revealed there was no undoing it, the only rule was you couldn't win with the same hand twice, so if Foster won with his aces and kings, it was no more full houses for him.

With all the cards face up, Foster looked at his hand nervously, only to notice he didn't have a single ace or king. He looked around to find the culprit. As it turned out, his hand had been split between August and Regina, August using the aces to complete a four-of-a-kind and Regina doing the same with the kings.

Foster, ready to shout his vexations at his friends, was stunned by what he heard next: "I believe I win with a five-of-a-kind flush~" Foster could hear the smile in Monica's voice as she vaingloriously displayed five aces, all identical in their suit.

"Are you proud of yourself, Nica? You look mighty proud, having invented a completely new hand." August tossed his stolen cards to the center of the table as Monica collected her winnings. Them's the breaks though, Arid Illusions followed the scoring rule of ordinary poker, only hands that were impossible were scored above the illusive royal flush. In the event of two impossible hands, the winner was decided by popular vote.

"Oh, because it was real brave of you two to steal from the magicless guy," Foster, utterly indignant, didn't allow his accusations to go unheard.

"All is fair in cards and magic," Regina sniffed as she completely misquoted the proverb. Meanwhile, the blood feud between Aurora and Randall seemed to have spanned every hand since Foster woke up. The casualties in this round of their ongoing war left Randall with three cards instead of a full hand of five. Aurora's were on fire.

"I cannot possibly believe you want to make this troll with human speech a king, Monica. Personally, I believe he is far better suited to tolling a bridge and slinging riddles rather than kingship." The panther bared very real and very pointy canines at the troll. 

Said troll would not take that lying down, "Uh-oh, someone's grumpy. I think it is about time our little kitty cat suns herself on the roof."

They seemed ready to say 'fuck it' and go a few rounds here in the infirmary, but Foster had other plans. Clap, clap, "Alright, I am positively starved. How about we sweep this cluster fuck right under the rug and have some dinner brought in."

They all grumbled their agreement, with varying degrees of reluctance, and all three ladies left to tell an employee to get dinner ready. August got up to set the window's sun closer to evening while Randall put the cards away. 

"I was really sorry to hear about the Black griffons."

Oof. Was Randall really going to do this now? Looking over to the window, Foster caught August frozen stiff, not looking, but listening intently. It seemed the ladies would speak to Aurora while Foster was stuck with the men.

"As Regina so keenly pointed out to me this morning, it is war, and people die." 

"That is certainly true," Randall nodded, "How much do you remember of the Battle of Barlem Valley?"

The change in topic threw Foster, but he'd never in his lifetime forget that battle. He'd been fourteen and it was the first taste of war he ever got. Admittedly, he didn't remember much from that valley of death. That was all he remembered—the death. The smell of it, so thick in the air that it coated your tongue. The river running red. The stickiness of coagulated blood on the cool stones. He honestly couldn't even recall who won. 

Randall seemed to take his sudden paleness for confirmation, "At the time, I wasn't even a silent caster, let alone acquiring a Zyph body. Back then, all I had was a decent understanding of war magic and more Zyph than I knew what to do with. If I'm not mistaken, you were there too, right August?"

August seemed to be broken from a haze of memory, "Yes, that's right. That battle was… Particularly brutal."

"Over the course of three days, one thousand men died to a demon execution squad of ten elites—sent to kill me, you, and August. Those three days taught me the significance of overwhelming power. Strategy means nothing if your opponent can come through and harvest you like wheat. I've been in the same position you're in right now, Foster, believe me. That battle was a colossal loss, but it still could've been so much worse: both you and August, barely trained and un-battle tested, could've been killed before you had time to turn into the men you are today. 

"That is the reason, all these years later, despite the grave loss of life on that day, I consider that battle a success. Outwitted and overpowered, the three of us made it out, so we could have this conversation nine years later. So that we could discuss the Black Griffons in honor and mourning instead of rotting in shallow graves on foreign soil, while the people of Ether dig through the rubble that used to be their capital in search of mementos of the fallen. Make no mistake Foster, you and the Black Griffons were a bulwark, keeping the frontlines from reaching our borders for six years after my father pulled Ether out of the war—none of that would've been possible if you'd died that day. What I'm trying to say here is, don't mourn your losses without celebrating your successes—that is how you make them meaningless."

Randall stood up and patted Foster on the shoulder as the door to the infirmary swung open and the women filed in, "Just think on that."

"Hey, Aurora. What do you think men talk about when all the women leave?" Monica seemed to still be riding the high of a five-of-a-kind flush.

"I bet they compare sword sizes," Regina was quick to follow up. Aurora just rolled her slitted golden eyes.

The high-pitched mockery of a female voice interrupted their conversation, "Hey, Foster. What do you think women talk about when all the men leave?" 

"Sounds like they talk about pervy stuff like the size of our swords." Foster whispered back to August, covering himself and blushing like a maiden.

"Hahaha! When was the last time we were all together like this? I feel like I barely see some of you anymore." Randall had a contented smile on his face, ever the big brother.

Like that, the evening drifted on, and soon, dinner arrived with three sides: A massive spread of roast Griffon rump enthusiastically seasoned with lemon and dill, an elven-style salad with exotic greens and a sweet vinaigrette, some form of mashed yams and butter, and a dwarven-style stew served in individualized bread bowls. 

The smell was divine and Foster was positively starving. Normally, immortals did not need to eat—or sleep for that matter, but nursing a soul wound crippled the body's ability to function on Zyph while healing. While Foster wouldn't starve if he didn't eat, his wound wouldn't heal either. Besides, Foster and his friends always kept a regular eating and sleeping schedule regardless of the necessity for an entirely different reason: To retain their humanity. There were plenty of examples of young immortals dying to their own hubris because they forgot their origins, and those were the kind stories. The immortals who do not regularly shift out of their Zyph body generally end up forgetting what it was like to eat and to breathe—eventually forgetting what they once looked like, their immortal forms becoming twisted by time. These were the terrifying ancients and wickeds of this world. The scary bedtime stories made flesh.

Baba Yaga, with her chicken legs and iron beak, is said to live in a hut thatched with the hair of her victims. Death wandered the world with his rusty scythe and a tattered bloodstained cloak, summoned to the site of mass killings—like battles—by a swell in death Zyph. Foster had actually had the horror of seeing Death once. Where he walked, life died. The grass wilted, birds fell from the sky, and men fell to their knees, clutching their chests. That battle had ended in chaos, the entire battlefield bowed by the presence of death made manifest.

Then there were the Phantoms of Ether. Six immortals once swore a pact to the first king to serve the throne eternally. Bound by Draconic words, the six were passed down from one generation of the royal line to the next. Some had the benevolence to allow them the freedom of their own judgment. But it is the nature of a seat of power to pervert sanity when unchecked. Tyrants ultimately destroyed the six that helped found their kingdom, leaving them husks of who they used to be. Phantoms. The change that happened to them over time is well documented, and kept in the forbidden section of the royal archives. Supposedly they all had unique forms at one point. That was the case no longer—Foster could only describe them as anthropomorphic white voids. When they spoke, their voices were sourceless and howled as Foster imagined the void would.

Needless to say, Foster very much wished to remain Foster, so he ate his veggies and went to bed every night like a good little immortal. So did all his friends, and the master who trained them all constantly checked in with them to make sure they were all keeping healthy habits. 

Dinner came and went, and it was as divine as Foster had come to expect from the chefs of the War Room. They ate, talked, and drank in celebration of the end of a war, and despite himself, Foster found himself getting swept away by the mood. A part of him still felt as though he were watching himself through a window, seeing the warmth and love that filled the infirmary through the masterful illusion painted into the wall behind him. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy their company, it wasn't even that he wasn't having fun. He just… looked around and realized he wasn't fully present.

"Ahem!" Monica cleared her throat and raised a glass of dessert wine as several trays of pastries were brought in and placed on the table. "…I would like to make a toast. Not to celebrate victory or even peace. More than once, I was unable to sleep because of the absence of two of our number. To safety, to friendship, to family. Thank you for coming back to us."

""To family!"" The reply was unanimous as five other glasses of wine were thrusted into the air alongside hers. 

Maybe the window opened a crack, because Foster felt that sentiment as he sat on the hospital bed enjoying his dessert and while he watched from outside the illusory window.