35 – Rafael

The world had gone to shit.

And by that, Rafael meant the exact opposite. Nothing ever happened anymore.

He’d been spoiled. A hundred years ago, he’d had the privilege of managing chaos incarnate. The Party of Heroes were upheld as champions of virtue—and they were, in some regard—but he had known the actual men and women who headed Vanguard. Had known how utterly insane each of them was. Barring maybe Orion, and only because Rafael had extremely low standards when comparing to the likes of Naia and Vivisari.

A single week would have turned the hair of even the most veteran Guild Steward gray. A month, and forced early retirement would have been inevitable. He couldn’t count the number of massive political kerfuffles he’d needed to smooth over, or impossible logistical requests of every imaginable variety.

Or, his personal favorite, how often nervous-looking ambassadors had shown up at his doorstep seeking reassurances, because Vivisari had once again been caught with her arms elbow-deep inside the intestines of reality. It had always been amusing, in a not-amusing way, explaining to such men that no, Vivisari would not accidentally spawn an eighth cataclysm or end the world, and that yes, she knew what she was doing, even when Rafael himself had never been confident in that fact.

Indeed, there had not been a span of three full days in his entire career in which he’d had a moment to rest. And he had thrived in that environment.

He missed the glory too. For all tasks, big or small, he had been the point of contact for the legendary Party of Heroes. The Steward of Vanguard. He would claim no fragment of honor for slaying the Cataclysms; that had been their feat alone. He had never held a sword against one of those monsters. But where the Heroes had been the grand palace worthy of worship, he had been the foundation at their feet.

These days, he ran the most comprehensive information network in the human kingdoms and captained the Adventurer’s Guild. It just wasn’t comparable.

Maybe at the start, he’d derived enjoyment from the sheer scale of the project. But the problems that had needed solving, he had solved. Best as he could, anyway. The Adventurer’s Guild was an oiled machine. A century was a long time to spend on a single project; he had only needed a decade. The next nine had been sorting out the details. Anyone could have done it.

Which was why he’d put together his Web. It would serve him well, someday, he told himself. Information was power, and he’d planted the seeds of that organization during his time in Vanguard.

The Web had lost its charm too, when he could never find a grand task to leverage it toward.

He needed something new. But what was worth his time and effort, compared to the Cataclysms?

He couldn’t say what had brought about this malaise. Certainly, he’d known of his discontent for years. Decades. But rarely did it sit at the forefront of his mind. He was not someone to stew in his thoughts.

Perhaps it was Peace Day. A centennial reminder of the closing of that golden chapter of his life. The memory of Vanguard clung to him. Not just old friends lost, but old purpose too.

If only Vivisari wasn’t missing. Dead or retired would have been fine. Although he winced at the blasé disregard toward an old friend. But not knowing what had happened to the final officer of Vanguard, the only woman who could swing open those guild doors once more, had driven him half-mad over the century.

He hated not knowing. It was anathema to him. To any purpose he would pursue. He was a fixer, an informant, a steward of projects big and small. He couldn’t stand not being certain about something so important.

Sighing, he swung open the double doors leading into the Adventurer’s Guild Headquarters. Inside, Allegra shot to her feet.

“Guildmaster.”

“Acting Guildmaster,” he corrected dismissively, the exchange so ingrained he barely registered it. He’d never wanted to lead the Adventurer’s Guild permanently—it had been somewhat of an accident he’d accepted the role at all, much less stayed. He just hadn’t had anything better to do.

He noticed the look on Allegra’s face. “What is it?”

“There’s been a dispute with—”

Rafael raised a hand to cut her off. “On second thought, you can handle it, yes?”

She hesitated, but apparently the disaster—as if anything that happened these days could qualify as such—wasn’t important enough to warrant her insistence.

“Excellent. I have the utmost faith in you.” He headed for his personal office. “I’ll be taking my leave early today. No interruptions, please. I don’t care if it’s the High King himself.” He paused with his hand on the door handle. “Well, maybe him.” That would be interesting, at least. The senile old man hadn’t left the palace in years.

“Has something happened, sir?” Allegra asked, obviously sensing his mood.

“No. Nothing.” Under his breath, he muttered, “That’s exactly the problem.”

Retreating into the enchantment-cooled interior of his office, he released a long sigh.

Oh, yes, he was definitely in a rare mood today.

Something needed to change. It was terrifying that Winston’s suggestion of travel was starting to sound appealing. He couldn’t care less about seeing the world, about long voyages into uncharted territories; he was no adventurer. And yet the idea was mulling around in the back of his head, if simply to introduce a change of pace. What had he become?

Distracted, he didn’t notice how his tall-backed office chair was facing the wrong way. The only reason the discrepancy didn’t jump out—since Rafael was very good at paying attention to details—was because he was heavily occupied by his thoughts.

Rummaging around inside the side table, he pulled out a crystal cup and a bottle of whiskey expensive enough to bankrupt a minor noble house. He kept it there for when he needed to flaunt wealth; in other words, as a weapon. He disapproved of decadence, generally speaking, but he would use all tools available.

He popped out the cork and poured himself a glass. He rarely drank, and only alone. Purposefully clouding his mind and judgment while with company was such a baffling choice that he fundamentally struggled to understand why so many people did it. Especially during important social outings. Then again, not everyone was him, to treat every conversation as a duel.

Only when he was walking over to his desk, cup of amber liquid in hand, did the chair finally swivel to face him.

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To reveal the unmistakable form of Vivisari Vexaria, the lost Sorceress of the Party of Heroes.

Her legs were crossed, and she had her Grimoire summoned. It was open and spread on an armrest, one small, pale hand holding it down. Her red eyes and expression were as perpetually bored and borderline contemptuous as he remembered from a century ago.

He froze, foot half raised into his next step, whiskey glass in hand.

His mind went from idly discontent to blazing at full capacity in less than a quarter second. Not out of intention or long training; it was simply who he was. Some people shut down when they were surprised. That had never once happened to him.

The possibilities branched out in his mind, and he pruned or expanded upon each.

Two core lines to follow: this was her, or it was not. In the first: Imposter? If so, why? Malicious deceit, some ploy? If non-malicious, then a prank or joke made in poor humor? He doubted that, so he discarded it. If it was deceit, who had something to gain? And what methods had been employed? The illusion or disguise was startlingly accurate. The details were exactly as he remembered. Her grimoire had changed. As it should. Attention to detail? Or evidence?

What if it wasn’t deceit?

Then the Sorceress had returned. Why? There was always a why. Had she ended her retirement for the good of the world? Did an eighth Cataclysm loom? The proximity to the one-hundredth Peace Day brushed his mind and was added to the rapidly developing mountain of evidence, theories, and surrounding context.

No matter what the situation was—and he truly could not begin to guess—Rafael wasn’t a man to let himself appear like he’d been caught off guard. Even if he genuinely, truly had been.

Information was power. The illusion of power was also power: that made for the foundation of politics, what kept kings on their thrones. Therefore, the illusion of information? Logically, then, that was power too.

Naia had once called him a ‘very good bullshitter’. It was time to see how much so.