Hey, all. I'm sorry for skipping a week like that. Truth is, I'm kinda in the middle of a transitional period in my life. And Monday updates might be a bit ambitious since Sunday happens to be the busiest day of my average week, giving me little time to prepare the chapters. So...I'm gonna try for Tuesday updates from now on, but be prepared for more bumps down the road.

As of when I wrote this, we breached the 1300 review mark! That's pretty cool. Thanks, all, for your support. I hope to see even more of you in the future. :D It's great to hear from my readers.

Heathens

Plink.

Garmadon stood at the edge of the eight-foot basin in the bowels of the dungeon below his keep. He looked down, face seeming to be carved of stone, though his fingers trembled as he held his lantern aloft.

His captives, just over a dozen total, were a group of many ages. A man about as old as himself, sitting with his back against the wall, face so serene he seemed to be dozing off. Many younger men- and even several woman- sat as close together as their chains would allow, heads bowed, whispering amongst one another. Or perhaps they were praying.

Sitting alone, one young woman with disheveled clothes and hair stared directly up at the King with distant, soft, sad eyes.

Plink.

"Are you ready, my King?" the Middle's Lord Rector asked.

Garmadon breathed sharply and turned away from the Way-believers. "Yes," he said, willing his voice not to waver or break.

Hosts, he swore. I've done this countless times without batting an eye. So why do I suddenly feel so… He looked back down at that woman, whose gaze had not moved from him. …disturbed?

"This is your final chance for salvation," the Lord Rector called to the prisoners. "Your lives are forfeit, but your souls do not have to suffer as well. Repent! Relinquish this poison, and the First King will forgive you!"

Dead silence from the Way-believers. They looked up at their captors without any trace of fear. Sadness, yes. But no fear.

Plink.

The Lord Rector grunted and turned from the pagans. He put his hands to a wheel in the wall. As he turned it, a low, grating sound filled the underground prison, followed shortly by the sound of water diverting from the ancient underground stream and into the basin where the prisoners were chained. They raised their heads and began to murmur again- more prayers.

The Lord Rector prayed, too- whispered, solemn words to the First King- and stepped away from the wheel.

Goosebumps prickled on Garmadon's arms. He turned away from the prisoners trapped in the flooding basin behind him.

They are pagans, he reminded himself, recalling the Lord Rector's words the first time he'd come to this chamber all those years ago and learned of the dangerous Way.

He'd been a Prince then, and next in line for the throne after banishing his elder brother. So young, so arrogant. Any apprehension he'd had at the Lord Rector's actions had been quelled by his words: Way-followers are a poisonous people, my Prince. A plague. Letting even one man roam free could be detrimental to your future rule.

"Change is coming!" a man shouted from within the deep basin. Garmadon turned and saw the man, sitting on his knees. Water lapped around his thighs. The man pulled defiantly at the short chain binding his right wrist to the floor. "Can't you see it, Garmadon? Can't you see what's happening? There are more of us now than ever before! God has now called us to Himself, but those still free will rise up! You cannot destroy those He has-"

Lord Rector drew a knife from its sheath and threw it at the man. It landed between the heathen's eyes, and he sank into the water, forever silent.

Don't let them speak of their beliefs, the Lord Rector had told Prince Garmadon. Their words will taint your soul. If they speak to you about their God, or recite passages from their Book, or their Songs, kill them immediately.

Why not just gag them? Garmadon had asked.

Because we must give them a chance to repent, the Priest had explained patiently. If they cannot call out to the First King, how will he forgive their sins?

Garmadon approached the edge again, jaw tight as he regarded the prisoners. That Mena-cursed woman continued to watch him with those melancholy eyes, as if unaware that one of her fellow rebels was already dead. As if unaware that the water, now tainted with blood, had risen nearly to her chest.

There was something about Way-believers that mystified Garmadon. The way they carried themselves, even in the face of death, was something he rarely saw during normal, public, executions. He could understand Misako's fascination with them- she used to come to the prison beneath the King's Keep often to watch them. Though Garmadon was careful not to let them speak to her.

Thinking about Misako made Garmadon's chest swell with seething rage. He spat into the cold, frothing water. Way-believers like these- like Borg- were the reason his wife was kidnapped.

When he finally got Misako back, what would happen? Would she know too much about the Way, and need to be silenced- banished, like Wu? Or worse, would the Lord Rector insist she be killed? The thought was too cruel to bear.

"We will not stop!" a different woman cried. "We will not stop fighting, and we will not stop praying for your-"

Another knife. Another body below the water. Garmadon stepped away from the pool, clenching his teeth.

"I have prayed for you," a soft voice said, and Garmadon froze. The Lord Rector reached for a third knife.

"No," the King said, raising his hand. He turned back to the staring woman.

"I- we all- have prayed for you," she said hastily, realizing she was speaking on borrowed time. "You are just like us. We are all the same. And we pray that you would see that, in time. We-"

The knife landed in her forehead. Eyes aflame, Garmadon whirled on the Priest as she fell.

The Lord Rector returned his stare calmly. "They cannot speak, My King."

Their words are poison.

Garmadon's anger faded. He nodded his thanks. The Priest dipped his head slightly in reply. Sputtering sounds from the pool told the King that the water had reached the prisoners' heads.

They…pray for me. Garmadon lowered his gaze to the flame in his lantern. Of course. They probably pray for my death. That makes sense.

"Are you all right, My King?"

Garmadon tore himself from these disturbing thoughts. "Yes," he said. "I'm just tired. It's been a long day." He dared to look back at the water. It had now risen above the heads of the Way-believers. The surface churned as they struggled against their bonds.

"Mmm," the Lord Rector hummed. He turned the wheel in the opposite direction: the door controlling the river's flow slid shut, and the water ceased to rise. It churned tumultuously, akin to the trembling fears and uncertainties of the King's heart.

Then, at long last, the surface was still.

Silent.

…Plink.

Garmadon went to a second wheel to the right of the first and gripped the cold metal with his free hand. Exhaling a soft breath, he turned it once, twice, three times. A second door under the water opened, draining the pool.

"Your girl, Vara," the Lord Rector said. "What do you plan to do with her?"

Garmadon started. "What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said, My King. What are your plans for her?"

Garmadon did not like the hard look in the Lord Rector's eyes.

"I am not sure yet," the King answered.

"Fair enough," the Priest smiled. He gestured to the draining pool. "You do realize, though, that if you choose to let her take the crown, she will have to carry on this duty."

Garmadon followed the Lord Rector's wrinkled, sallow hand. The water had not yet drained enough for them to see the bodies.

What have these believers done to hurt you? Vara had demanded at that fateful meeting two days ago. It is not right to murder thousands of people just because a few of them believe different than you!

Garmadon's father had been squeamish about these killings. The result was an increase of Way-believers as had likely never before been seen in the fourth age. Garmadon could not afford to let another soft-hearted ruler onto the throne; that would undo all he had accomplished his entire adult life to follow and enforce Mena's laws- to bring harmony back to a land that was slowly but surely unraveling at the seams.

It is not harmony if you are killing people to achieve it!

"I do recognize what Vara's duties would be as Queen," Garmadon said. "I don't think you should worry. I'll turn her around."

Tears in her eyes. A look of sadness and revulsion that took Garmadon aback.

You truly are no better than Overlord.

"I hope so," the Lord Rector said. "But remember this, My King: you banished your own brother for his heretical beliefs." A firm hand gripped Garmadon's shoulder. "Don't let affection for this illegitimate child cloud your judgement. You are the King."

"Do not doubt me," Garmadon said lowly. "I will help her see the truth of what we do."

"And if she will not be persuaded, even after she has seen the truth?"

Garmadon's chest tightened.

…no better than Overlord.

"That," Garmadon murmured, brushing away the hand on his shoulder as the last of the water drained from the pool, leaving silent, motionless bodies on the floor behind it, "is my concern. Not yours."

Varasach wasn't certain what awoke her from her dreamless sleep. But when she saw the flickering light from the fireplace playing across the ceiling, and began to notice the steady, throbbing pain of her many wounds, she knew she would not be able to fall back asleep. Moaning, yawning, and sighing all at once, she carefully shifted under the warm blankets so that her right shoulder and arm rested comfortably- or, at least, as comfortably as could be expected, given the circumstances- under the pillow. Her stomach, still weak from the plague, burbled disagreeably for a moment before settling.

Her ears picked up the muffled sounds of the wind outside and she looked to the window. Streams of light fought their way between the dark curtains, and she focused on that for a while instead of her pain and nausea.

How fortunate she was to be inside, with a crackling fireplace in her room, and not out in that storm which seemed to only be getting worse as time went on. She prayed briefly that everyone else in the Middle realm would have shelter from the cold.

A loud, hollow thump! sounded at the window. Varasach yelped.

"What…" The Guard currently on duty moved from his position by the door and pulled back the curtain with his gloved left hand; his right held a book, his second finger tucked between two pages. He squinted at the bright torrents of snow, trying to make out whatever had caused the noise.

At last, the Guard pulled the shade closed, shaking his head in defeat. "Probably a bird, Princess," he said, returning to his post. "Or a tree branch from the garden broke loose and hit the window. That happens sometimes."

Varasach reluctantly accepted the Guard's conclusion and settled back into her pillow.

In the quiet that followed, Varasach examined this Guard better. He was not the same one who'd been there when she'd fallen asleep the night before. That one had been large, middle-aged, and stern-looking. This man was nearly her own age, with brown, wavy hair that, though tied back, gave her the impression that it would much rather be bouncing freely around his head and shoulders. And his expression was much more relaxed than the previous Guard's.

She swore she'd seen him somewhere before.

The Guard caught her stare and offered her a small, polite smile. She averted her eyes, instinctive panic surging inside her belly.

With men like Cyrus, Kyle, and Cole to help her, she had learned to be more comfortable around men. She'd learned that meeting a man's eyes did not always draw the wrong kind of attention to herself- or to her body. She'd learned that men could be gentle, and could use their strength to aid their physically weaker counterparts, rather than subjugate them.

And, over the course of two days, Zak and Alerik had undone all of that.

Varasach cursed herself. She had been too trusting that night. Just because a man looked friendly, didn't mean that he was. This Guard in her room was no exception.

Desperate for something else to dwell on, she reached under a pile of pillows beside her on the large bed, feeling around for her mother's locket. Her bandaged hand found the velvet pouch. Thankfully, her burns were not bound tightly enough to hinder her mobility. She withdrew the pouch, pouring the locket into her hand: its long, fine chain slid between her fingers. She stroked the etched silver casing, sighing to ease the heaviness in her chest.

Did my mother ever learn to trust men again? she wondered, imagining against her will how it must have felt for Kaeli during those long weeks, months, years after she had been sent away by Garmadon.

Had there been peace in her heart when she died, or had she gone to her grave broken and bitter?

But how could one ever find peace when they had a child to care for, reminding them daily of the terrible things that they had been forced to take part in?

Kaeli must have hated her daughter.

Oh, that's rich, coming from you. An image of the wounded, dying preborn baby from her dream right before Alerik's fire accosted her, and she dropped the locket onto her bosom, covering her eyes with her throbbing arm.

Did the alternative give you peace? a small, gentle voice spoke in her mind.

No, she replied, gritting her teeth. No, it did not.

God had forgiven her. And for a long time Varasach thought she had forgiven herself, too. It was a thing of the past: she did not dwell on it and, in return, it did not torment her.

Until now, at least.

She groaned, not caring that the Guard would hear her, and forced her mind to focus on the pain of her burns. The unchanging, hot pain that, the longer she dwelled on it, the deeper into her skin it seemed to gouge.

She'd been warned by Doctor Tomas that all of her bandages, which stuck to her blistered, broken skin with a vengeance, would need to be changed daily. She would need to bathe to soak the old bandages before they were removed. Then her body would be covered in a cold, foul-smelling salve before they wrapped her up again and left her on this bed with nothing to do for hours on end but listen to the wind, and the sound of the Guard's breathing, and the snapping of the logs in the fireplace…

Perhaps she should just throw herself into the fire. Let the flames finish the job and take her back to God.

No, that was a silly thought. God had welcomed her and loved her after death, despite her many faults, but her work was here. She'd been sent back to the realm of the living with a mission: Help him.

But how was she supposed to help Garmadon when she was stuck in bed?

Even if she was allowed to get up, how could she ever change the heart of the King?

A knock came at the door. Varasach jerked her arm from her face too fast: scabs around her joints cracked open. She grimaced as the Guard opened the door.

She wasn't sure who she expected to visit her at this early hour. Senai with a tray of tea, or a new Guard to replace the one that had been standing at attention by her door for who knew how many hours. Or perhaps her doctor, or- less likely- the Lord Rector.

King Garmadon walked in instead, a strange, fat, and hairy animal cradled in his arms.

"My King," the Guard murmured, bowing shortly before shutting the door.

Garmadon frowned at the Guard. "How did you get this position?" he asked.

"I was assigned by High General Derek himself, my King," the Guard said. "Same as every other Guard on this rotation."

Garmadon raised an eyebrow, clearly unsatisfied with this answer. The Guard returned his stare coolly.

The King relented at last, shaking his head. He turned from the Guard and walked to Varasach's bed.

"I'm glad you're awake," he said. "Did you sleep all right?"

It took a moment for Varasach to realize that he was speaking to her, so fixated was she on the strange animal he held. The creature had a round face with a long, flat snout, unlike anything she'd ever seen before. Its half-closed eyes were so clear and blue, they seemed to be made of glass. Its fur was mostly white, with mottled spots of black and gray on its face and tail.

"Um…" she managed, pushing herself to a reclined position on her pillows. "Yes. I just woke up."

Garmadon let out a breathy laugh. He deposited the animal on the bed and helped Varasach get comfortable with another pillow behind her back.

The creature mewled pitifully, as if offended that it had been set down. Garmadon gave it a gentle push: the creature's pointed ears flicked back momentarily before following the King's hand toward Varasach.

"This is- was- Lloyd's pet," Garmadon explained. "He found the thing as a kitten in an abandoned barn…oh, at least eleven years ago. He snuck it home- neither I nor his mother knew- and took care of the thing with the help of his nanny for over a month before we finally found out." He chuckled, giving the creature an affectionate scratch under its chin. "This cat is a brat, but he stole Misako's heart, so I let Lloyd keep him."

"Cat?" Varasach reached up to touch the creature as it padded across her legs on small gray paws. She let out a small gasp, digging her partially-bandaged fingers deeper into its fur. This "cat" was the softest thing she'd ever felt in her life. Like petting a cloud.

Garmadon gave her an odd look. "You haven't seen a cat before?"

Varasach shook her head, stroking the creature's neck and shoulders.

"…Oh." Garmadon was pensive for a moment. Then his faint smile returned, and he took his seat next to the bed. The cat tried to hop onto his lap, but he pushed it back onto the blankets.

Disgruntled, the cat turned its dark face to Varasach, regarding her with nearly tangible scorn.

"Oh, come now, Pigeon," Garmadon sighed, leaning in to stroke the cat's back. "Don't be that way. She's very nice."

"Its name is Pigeon?" Varasach asked.

Garmadon chuckled again. "Yes," he said. "His name is Pigeon."

"…Oh." Varasach pondered this with confusion. "I thought pigeons were birds."

"They are. That was Lloyd's idea of a sneaky name: he would always tell us that he wanted to go outside and take care of his pigeon. We thought he was talking about feeding wild birds behind the stable, but…"

Varasach chuckled with Garmadon as she stroked the cat's head. Pigeon leaned into her touch.

Then his entire body began to vibrate. Varasach pulled away with a start.

The Guard at the door laughed softly. Both Garmadon and Varasach turned their eyes to him, and he cleared his throat, bowing his apology.

"It's purring," Garmadon said, looking equal parts amused and annoyed. "Cats do that when they're happy."

Sure enough, Pigeon stepped right up to Varasach's head and, after sniffing her face with his cold, wet nose, laid down across her lap. Varasach petted the cat with both hands, unable to keep a smile from spreading across her face.

"Thank you," she said. "He's beautiful."

"You're welcome," Garmadon said. He leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. "In all honesty, I should be thanking you. This thing has been pestering me incessantly since…well, since Lloyd left. Now, with any luck, he'll bond to you instead, and I can finally get a good night's rest without this fat old bird licking my face." He winked.

Varasach smiled in return.

Sobering, Garmadon brushed stray curls from Varasach's face. "Are you in a lot of pain?"

"I'm all right."

"Heh…I don't believe you." His eyes lingered on her face, her hair, for a long while, lost in thought. Varasach stiffened as his hand drifted from her hair to her cheek.

This hand which so gently touched her now had, only days ago, also brandished a sword to murder Southern soldiers.

This hand had been an accomplice in unspeakable deeds against her mother.

"Once this storm is over, you are going to murder the South," Varasach whispered, anger and disgust welling suddenly inside of her.

Garmadon pulled away. He glanced at the Guard, who leaned against the doorframe with his eyes in his book.

"They are infidels," Garmadon murmured, firmly raising his eyes to meet hers. His jaw flexed. "I swear, Vara, if there was any other way, I'd take it in a heartbeat. But I have no choice. Please understand that."

Varasach held his gaze, earnest and steady, for what might as well have been a hundred years.

How selfish could one man be? Planning the massacre of thousands of men, women, and children, because some of them refused to worship him, the descendant of a "god" that had reigned over Ninjago hundreds of years ago.

Varasach shook her head.

With a pained expression, Garmadon stood and bowed to Varasach. His voice was low and soft.

"I'll leave you to rest. If you want anything, you need only ask."

Varasach did not reply, and Garmadon rushed to the door. The Guard, holding his book in one hand, used the other to let Garmadon out, nodding respectfully. The King left, and the door was shut behind him.

The Guard resettled himself against the doorframe, swung one ankle over the other, and was again lost in his reading.

Pigeon mewed, rubbing his face against Varasach's. She continued stroking the purring cat, but all joy had left her.

It didn't matter if the King was kind to her, or if he was sorry for what he'd done to her mother. He was a despicable person, and Varasach found herself scowling at the door that he'd just retreated through, as if hoping that her feelings would somehow reach him through the walls.

"You look pained," the Guard said, his blue eyes rising momentarily from the book. "Should I call the doctor?"

Varasach looked away from the door with a sigh. "No," she said. "I'm fine."

The Guard grunted and resumed his reading.

Varasach picked up the locket, which had slid under the blankets during her conversation with Garmadon. It swung in her hand; Pigeon batted at it curiously, which only made it swing harder and smack his nose. The cat bristled and swatted the locket again, ears flat against his head.

"Na, na," Varasach protested, pulling the locket out of the cat's reach. "If you don't want it to hit you, don't attack it!"

The cat stood, shaking itself, and padded to the opposite side of the bed. He spun in place a few times, then settled himself against a pillow and, with a final contemptuous glance at the locket, began licking his paw.

Varasach leaned back against her pillows and stared into the fire, her mother's locket cupped in her hands on her lap.

She wished she were asleep again. At least when she dreamed, the terrible things that happened to her weren't real. But here, in this terrible realm of wakefulness, she was forced to endure trials that did not relent so easily.

The wind outside howled with a sudden, terrible burst of strength. Varasach tensed, afraid that another branch would hit- and break- the window. If only this blizzard would end…

She immediately chastised herself for the thought. When this storm ended, Garmadon would destroy the South. This bad weather needed to continue for as long as possible; perhaps then Zane could construct a good defense against the North-Middle.

"Are you sure you're all right, Princess?" the Guard asked. "You look troubled." A pause. Then he waved the hand not holding the book. "Um- Forgive me, I'm not supposed to…" He pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. "I apologize, Princess. I'm being very unprofessional."

"No. It's all right," Varasach answered. "There's nothing you can do to help. I'm okay."

The Guard regarded her, his cheeks pink with embarrassment. He opened his mouth to speak, but promptly shut it and again buried his face in his book.

"Why did Garmadon look surprised to see you here?"

The question came without Varasach's consent. She quietly berated herself. Since when had she let her tongue become so loose? This habit may very well have killed her if she were still on the Dark Island.

The Guard, seeming resigned to the fact that he would not be able to get any reading done, slid the book into an inner pocket of his uniform. "It's nothing, really," he said. "I suppose I should have expected that treatment, but…" He shrugged, a fluid rolling of his broad shoulders, and used the momentum to push off the wall. He stepped toward Varasach. "Long story short, the King doesn't like me. But if he wants me replaced, he's gonna have to go through High General Derek." He came to the bed and scratched Pigeon's chin between two black-gloved hands.

"…Oh," was all Varasach could think to say.

At close proximity, she noticed details about the Guard that she hadn't from a distance. He did indeed look familiar, with his sharp, squared jaw and pale blue eyes.

Then it clicked.

"You're one of the Guards who arrested me and Kyle a month ago," Varasach said, frowning. "Den."

The Guard grimaced. "I was wondering how long it'd take for you to notice," he said. "I apologize for my actions, and the actions of my former division. I never liked hunting Borg's men; I requested to be moved to the King's Keep not long after that fracas. I hope you can forgive me." He bowed deeply.

Varasach looked down at her maimed hand. It was in part due to this Guard's negligence that her fingers had been taken by gangrene.

The Guard straightened, searching her eyes earnestly.

Does he know, Varasach wondered, just how much pain he caused me?

Does he know that I died because of him?

"I understand if you can't forgive me," the Guard said. "My former lieutenant was…dedicated to his job, and did all in his power to make sure Borg's people knew their place. I ignored my conscience and went along with it. I'm not proud of what we did." He managed something of a smile. "How is your Nindroid friend?"

"He's gone," Varasach answered, more sharply than intended.

The Guard's mouth, already open and ready to reply, snapped shut. "…Oh," he managed after a moment. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault." Varasach watched the firelight flicker across the locket's face for a long while. The Guard stood silent.

"Have you told anybody?" she asked at last.

"Eh…what?"

"About, um, Borg."

"Oh- oh." The Guard shook his head. "No, Princess. I haven't said anything. I kind of thought the King knew already. But…I gather that's not the case."

"Are any other men from your old division at this keep?"

"No, Princess."

"So no one will know who I am but you, then."

"I…don't think so?" The Guard raised an eyebrow. "Should I be worried?"

"No," Varasach said, smiling despite herself. "I'll make you a deal."

"A deal, Princess?"

"Yes. If you promise not to tell anyone about my old connection to Borg, then I will forgive you." She held out her right hand.

"Your old connection to Borg?" The Guard hesitated. "So you've since cut ties. Do you have any plans against our King or country?"

Varasach considered the question carefully. No, she did not think she had any plans to hurt the King- even if she did, she was too weak to actually cause him harm.

"I do not," she promised.

"Well…" The Guard took Varasach's bandaged hand gingerly in his own and shook it. "It's a deal. But If I find that you're a skilled assassin here to hurt the King or Lord Rector, I'll have to tell on you."

Varasach realized by the Guard's smirk that he was teasing her. She winked, as she'd seen Kyle do so often in the past, hoping it conveyed the correct message.

The Guard chuckled and dropped his voice to a whisper. "I don't see what's so wrong about Borg- he seems to be doing a marvelous job healing the North of this wretched plague. But I'm serious, Princess. Do anything suspicious and I'll be forced to break the deal. Fair enough?"

"Yes." Varasach released his hand. "Thank you, Den."

"Ah- It's Deniel, actually."

"Okay. You can call me Vara."

"Begging your pardon, but I think using your true name is a step above my rank."

"Well then, I order you to use my name," Varasach said. "I don't like 'Princess.' "

"Don't you?" A thoughtful look shadowed Deniel's eyes. "Hmm… Well, there's one thing we have in common, I suppose."

"What?"

"It's nothing, Princess- er, Vara. Vara." Deniel sighed, reaching down again to pet Pigeon. "This'll take some getting used to…"

"Sorry."

"No! Don't apologize." Deniel smiled, dimpling his cheeks. "I understand, stuffy titles can get a little old. Providing there's no one around to report my breach of conduct, I will call you Vara. Ow!" He jerked his hands away from Pigeon.

"What did he do?" Varasach asked, alarmed, as the cat stood and padded onto her lap, away from Deniel.

"It's okay," Deniel assured her, left hand curled close to his chest. He glared ruefully at Pigeon. "He was playing and grabbed my hand with his claws."

"He hurts you when he wants to play?" Varasach's eyes widened.

"No, no. Well…yes." Deniel chuckled, gingerly pulling on the fingertips of his glove. "That's how cats play. It doesn't normally hurt that much, but…" He shrugged as the glove came free, revealing red, irritated skin. "I was already wounded."

Varasach's brows furrowed as Deniel flexed his blistered fingers, examining them.

"I don't think the cat got me too bad," he decided at last, and began sliding his hand back into the glove. "Don't be scared of Pigeon because of this, Vara. He didn't mean to-"

Varasach gently took his hand and pulled it to herself. Deniel appeared confused, but did not resist as she compared the back of his hand to an exposed patch of skin on her own arm.

"We match," Varasach stated.

"I, uh…" Deniel blinked several times, glancing between his burned hand and her face. "I guess so. Heh."

"What happened to your hand?"

Deniel pulled his hand back, chuckling sheepishly. "Well. I could say that I was burned while heroically saving a family from a burning house during a riot, but…"

"Really?" Varasach perked up.

"No." Deniel finished sliding on his glove, hiding the burn. "My former division was bivouacking ten days ago. I rolled over in my sleep, and my hand fell in the fire." He gestured with his arm, palm up, grimacing. "Not my proudest moment. Feel free to laugh; it was pretty stupid. My team laughed, too."

"I'm not laughing," Varasach said. "Does it hurt?"

"A bit," Deniel admitted. "It's healing well, though. Don't worry. It won't impede my ability to defend you, should the need arise."

"I'm glad it doesn't hurt you too much." Varasach looked at his glove, which hid his wound so well. Perhaps she should start wearing those too, once her bandages came off. But my burns are in so many places. I cannot hide all of my skin.

There came a knock at the door, and Deniel sighed, pulling on his sleeve cuffs. "That's probably your servant with breakfast. I'll get the door…"

"Hight General," Garmadon called down the corridor. "A word, please."

High General Derek paused, readjusting a load of rolled-up parchments under his good arm, and bowed to the King as he drew close. "Is something the matter, my King?" he asked.

"I'm trying to figure that out," Garmadon answered. He glanced at the High General's load. It looked to be a collection of maps. He was likely preparing for their strategy meeting with the lieutenants coming up later that day. "Why is that boy, Deniel, guarding the Princess?"

"Because he is a Guard, my King," Derek answered coolly. "Don't tell me you are prejudiced against him."

There was a challenging, almost amused, look in Derek's piercing blue eyes. Garmadon seethed.

"It is not prejudice," he snapped. "It is a completely legitimate concern. You know who that boy is-"

"It's the Lord Rector who is pushing Deniel, and you know it as well as I," Derek shot back. "Deniel wants no part of…" He gestured vaguely with his wounded arm. "…everything that we do. I believe he is glad that the Princess is here. I trust the boy. I don't think you have anything to worry about."

The High General bowed slightly. "Excuse me, please," he said, and walked passed the King. "I have more important matters to contend with."

Bivouac. A word that I had never even heard of before reading Artemis Fowl. XD Ahhh. I should reread those sometime; it's been too long.

"Astrid, don't you have enough new characters already? Sheeeeesh, I can hardly keep track of them!"

Yeah, I know. But Deniel (pronounced den-YELL) is- I hope- the last important new character you will need to remember in this story. I'd love to hear your thoughts on him so far! Is he a dear squishheart, or is Garmadon correct in his suspicions that Deniel may bot be trustworthy? Hmmmm...

Sheesh, Garmadon. Sheeesh. All the sheeshes for you. And your cow.

The end is not far off! I mean it for reals this time. I'm currently hashing out the finale (FINALLY) and I hope you all like what I have planned. I want to tentatively say this story will be over before chapter 145...? It definitely shouldn't be any longer than that, because the finale is starting in just a few... And after that, I have plans for a TG prequel which I may have mentioned before, starring dear Clouse during his early days as a soldier! Also young Garmadon, and baby Prince Cole, and maybe even Kaeli... And then there's The Ties that Bind, of course, though I'm sorry to say that story has hit the back burner for a while as I aggressively tackle dumb adult dumbness.

Thanks again, all, for your support! Everyone that is still reading this story after all these years deserves ALL the cookies. :D Speaking of which, reviews are the chocolate chips to my cookies. I love hearing from you all, whether you leave me a one-sentence comment or a full-blown review. I love you all. :) Have a great week! NinjaaaaaGO!