The War Room

Her harsh words tore through the blanket of apathy he'd wrapped himself in since he came upon that slaughter outside the demon castle. The numbness of victory and loss receded, and a surge of anger flushed his Zyph. How dare she? How dare Regina make little of the lives of his Black Griffons. Distantly, he felt the familiar rush of power that came with the manifestation of his Zyph body, along with a twinge of pain from his new soul wound. They were brave knights—better people than Foster himself, who crossed the gates of purgatory with him—nay, for him. They killed and devoured for him. They bled and wept for him. They lived for him—and they died for him as well.

A finger on his cheek pulled him back. It was distant, like being touched through leather, and he recognized it as the muted sense of touch that came with his Zyph body. Crap. He was now standing, and the lounge was in tatters, the expensive armchairs in splinters against the walls along with the table and the rest of his breakfast. Giz'limiir was cowering behind the bar where a shimmering golden dome of holy Zyph protected the counter, the bartender, and the shelves of priceless drink from all over the world. Regina was in her own immortal Zyph body, resplendent in her contradictions. Her hair now had the vibrance of metallic gold, her skin opalescent, and her iris' a dangerous red—slitted vertical pupils pulsing with power. Large obsidian horns, tall and spiraled like an antelope, at odds with a platinum crown of thorns resting askew on her forehead—crimson streaks trailed and froze from the crown's puncture wounds. Claws matching the horns sprouted from her fingertips an inch long, and gray feathered wings rested like a mantle over her shoulders, unmoving despite her feet off the ground—floating at Foster's eye level. The billowing sheets of an ancient cream silk stola replaced her previous day dress. Though she had just wiped a tear from his cheek, her eyes were full of nothing but righteous indignation.

Embarrassment overcame Foster in a wave. He hadn't lost control of his Zyph body since the week he attained it. Wrecking the lounge because he forgot to contain the explosion of Zyph that accompanied it was no better than wetting the bed; what was he a child? He looked down at his hands, now entirely made of translucent glass up to the elbow—ashamed of his weakness.

The number of people he knew who did not immediately fear him in this immortal form could be counted on two hands, and one such fearless person was glaring like she was about to start throwing claw-tipped punches at his face. Without a word, she turned her back on him and clapped twice, activating the repair enchantments in the room. Everything sprang back to its position as time flowed in reverse for the inanimate objects, making even the food whole once more. Regina opted to summon her long platinum scepter and sit on it mid-air like a bench so she could look down on the now much more massive hero. Foster, slightly more comfortable in his immortal form, stepped away from the chair for fear of smashing it with his added weight and sat into nothingness, only for an intricate stone throne to manifest beneath him.

Regina sighed, "Right. Well, do you feel better after throwing a tantrum?"

He did feel better now, but he couldn't tell her that. "That was rather immature of me," he looked over to the bartender, who was back to polishing glasses as if nothing had just happened, "I'm sorry for the outburst, Giz'limiir, Regina."

"All's well that ends well, Sir Foster." How the half-devil had the nerve to smile like that as two immortals displayed their full strength, Foster had no idea.

Regina dismissed him with a disappointed frown and a wave of the hand. "Save it, I know you don't mean it. I was certainly not belittling the deceased, and don't mistake my logic for a lack of empathy. Aurora is a dear friend, and I also knew many of the Black Griffons. I will personally take a look at Darren and Greenway—see if I can patch them up and get them casting again." Then, each word of consolation pulled from her mouth like a tooth, she added, "I just didn't want you beating yourself up over a mistake you can't fix."

He appreciated that she hadn't said, 'It wasn't your fault.' He chuckled at her reluctance to reassure him, reaching for that apathetic blanket once more as he looked for lighter topics of conversation.

~~~

MONICA:

In the sterile halls of the palace, headed back towards the private residential wings, Monica stepped in stride with her two brothers, one on each side. "Still can't believe Foster had the balls to request Sebastian's abdication. Did you know he was gonna do that, Nica?" August's less-than-proper language was, ironically, easy on the ears after he'd been gone for such a long time. His Etiquette was impeccable in exactly two circumstances—the dueling arena and when luring unsuspecting maidens to his bed. 

Monica had sent him a telepathic message immediately after her meeting with Foster last night—telling him to be home before their father held court the following morning. He'd warped into the War Room earlier today and showed up barely before Foster did.

"Nope. He told me last night he had a surprise for me, but I was expecting a gift, not… that." She was feeling rather conflicted after Foster's display in the royal court. She couldn't argue with his results, but the method—well, the method ended up in self-mutilation. She waved a hand, and a barrier shimmered to life around them before fading from view. The walls have ears, as the saying goes, and she'd rather any curious walls not hear what was about to be discussed.

"Treason? Yeah, no kidding. I was struck stupid." Randall still looked like he was struggling to wrap his head around what happened an hour later. He was a strategic mastermind but had the horrid tendency to look like a drooling ogre when he was thinking. She swore if he could just kick that ridiculous habit, he'd have been on the throne years ago. It didn't help that he had the frame of a bear on its hind legs. He and August were brothers only in the sense they were born from the same mother. They had the same faces, but August walked with the grace of an elk while Randall, well—he lumbered, and when he was thinking, he looked content to stand in one spot and scratch his ass all day.

Despite appearances, Randall wasn't an idiot mouth breather like some of the less savory nobles liked to call him. He was likely thinking through the possible ripples the pond would experience after the proverbial casting of the Demon Lord's head. 

Suddenly, like he'd been caught pants around the ankles, he jerked—shoulders squaring, jaw closing, the river of saliva whipped not so subtly on his sleeve, "That request just might be the single most impactful event in the succession race."

"In what way?" Monica had suspected this would be the case and had her theories on why, but he could articulate it better than she ever could. This would also be a fantastic lesson for her other brother who only thought with his two swords, the one strapped to his hip, and—Zyph and spirits among her, was she seriously making dick jokes about her own brother? Foster was rubbing off on her a little too much.

"Gimme the basics, Randy; I haven't been back in the country long, and politics is certainly not my thing."

"So, you know our government has three factions, correct?"

"You mean Sebastian, you and the rotten little twerp? What about it."

"If you mean our half-brother, Crown Prince Barnik, then yes. Before—"

"I'll never understand why you give him any respect," August muttered, not quietly.

"It is partially my fault and partially your fault he turned out the way he did. Monica was too young at the time, but you and I? You and I, brother, were old enough to know that he did not—does not have any loving parents. Father wouldn't claim any of us to be royals if not for our purple hair, but we three had a loving mother. His mother—"

"You're off-topic, boys~" Monica did not want to open that jar of wasps. She felt terrible for the kid, but now he was old enough to take responsibility for his actions. Either way, she didn't like discussing the crown prince with anyone besides Regina.

"Right. Sorry, Monica. Before Foster made his request, there were no defined factions—just vague groups of shared opinions and aligned goals. Foster not only implied the king was unfit for rule but suggested a successor as well. That drew lines in the sand. Now, the nobles will be fence-sitting as long as possible if they're not already in too deep with one of the three groups—making them too busy balancing their position to worry about any bills we may want to pass subtly, like that education reform bill for example, in the next couple months. If that isn't enough, he weakened the king's authority with blatant disrespect, and he practically confirmed the rumors about you and him by openly flirting in an official setting—tying himself to me in an official capacity as the hero and as a potential brother-in-law.

"The hero, the most powerful immortal in the kingdom, declared he wants change, and he wants it now. He is riding the clout that comes with his recent success to spark what very well may end up as a revolution, and he showed Ether that while the king publicly pulled his support from the war on the demon lord, he was panicked enough to continue it in secret. It's a bad look for someone already waning in power. That's not even mentioning all the benefits to Regina in the church. Mark my words; today is the day future historians will say the new regime began to oust the old one in Ether."