Maximillian was on his knees. Like a peasant before his betters, he, rightful heir of the Abyssal kingdom of Austria, loyal vassal of the Sons of Rome, knelt before the Ironborn. His head was lowered submissively. Spilled blood covered the tiles, and some of it seeped into his heavily enchanted suit.


    ‘I am Maximillian Franz the Fourth von Habsburg, gravity king, Elector of Austria, arch-duke of Vienna, prince-regent of Greater Hungary, duke of Ulm, former Candidatum Primus of Rex Germaniae, servant of Emperor of Kings,’ he thought to himself. He clenched his fist and his jaw. The intensity cut his palm. The taste of iron filled his mouth. He forced his gaze to rise.


    It met that of Reetha lo Rust. The admittedly attractive, elven woman of metal and arrogance, stared at him dismissively. Past the rushing of blood in his ears, he heard the hiss of the gas being pushed past her shut teeth. Doubt chilled his thoughts, as if his entire head was submerged in cold water.


    ‘I cast off all these titles,’ the thought surfaced. Spurred on by the instilled negativity, it was nevertheless his own. ‘Why did I do that? Because I couldn’t bear the burden of leadership after he betrayed me...’


    Maximillian still remembered it. He doubted he would ever forget it. Ever go a year without the sensation occurring in a dream. It was worse than the apparently unfixable issue with his leg, worse even than the moment that had caused the injury. The goddess of genocide in its primal, first form, she – it – had been terrifying. Still, it was the knife that slid into his back that he remembered. A wound that had been easily fixed. It had left no scar. Not on his skin, anyway.


    Alexej, a friend he had his entire life. A friend he thought he had his entire life. A line of servants in service of the Habsburgs, all of them turned traitors when the Blood of the Proletariat attacked. They had been through life together, had fought together for the crown. Alexej had been there when his father died. Had the consolation just been a ploy to retain his standing?


    Never would Maximillian know. The truths died with him. Any chance to hate him or to reconcile were gone. Left was only the confusion. Who should he remember, the friend that had teased him over his refusal to obey the foremost tradition of his country, to fuse with an elemental, or the glee with which that same friend pushed the dagger through skin and muscle?


    Unable to find the answer, he had run from so many things. He had run from his responsibility. Fled into alcohol and cheap women, whose company he couldn’t stand for more than a month at a time. They were attracted by his charm, his titles and his money. Even they couldn’t prevent him from waking up in a cold sweat sometimes.


    The doubts kept worming through his mind, summoned more and more memories of his inadequacies.


    ‘Why did I give up my titles?’ he asked himself again and arrived at a much simpler answer. ‘Because I’m inferior. I’m not Lydia, I can’t carry the betrayal of someone close to me. I’m not John, I can’t keep going... I just want to rest... I just want to... let someone else take care of me... someone that is... superior...’ He kept his head down, staring at the blood stains. ‘Yeah, I should just give i-‘


    ‘No.’


    The single word boomed in his mind. It was entirely bass, almost unrecognizable as a voice, that of Hawpler. It spread out and was swallowed, like sound by insulated walls. It only served to interrupt his surrendering thoughts. It left him empty.


    Complete apathy settled in. Silence in his mind. Distant sounds of combat. Docile allies and Ironborn awaiting their complete submission. Blood on the floor. The taste of blood in his mouth. Drops of blood flowing from his palms to his nails.


    ‘I’m inferior,’ he thought again.


    It was at that moment that something inside him revolted. A spark of annoyance with himself. The kind of spark that he had felt again and again over the past year. He had learned to grasp it long ago. It was the same spark that had let him reign in his overreliance on alcohol to sleep. That which had made him stop sleeping around mindlessly. This sensation, this knowledge that he was not the best he could be, that was what had made him keep investing in the one relationship that he had finally thought worthy to be called a romance.


    Teeth and fists clenched again. The doubt, the despair, the terrible inferiority he felt, he took them all at full value. Yes, he had fled from his responsibilities, but he was not a useless nobody. He had made the effort, he had made the sacrifices, he had been there for others like he wished them to be there for him.


    ‘Yes.’ The drumming sound of Hawpler’s voice reached him a second time. A simple encouragement, that was all he needed from the gravity elemental.


    Tears started rolling Maximillian’s face, the depth of his tragedy realized. The least among prodigies, betrayed by his childhood friend, unable to face the responsibility he was born, bred and trained for. Was that what he was willing to be remembered for? “Of course not,” Maximillian growled. More of his blood was squeezed from his palm, joining his tears in falling to the ground.


    The wall of Ironborn began their charge. With renewed elan and their will more awake than ever, after being nearly subdued, the forces of the coalition met them in kind. Reetha herself charged directly at Maximillian.


    Keeping his relaxed, self-assured demeanour, Maximillian lifted his good foot. The other one carried the weight with no issue. Even with the attached exoskeleton, his full weight had caused the old injury to ache. Now it made no difference whatsoever. Especially not when his sole separated from the ground.


    Hovering effortlessly, Maximillian waited for Reetha to get close, before shooting straight upwards. Manipulating the strength of direction of the world’s pull on his physical form, he flew like a directed meteor. Effects that he had previously needed to enact on something he stood on, he now applied to himself with absolute ease.


    Maximillian flew backwards, towards the massive pit. There was no action there whatsoever, a safe place to discard the gathered influence of Reetha. The Queen chased after him, pure hatred in her eyes. Her feet drummed on the bridge.


    “I already told you: you aren’t my type,” Maximillian said with a theatrical sigh. “Interesting as I find it sometimes, I do not have a particular interest in crazy. May I recommend you bother John instead? He has a weakness for the unstable.” A red mist was pushed out from Reetha’s clenched, metallic teeth. The black-haired elf leapt with increased power and nearly caught the gravity mage. “Alright, alright, I will play with you! Just let me discard this.”


    Maximillian tossed the concentrated gravity behind himself. After only a few metres, he could feel his control over it start to diminish. It released exponentially, until the green mist exploded out behind him. He kept his focus on Reetha.


    The Queen jumped again. She paid the leap enough mind that she did not get above the chasm. All Maximillian had to do to dodge her permanently was to position himself above it. That would have been no fun, however, so he stooped down under her. She landed on the bridge, as did he.


    With nothing else to utilize as a weapon, Maximillian tore off his jacket and shirt. Mid-air, the two articles of clothing collapsed into a singular point. They could hardly still be described as fabric at the end of it.


    Swinging his finger like a conductor would when guiding his orchestra, Maximillian sent the sphere slamming into Reetha. Although it connected, it did very little to even obstruct the raging Ironborn in her charge. ‘I suppose offense was never mine nor Hawpler’s specialty.’ Maximillian resigned himself to the futile loss of his shirt and instead went for the reliable strategy.


    Reetha’s right foot slammed into the ground so hard, she stumbled and nearly fell. Although she caught herself, the next step she took was slow, barely qualified as running. Changing from red back to green, she exhaled, attempting to reach Maximillian with the influence of her magic. He conjured a new black hole and siphoned the mist into it like before.


    Still, she advanced, step for step. Too slow that he couldn’t keep out of her range. Not that he dared to. His ability had always allowed him to beat physical fighters above his level because of how effective he was at incapacitating them. “Do you really want us to waste our time here?” Reetha growled. Both of them knew what was happening here. She lacked the power to reach him and he the power to hurt her in a meaningful way. They were at an impasse.


    “To be fair, you get a much nicer view.” Maximillian gestured at his exposed, well-trained form. Then, he heard a distant roar from down below. Leaning over, he saw something fiery rapidly ascend. “Well, I can’t say it’s been nice, but thank you for the breakthrough in my therapy.” He bowed in front of Reetha. “I earnestly hope you only die on impact.”


    “What are you talking about?” the Queen asked.


    Maximillian hovered back towards the battlefield. “You’ll see in a second,” he promised her. For as long as he could, he kept his slowing influence on her. Then, he flew as fast as possible. It was to his great delight that he did not have to look where he was going to accelerate.


    The thunderous cracking of stone announced the arrival of the dragon moments before the fire did. Erupting as an obsidian form engulfed by her own flames, Nathalia destroyed the bridges at the centre of the massive chamber. Reetha was thrown into the air, then grasped by the ascending claw of the goddess of volcanoes.


    Growling, the immense creature reared her head over the battlefield. The fighting did not stop. The Ironborn were intimidated by the unknown powers of pariahs, but a larger than life figure, that they were oddly enough used to. Flickers of fire played around the jagged teeth of the obsidian dragon. “Keep going!” Maximillian shouted at her. One of the orange glowing eyes turned in his direction. “I got this.”


    Without words, Nathalia turned her head towards the ceiling. The claw that had grasped Reetha opened again. An object of iridescent metal fell down the shaft, a unified clump. Maximillian waved after it, quite certain there was no one there left to notice it. The dragoness gripped onto two of the six arching spires that connected to the massive one that went up through the tower. To see something so massive squeeze her way through something was a sight that confused any sense of relative size. The dragon passed, climbing up through the tower large enough to encompass her, yet too narrow to allow her to fly.


    ‘I got this,’ Maximillian assured himself and returned to the battlefield.