The battle ended not with a bang but a whimper; no glorious triumph or mad retreat but a long, slow dying as exhausted soldiers fell until the few still on their feet all were on the same side.

Not the protagonist’s side.

Desperately they tried to will themselves back up to their feet, tried to force numb fingers to close around the sword that lay in the mud beside them. But their body was done, helpless as the tired enemy soldiers picked their way closer and closer, methodically stripping bodies of any small valuables and finishing off any wounded still alive.

The protagonist prayed frantically to any god they thought might hear them. The god of war. The god of peace. The god from any temple and roadside shrine they could ever remember visiting. They wracked their brain. Dead. They’d have to pretend to be dead. They could do that. They were half there already, just slow their breathing and don’t catch anyone’s…

They turned their head and saw the god of war looking straight at them.

Like everyone else on the battlefield the god was spattered with blood, from her cropped hair to her armored boots. She could have been any soldier from any nation - except for the terrible red joy in her eyes as she beheld the devastation wrought.

“Hello, little sacrifice,” she said without moving her lips. She pointed, and as if puppeted, one of the enemy soldiers started to turn their head -

A clean boot crunched down next to the protagonist’s head. Then another, stepping carefully over them to place themselves between the god and the protagonist. The protagonist looked up at a figure straight out of their childhood.

The god of war stopped.

“Are you serious?” she sneered.

The god of the protagonist’s childhood village shrine shrugged, strumming his fingers thoughtfully over the lute in his hands. Unlike the murals, the statues, he was not dressed in fine court robes but in simple traveler clothes, his hair pulled back into a plain knot. But just as the protagonist remembered, he seemed impossibly tall. Impossibly beautiful.

“Spare this one,” the god asked, stilling those long clever hands on the strings. “Please. This one is mine.”

The god of war laughed. “You think you can challenge me, godling? Me? Here? At the height of my strength? Flee back to whatever muddy temple you escaped from and maybe I’ll let you survive, you jumped up deity of bad chords and tasteless lyrics.”

“Oh, I’m no god of anything so prevalent,” the protagonist’s god murmured humbly. “And I’m not here to challenge you, great one. Say rather, we’re here to bargain. After all, this one has something that can benefit you.”

The god shot the protagonist a look. The protagonist knew this line from the stories of their childhood.

“A song!” they blurted. “A - an epic about what happened here, about you, to make all who hear it shout and weep and… and honor your name.”

The god of war… paused. Tilted their head.

“A fitting tribute to your potency,” their god chimed in, the melody from their lute drifting into a martial fanfare. “From a god-touched bard. Surely that makes them worth more alive than dead.”

A shout went up from the other side of the field. Someone was up and swords were swinging. The god of war waved an impatient hand, already disappearing towards the fight. “Fine. But I expect my song. I’ll hold you responsible, godling. I don’t forget!”

She was gone and the god of the protagonist’s childhood turned to look down at them. “Well,” he said, reaching out a hand to pull the protagonist up. “I hope you can actually write music.”

“Seems like a priority to learn,” the protagonist said fervently, and their god of trickery and bargains laughed and hauled them away.

“Everyone says I shouldn’t join the pack,” the protagonist said. “They say you’re…”

Well. They said a lot of things, eyeing the trio with great suspicion. Co-dependent, they whispered. Intense. A bit odd. They didn’t fit in with the rest of the town. They were wilder, more wolf-like, than any of the other packs that the protagonist had ever come across.

“And what do you think?” the other werewolf asked, amused. “What do you want?”

You. Them. The pack.

The answer was achingly obvious; an inescapable tug.

It just wasn’t sensible, and the protagonist had always been that.

Prompt courtesy of @the-modern-typewriter ’s Patreon!

TW: reference to a past traumatic attack.

The pack came for the protagonist on the night of the new moon. It was barely 5pm but in the winter Northwest woods it might as well have been midnight. A crunch of truck tires on gravel, a sharp rap at the door, and three shaggy haired outlines on the cabin porch silhouetted against the starry sky and the deep, delicious darkness of the pine forest.

“Hey lone wolf,” caroled the call from outside. “Don’t you think it’s time we all hashed this out?”

The protagonist gritted their teeth behind the door.

“Consider it an informative, mutual interview,” the extrovert werewolf said. Purred, the protagonist would have said, if it weren’t the wrong animal family. “After all, whether you join or not, you’re still a wolf in our territory.”

That… was true. It was deal with them now or deal with them when the moon changed. The protagonist steeled themselves, put on the kettle, and opened the door.

A few minutes later a pack of wolves were sprawled out on the protagonist’s living room furniture, cups of Lemon Zinger in hand.

“I don’t mean to offend, I’m just not…” The protagonist took a breath. “I didn’t move out here to find a pack.”

“And you’re not required to join,” the first one said smoothly. Clearly the speaker of the group. “There’s enough woods for us all if you want to stay independent. The question is, ah…”

“The question is, is that what the wolf wants?” cut in the second one with a toothy smile over the edge of her teacup. The fighter, who walked with her shoulders up and her gaze constantly flicking back and forth.

“I control the wolf,” the protagonist said automatically, then flinched.

There was a wave of reaction. The fighter dropped her eyes, the speaker immediately raised his hands to calm, to surrender. “You were part of a W.A. pack? That’s fine, we’re not judging. Obviously we don’t subscribe to the creed,” he added with a grin, “but it’s no skin off our noses.”

“Not much choice for a wolf in the city,” the fighter added gruffly, her gaze fixed in intense scrutiny of the protagonist’s footstool.

The protagonist forced a smile by habit even as they knew it would do no good. If the flinch hadn’t been obvious enough the air practically stank with fear, anxiety.

That was the problem, dealing with wolves. There was just no hiding the truth.

“Yes,” the protagonist said, giving their footstool the same scrutiny as they paused. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. The pack had probably puzzled it out anyway. “Victim Services recommended Wolves Anonymous to help me find my footing after…” They shrugged

Immediately all three werewolves bared their teeth. The protagonist was used enough to recognize this was not a threat but an expression of sympathy.

“Unacceptable,” the speaker hissed, the most wolflike the protagonist had ever seen him.

“The Change is a gift but also a Change,” the fighter snarled. “How dare anyone force it another? I trust the miscreant is a pelt?”

The protagonist shrugged and put down their tea cup with unsteady hands. “Drago Asylum. He was in lunar frenzy, it wasn’t intentional.”

Around them, the protagonist felt the wolves exchange glances as the pieces slotted together. No surprise though.

“Thank you,” said the third wolf and their pack mates jumped, “for sharing.”

The third wolf spoke in a voice barely louder than the crickets outside, yet the dry rattle of their whisper cut through the room like a knife. The one who positioned themselves by the door, who hung back and kept a watchful eye. The leader.

“We appreciate your forthrightness,” they went on, their eyes cool and intense and locked on the protagonist. “You have free parole in our territory as a lone and a standing invitation to our pack, if and when you decide that’s what you want. You also,” they added with a dry glance to the others, “have free reign to court, be courted, or to have none of it. Whatever you choose won’t in any way be impacting your standing.”

“Um,” the protagonist stammered, heat rising in their cheeks. The fighter grinned. The speaker winked. “That’s, uh, that’s it? You just met me and I get to join the club?”

The leader cocked their head. “Yes,” they said. “We see. We understand. You have good reason to take slow decision. We will wait for you to decide. You are worth waiting for.”

The protagonist bit down on their lip. The air in their little cabin had turned thick and hot with this many bodies in their space. But bodies that smelled like pine sap and rich dirt and just a hint of sharp desire, bodies that were carefully angled close enough to support and defend, but not too close to be a threat or to corner. For the first time in months, the presence of others was a comfort. “Thank you,” they said.

The leader nodded brusquely, glanced to the speaker. “Right!” the speaker said cheerfully, putting down his cookie. “We’ve asked you enough questions. Your turn to interrogate us. Fire away.”

It was almost dawn before the wolves left. It was two months before the protagonist joined the pack.

You are an ancient, sentient cursed sword known for corrupting even the most valiant and well-intentioned of heroes. However, you cannot corrupt the most recent hero whose hands you have fallen into - not because of their purity of heart, but because of their incorruptible cynicism.

Prompt courtesy of @writing-prompt-s

The Wielder was silent - too silent - during the planning meeting. So Gleamsteel held its thoughts to itself too, and was not surprised at the council’s close when the Wielder walked off not to dinner at the campfire but to an empty grove where they drew Gleamsteel and opened their mind willingly.

I need your help, the Wielder thought, stepping smoothly through the first practice sequence. We can break through the tower defense, but once we do there’s no way we can stop the sorcerer’s ritual and save the princess. Am I wrong?

Gleamsteel thrummed. It’s a one in a million shot… it ventured.

The Wielder didn’t laugh out loud, but Gleamsteel could hear the tired scoff down their mystical connection. That’s what I thought. Okay. They shifted into the second form. Okay. The princess has to die, and it has to look unequivocally like the sorcerer’s fault.

Holy shit, Gleamsteel articulated before it could stop itself.

This time the Wielder did sigh out loud. It’s not personal. I feel bad for her. I’d save her if we could. But she’s just one person, and if that ritual goes off everyone in seven leagues dies. They cut downwards with extra venom. That’s not a balanced risk, not for someone just because they have sentimental, maybe symbolic value to the king.

Hm. Gleamsteel pushed its tendrils towards that disgust. Such a selfish order, to put countless other sons and daughters at risk to save his own -

Knock it off. The Wielder straightened out of their form, swishing Gleamsteel’s tip down into the dry dust. I told you I don’t want to be king and I don’t want to be a king maker. Stop with the creepy whispers or it’s right into the bin with you when this is down.

Then what do you want?, Gleamsteel snapped. You don’t want fame -

Crowd loves to see yesterday’s hero fall, the Wielder said, spinning the sword in their hand and slicing through a theoretical foe.

You don’t want power -

Ugh. What would I do with it? Make things worse?

You want wealth? Riches?

The Wielder ended the sequence not with a flourish, but with a perfectly controlled thrust. You know my terms. I want my due, and I want to walk away alive. You help me and I’ll help you get into the hands of someone more, ah, amenable. Isn’t that what you want?

Gleamsteel simmered with rage. How are you… Why won’t you let me help you? You must want something!

Momma always said look out for them insisting on giving you something for free. The Wielder stuck Gleamsteel into the soft grass under an oak tree, picked up their flask of water and drank deeply. ’Cause that only means they’re hiding the cost until its too late.

If Gleamsteel had lungs and teeth it would’ve snarled.

Stay focused here. The Wielder crouched beside the blade. Tower. Defense. Princess. Ritual.

“Chosen One?” Came an uncertain voice. “You all right?”

The Wielder stood swiftly, seized their sword and sheathed it, giving a reassuring nod to their companion. “Clearing my head. Big day tomorrow, eh?”

“Indeed,” the companion said, clearly relieved to be in the Wielder’s presence. But Gleamsteel felt their eyes cut to the hilt, felt the threads of doubt and the hunger to be chosen themselves…

That one, Gleamsteel whispered to the Wielder. I’ll get you through tomorrow and you’ll give me to this one as my next Wielder.

Done, the Wielder said immediately and clapped their friend on the shoulder to go with them to dinner.

“Well, isn’t this a pretty picture.”

The protagonist jolted up to - oh no. Jolted up from where they’d fallen asleep on the floor of the backshelves, books and notes scattered around them like some kind of nerd bomb had gone off. And the antagonist, their old rival, was standing over them, lamp in hand and that same stupid sneer on their face.

“Shit. I mean…” The protagonist shook their head, trying to clear the cobwebs. “What are you doing here?”

“I work here now,” the antagonist said with narrowed eyes. “Which you’d know if you bothered to keep up with changes in your staff. The real question is what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be throwing a diplomatic reception or issuing royal commands or snoozing in the royal sheets?”

“You want a command?” The protagonist pushed themselves up. It was easy to put on the imperious mask when they were so tired and so irritated. “Help me clean this up. Then forget you saw me. Think you can handle that, Second Aide to Librarian?”

The antagonist’s face was a study. But they put down the lamp with only a small whunk. “Yes, Your Majesty,” they said and started scooping up books into a pile. The protagonist choked back a yawn as they sorted their scrawled pages of notes into piles. For a few moments they worked side by side in silence, the protagonist ignoring the looks the antagonist kept directing to the back of their head.

“I’m sorry… for your loss,” the antagonist said stiffly. “I know you were close to Dax.”

“Thank you,” the protagonist said. It was a rote response now.

“The kingdom of Sterztan?” the antagonist said, rather more tentatively as they glanced at the title. “Don’t you have people now to be experts for you?”

“Oh yes.” The protagonist folded their notes into a neat stack. “The ambassador to Sterztan is one of my greatest allies on the council. And this morning she looked us all in the face and assured us that Sterztan would never pose a challenge to our metals imports.”

The antagonist’s brow wrinkled. Their fingers twitched towards the pages in their hands. “But… half Sterztan’s economy is based on their silver trade.”

“I know.” The protagonist rubbed. “So my ally is either an idiot or a liar. Not the kind of research I can outsource to a secretary.”

“Ah.” The antagonist put down their books on a an empty shelving cart. “So of course you became hyper-obsessed over this and snuck off to waste a night researching something you already knew about Sterztan’s economy.”

“I didn’t sneak anywhere,” the protagonist snapped. “I am the crown-”

Abruptly the antagonist moved. Suddenly the protagonist found themselves crowded up against the shelves, the antagonist towering over them. “The crown,” they said, “without their guards.”

“How dare you!” The protagonist shoved the antagonist back. “Are you insane?”

“Are you?” The antagonist grabbed another book off the floor angrily. “You’re our ruler now. I expect you to at least make better use of your time.”

“But this is the only thing I’m good at!” the protagonist wailed. The antagonist froze in a half-crouch but the protagonist couldn’t stop. Exhaustion and the unfairness of all it was too much. “I’m not supposed to be ruling anything; I was supposed to be here, doing research for Dax while he dealt with all the politics and rituals and lies-”

“Hey, hey, hey.” The antagonist was crowding up against them again. But this time it felt… supportive? A warm hand on their back as the protagonist gasped for air through the panicked sobs. “You’ve got this.”

“I really don’t,” the protagonist moaned. “God, I wish I were you. No that’s not true. But I wish I had your job.”

“There you go, that sounds more like you.” The antagonist tugged at the protagonist’s arm insistently, until the two were sitting side by side on the floor. “Okay. I’m going to write you a report.”

“I already figured out the Sterztan thing,” the protagonist sighed.

“Not about that. About every stupid mistake every great sovereign we’ve ever had made in their first year as the crown.”

The protagonist wiped their nose on their sleeve. “That sounds horrible.”

“It will be. But,” the antagonist scooted closer. Their hand was still rubbing circles into the protagonist’s back. It was weirdly soothing. “My point is that every great sovereign starts out green.”

“Green like inexperienced, or green like constantly feeling that you’re going to throw up?” the protagonist muttered.

The antagonist grabbed their hand. “I’m saying that once you compare where you are now against where our other sovereigns were in their first year, you’re going to see that you’re actually doing all right. I’m not going to lie, you’re doing a lot better than I thought you would be.”

The protagonist huffed a tired laugh. “That sounds… like a nice theory. Got the data to back it up?”

The antagonist quirked their lip. Not quite the same sneer. “Are you ordering up some midnight research?”

The protagonist hauled themselves to their feet. “Nope. You volunteered. I’ll expect that report on my desk by tomorrow. That is, tomorrow tomorrow,” they added. “Not in - oh, god, in six hours.”

“Go to bed,” the antagonist said, picking themselves up too. “Good night.”

The report was on the protagonist’s desk in 10 hours.