“No, no,” Lard called as Belion charged forward, closing the distance between him and the last of the triumvirates. His armor was half gone and blood leaked from his left side—a wound he’d gotten from Melia’s venomous stinger.


    He spread his perception, splitting his already fractured mind into separate parts to create as many instances of the battle before him. Above him, he could see skycrafts splitting the clouds, replacing the ones they’d torn apart before. He hadn’t planned for this. And that was exactly what he was supposed to do. That was his job as a guide.


    “Lard!” Belion called, his voice weak even as he fought against Helios with maddening ferocity. Lard’s splintered mind traced the patterns in the mana field, pushing more and more power into it to calculate the most favorable strategy. His body transformed as he expended even more power, straining his innate capacity to the extreme.


    Yet, the answer didn’t change. There was nothing he could do. He turned his entire body away from the mana field, his form now a wisp of cotton white. He’d tried to divert as much mana away from his physical manifestation to his core. That boosted his prediction ability, casting a wide net of possible solutions for him to access and plan with.


    Pointless, Lard thought as he watched Belion.


    There was nothing he could do now. Their allies were dead. And although two of the triumvirates had been killed, that didn’t change anything. Belion would die soon. The venom from Melia was spreading faster than Lard expected and Helios’ self-healing ability made it difficult to kill the monster.


    The interfaces all collapsed as he watched the last embers of Belion futile rebellion. This world too would soon be overrun, taken under the darkness because of his inability to guide his ward.


    “Lard!” Belion called again, desperation raw in his voice. Lard closed his eyes. He could see the end already. He didn’t have the future-sight function of some higher lever guides, but he saw the patterns in the way Belion moved. His movements were slower, his swings were weak. And his mana core was dim.


    Once again, my hero is dying.


    The barren field of Torath’s End was dyed red with the blood of allies and enemies. Lard wondered how he’d made the mistake. He had calculated they would come out victorious in the battle against the hordes of the triumvirate. Did he make a mistake? Was his estimation of Belion’s power wrong?


    Nienda! The curse hissed out of him in the old language. He had calculated the probability so many times. They were close, but most had ended in their victory. Yet, the reality before him told him there had been an error, a mistake in his calculations that he’d not taken into account.


    The last and final blow from Helios reached Lard through his link to Belion. It tore through the hero’s life thread and mana source, crushing his core.


    Lard didn’t have to breathe, but he felt the absence of air in that brief lingering moment. His eyes widened, the agony of the end unraveling him, the sensation tragically familiar.


    This was not his first loss. The taste of bitterness returned as the final flicker of life faded from Belion and the bottom half of the hero fell back.


    The Mad Titan, Helios, bellowed a cry of victory. His dark blade was still wet and gleaming with Helios’s blood. His face, marred with living scars of blinding runes and curses was hidden behind his wild-beast helm. His eyes fixed on Lard, holding his frame in view once his victory cry had ended. There was a threat in the gaze, one of promised destruction.


    Lard trembled, even though he knew there was nothing the mad titan could do to him. He floated toward Belion, his body restructure transforming into his most favored form as he neared the corpse of his charge. He spared the mad titan one saddened look, before lowering himself toward Belion’s top half. Belion’s eyes were wide with pain and the realization of death.


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Once more, I have led another to their death.


    “All that struggle,” Helios said, his voice low with dark pleasure. “All these losses could have been avoided. You have failed. Your resistance has failed. You gave him the will of the Crucible. You led them all to this point, orchestrating their fate. Lard Hardfaster, you have failed.”


    Lard winced at the way the titan’s voice altered his name, made it sound so wrong it felt like a curse. Myrlenian names were considerably difficult to pronounce but Helios could have simply called him Lard.


    Gloating piss of Vathrals!


    Lard ignored the titan. Instead, he let his furry thin hands slip into Belion’s chest, through the cracked and blasted armor. He reached the oath-knot that linked them by the crucible decree and pulled it out.


    Oath Decree has been undone—


    Hero Belion Holspring’s status: Dead


    Guide Agent’s Seventeenth attempt: Failed!


    Lard winced, trying not to look at the titan’s back as he walked away, visibly tired. He had won but at a great cost. Not that Vathrals cared about life anyway. They lived to serve, and they did that to death.


    Lard couldn’t spit, instead he felt a rush of revulsion pulse through him. He took one last look at Belion’s dead eyes and looked away. Shame and anger raged within him.


    Please, use the transport beacon!


    Lard groaned. He hated this part of the job. The transport beacon would extract him from this dying world, but he’d be going to someone he wished not to see. He didn’t have a nose his round furry body, but he simulated breathing in and out. Once more glanced around to take in the cost of his mistake and he activated the beacon.


    A familiar force plucked him from where he stood amongst the dead and the next moment he was walking out of a gateway!


    “Hey, Lightb—” he stopped when he felt the wave of heat wash past him. Lard checked the name on the black hologram projecting from the table’s edge and muttered a curse. The gateway crashed behind him, fading with a muted crackle of mana.


    “Lard,” The Lightborn said, with tight displeasure. Lard tried as much as possible to show remorse. It wasn’t all performance anyway, he’d just lost a world and gotten a lot of people killed.


    “I don’t… I don’t understand wha…” He sighed. “You saw the whole thing, didn’t you?”


    “We don’t get a direct feed, Lard. But I saw enough to know you are not good for this,” The Lightborn said. The halo behind her hair of glowing thin tendrils pulsed rhythmically. Its light filled the room, masking her somehow so Lard couldn’t see her eyes. He’d heard stories about the consequences of looking directly into a Lightborn’s eyes. He didn’t want to know if they were true or not.


    “Your coordination with your champion was sloppy. You are supposed to be a guide, not a blabbing idiot. Your calculations are not absolute, and you are supposed to be adaptable. What kind of guide would freeze when things don’t go his way?”


    Lard tried to speak and stopped, noting the Lightborn’s irritation in the way her hair writhed behind her. The pulsing of her halo had increased in pace too.


    “And in the name of the Fallen, what was that sword about? Of all the weapons to give your hero, why the sword?”


    “That is the weapon of heroes, of legends,” Lard said, leaning forward, ready to make the same argument he’d made sixteen times before, to five other Lightborns. This one shook her head. “Check the chronicles, the notes of Anders, the stories of heroes past. They all had swords. And I gave Belion the Star Reaper! It was the strongest weapon in his world. How would I have known it wouldn’t be strong enough to fight the Triumvirates?”


    The Lightborn was silent, her hair moving like maddened snakes as her irritation and annoyance climbed. Here, Lard couldn’t isolate himself from the Lightborn’s powers. The light in the office brightened and Lard felt the beginning of a searing pain to come. It started as a sting on his skin until it became unbearable. He adjusted, trying to hold against the Lightborn’s wrath until he couldn’t anymore.


    “Fine! It was my fault! I should have been careful!”


    “Seventeen!” the Lightborn said, her voice a small storm in Lard’s mind. “You have lost seventeen worlds!”


    The light dimmed and the heat vanished immediately. The Lightborn sighed. “And yet, we give you another chance at a fledgling world.”


    Lard frowned. He’d expected to beg for another chance, maybe even cry while he promised to submit himself to punishment if he failed again.


    This was too easy.


    “Where am I going?”


    “A need seed world in the Sol system. I fear for them, but you won’t be the only one there. And according to what we have on them, you should be fine.”


    Lard chuckled, trying not to show how worried he was. “Great!”


    “Use the damn beacon,” The Lightborn said, looking away from him.