Peter's chest swelled with pride beneath the steel-traced tunic clinging to his broad shoulders. Sweat still dampened the fabric, making it stick to the defined ridges of his torso—evidence of the brutal tournament he'd just conquered. His muscular thighs flexed with each confident stride through the guildhall corridors, the leather of his boots creaking against stone. Blue eyes gleamed with triumph, catching the torchlight as he ran a hand through his spiky blond hair, pushing the wild strands back from his forehead. Every inch of his tall, powerful frame radiated victory, from the way his biceps strained against his sleeves to the cocky set of his jaw.
Tim clapped him on the shoulder, grinning so wide his curly eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline.
"You magnificent bastard! Did you see the look on that orc's face when you landed that final blow?"
"Hard to miss when he was eating dirt." Peter couldn't stop the smile spreading across his face. His heart hammered not from exhaustion but from anticipation. Every step brought him closer to Albatross's office, closer to claiming the prize that mattered more than any trophy—Luvelia's hand in marriage.
"First human in a hundred and fifty years, Peter. One hundred and fifty!" Tim shook his head in disbelief. "The elders were talking about it like it was some kind of prophecy. Said humanity needed this. Needed proof we could still compete with the other races."
"It wasn't about proving anything to humanity." Peter's voice dropped, becoming softer. "I did it for her."
"Oh, I know, I know. You're a romantic sap underneath all that muscle." Tim punched his arm playfully. "But you can't deny what this means for the rest of us humans. The guild's reputation just shot through the roof. We'll be getting better contracts, more respect from the other nations. Hell, even the elves might stop looking down their noses at us."
Peter barely heard him. His mind kept drifting to Luvelia—her innocent smile, the way her eyes lit up whenever she saw him, how purely she believed in his strength. He'd fought through pain and exhaustion, taken hits that would've felled lesser men, all because he knew she was watching from the stands. Every broken bone in his opponent's body had been a love letter written in violence.
"You think the old man will actually say yes?" Tim's question pulled him back to reality.
"He has to. Those were the tournament rules—winner gets his daughter's hand. Albatross can't back out of his own promise."
"Yeah, but you know how protective he is of Luvelia. I've heard stories about the last guy who tried courting her. They found him hanging from the training yard by his ankles for three days."
Peter's jaw tightened. "I won fairly. Every fighter knew what the stakes were."
They rounded the final corner, and the ornate doors to Albatross's office loomed before them. The wood was carved with intricate scenes of past guild victories, each panel depicting legendary warriors in moments of triumph. Soon, Peter thought, his own victory would join those ranks. His name would be remembered not just as the man who won the tournament, but as the one who won Luvelia Sanctos.
Tim stopped walking, hanging back a few paces.
"You want me to come in with you?"
"No. This is something I need to do alone." Peter squared his shoulders, feeling the weight of what he was about to ask settling over him. His muscles tensed, that same pre-battle focus sharpening his senses. The sweat cooling on his skin felt suddenly cold.
"Good luck, you madman. Though I still think you should've celebrated with me and the boys first. Could've used some liquid courage."
"I need to do this now. While the victory's still fresh. While everyone in the guild saw what I accomplished."
Tim nodded, respect clear in his expression. "You earned this, Peter. Don't let the old bastard intimidate you. You're the strongest fighter in the land now. That title isn't just for show."
Peter rolled his shoulders, feeling the pleasant burn of exertion in his deltoids and traps. His body was a weapon he'd honed for years, every muscle sculpted through countless hours of training. The tournament had tested every limit, pushed him beyond what he thought possible. But none of that compared to the challenge waiting behind those doors.
Albatross Sanctos—overprotective father, guild master, and the one man standing between Peter and the life he'd dreamed of.
"Here goes everything." Peter's hand reached for the door handle, fingers wrapping around the cold metal. His palm was still rough from gripping his sword during the final match, blisters forming on top of old calluses.
"Remember," Tim called softly behind him, "you're the champion now. Act like it."
Peter nodded, drew in a deep breath that expanded his powerful chest, and knocked three times on the door. The sound echoed through the corridor—each rap a declaration of intent.
The door swung open to reveal a spacious office lined with trophies and weapons from countless campaigns. Behind a massive oak desk sat Albatross Sanctos himself—a tower of tan muscle gone weathered with age, white hair combed back like a lion's mane, his moustache bristling above a jaw that looked carved from granite. Despite the wrinkles creasing his face, the old man radiated power, shoulders broad beneath armor and a pristine white cloak that marked his authority. Those eyes, sharp as daggers, fixed on Peter with an intensity that made even victory feel uncertain.
John Goodman stood near the window, his sharp profile silhouetted against the afternoon light filtering through the glass. The stern middle-aged warrior looked every inch the veteran he was—light brown hair swept back with those slightly spiked tips, angular eyebrows drawn together in thought. His grayish eyes held an intensity that spoke of countless battles survived, watching Peter with that characteristic unsmiling expression. The formal dark clothing and high collar with its white cravat gave him an authoritative presence, like a man who'd already lived through several lifetimes of war. A single bead of sweat traced down his weathered cheek despite the cool office air.
"Congratulations, Peter." John's gravelly voice cut through the tension. "That final strike was masterful. Clean execution."
"Thank you, John. Means a lot coming from you." Peter's muscles relaxed slightly at the praise from someone whose opinion actually mattered. The veteran rarely offered compliments without earning them.
Albatross remained silent behind his desk. The white-haired guild master's fingers steepled beneath his chin, moustache twitching as his jaw worked beneath the weathered skin. Those ancient eyes—filled with decades of tactical thinking—studied Peter like an enemy formation he was planning to dismantle. The wrinkles deepening around his mouth spoke nothing but displeasure despite the armor-clad shoulders remaining perfectly still beneath that pristine white cloak.
Peter's throat went dry. His heart, which had beaten steady through the entire tournament, now hammered against his ribs hard enough to hurt. The sweat cooling on his muscular frame suddenly felt ice-cold.
"Guild Master Sanctos." Peter's voice came out stronger than he felt. "I came here today not just as your champion, but as a man with a purpose that drove every strike, every block, every drop of blood I shed in that arena."
Albatross's expression didn't shift. Not even a flicker.
Peter's fingers curled into fists at his sides, the knuckles still raw from where they'd connected with the orc champion's jaw. His powerful legs shifted, distributing his weight the way he'd been taught—always ready, always balanced. The tournament had been brutal, but this silence felt worse than any blow he'd taken in the arena. His broad chest rose and fell with carefully controlled breaths as he forced himself to meet Albatross's unyielding stare.
"I've dedicated seven years of my life to this path." The words spilled out, gaining momentum despite the tremor trying to creep into his voice. "Seven years of training until my muscles screamed, until my hands bled, until I couldn't tell the difference between sweat and blood anymore. Every morning before dawn, every night long after the others quit for the day. I pushed my body beyond what I thought possible because I had something worth fighting for."
The guild master's weathered face remained carved from stone, those ancient eyes revealing nothing. Peter's throat tightened, but he pressed forward.
"You made a promise, Guild Master Sanctos. When I asked for your daughter's hand, you said I needed to prove myself worthy. You said that any man who wanted to marry Luvelia needed to demonstrate strength beyond question—that he needed to become the strongest warrior in the land." Peter's blue eyes blazed with conviction, his muscular frame practically vibrating with barely contained emotion. "I took those words and made them my purpose. Every opponent I faced, every technique I mastered, every limit I shattered—all of it was to honor that promise you made."
The white-haired man's moustache twitched, but he offered no response. The silence stretched like a blade being slowly twisted between Peter's ribs.
"The Grand Fighting Tournament hasn't been won by a human in one hundred and fifty years." Peter's voice rose, passion bleeding through the nervousness coiling in his gut. "I fought warriors twice my size. I went toe-to-toe with creatures who could tear me limb from limb. That orc in the final match—his fist felt like a battering ram every time it connected. I've got three cracked ribs right now that are still healing."
He gestured to his torso, where fresh bruises darkened the tan skin beneath his tunic. The fabric clung to the defined ridges of his abdominals, each one sculpted through years of relentless conditioning.
"But I didn't quit. I couldn't. Because every time I hit the ground, every time my vision blurred from taking another hit, I thought about Luvelia. I thought about her smile, about the way she believed in me even when no one else did. I thought about making her proud, about being the man she deserves."
Albatross's jaw clenched, the muscles working beneath weathered skin. But still—nothing. No acknowledgment, no response. Just that piercing stare that made Peter feel like a recruit being assessed for weaknesses.
Peter's powerful hands spread before him, almost pleading. The calluses covering his palms told their own story—thousands upon thousands of hours gripping sword hilts, climbing training walls, doing drills until his fingers locked up. These were the hands of a man who'd earned every ounce of his strength.
"I know how much your blessing would mean to Luvelia. She talks about you constantly—about how strong you are, how wise, how much she wants to make you proud." The emotion in Peter's voice became raw, vulnerable in a way he never allowed himself to be in combat. "I'm not asking you to give away something precious without thought. I'm asking you to honor the promise you made to me. I've met every condition. I've proven myself the strongest warrior alive. Doesn't that show my devotion? Doesn't seven years of dedication, of sacrifice, of literally bleeding for this goal—doesn't that prove I love her?"
The massive oak desk between them felt like an ocean. Albatross sat there, a monument to paternal disapproval despite his armor and cloak, despite the warrior's bearing that made him look ready for battle even in his advanced years. Those wrinkles around his eyes deepened, but whether from anger or consideration, Peter couldn't tell.
"I'll protect her with my life. I'll cherish her every day. I'll work until my body breaks to give her the future she deserves." Peter's muscular chest heaved, the words pouring out like a dam had burst. "I know you're protective of her—any father would be. But I'm not some opportunist looking for status or connection to the guild. I love Luvelia. I've loved her since the moment I first saw her three years ago. That love is what carried me through every impossible challenge."
Near the window, John Goodman shifted his weight. The veteran's sharp features tightened, those grayish eyes flicking between Peter and Albatross with growing concern. His angular jaw set in a hard line, and another bead of sweat traced down his weathered cheek despite the cool air. The formal high collar of his dark clothing seemed suddenly restrictive as tension coiled through his lean, capable frame.
"Guild Master," John's gravelly voice cut through the silence, cautious but firm. "The boy—Peter—has fulfilled every requirement. The entire guild witnessed his victory. Every fighter who entered that tournament knew the stakes."
Albatross's weathered hands remained steepled beneath his chin, fingers interlocked like iron bars. His tan skin looked almost gray in the office light, shadows pooling in every wrinkle carved by time and battle. That pristine white cloak draped over his armored shoulders without a single crease, as immaculate and cold as his expression.
Peter's heart hammered against his ribs, each beat painful. His muscular thighs tensed like he was preparing to dodge an attack, instinct screaming that something was wrong. The sweat dampening his spiky blond hair felt suddenly clammy. His blue eyes, which had burned with confidence moments ago, now searched desperately for any sign of approval in the guild master's face.
Nothing. Not a word. Not a gesture. Just that terrible, crushing silence that felt heavier than any weapon.
"Guild Master Sanctos," Peter tried again, his deep voice cracking slightly. "Please. Say something."
Albatross's weathered lips finally parted, his gravelly voice cutting through the suffocating silence like a blade sliding free from its sheath.
"It was you all along, Peter."
Peter blinked, his muscular frame going rigid as confusion crashed over him like a wave. His blue eyes darted between Albatross and John, searching for context that refused to materialize. The words made no sense—they hung in the air without meaning, disconnected from everything he'd just said about Luvelia, about marriage, about seven years of dedication.
"I... what?" The question tumbled out awkwardly. His powerful shoulders hunched forward slightly, that champion's posture faltering for the first time since he'd walked through the door. "Guild Master, I don't understand—"
"John." Albatross's command sliced through Peter's confusion. The white-haired man's ancient eyes shifted to the veteran warrior near the window, hard as flint. "Close the door. Both of you, sit."
John's angular face tightened, those grayish eyes narrowing with suspicion. The veteran's lean frame tensed beneath his formal dark clothing, one hand drifting unconsciously toward where a sword would typically hang at his hip. Years of battlefield instinct had clearly triggered—Peter could see it in the way John's jaw clenched, in the hard set of his shoulders beneath that high collar and white cravat.
"Guild Master, what's this about?" John's gravelly voice carried an edge Peter had never heard directed at Albatross before.
"Close. The. Door." Each word dropped like a hammer strike. Albatross's weathered face remained impassive, but something deadly serious lurked behind those eyes—something that made even his white moustache seem to bristle with barely contained tension. The armor beneath his pristine cloak caught the light as his chest expanded with a deep breath.
Peter's heart kicked against his ribs. The sweat cooling on his skin went ice-cold as dread coiled in his gut like a serpent. This wasn't about Luvelia anymore. Every instinct honed through years of combat screamed that something far bigger was unfolding, something that made tournament victories seem like children's games.
John moved first, his practical boots crossing the office with measured steps. The door swung shut with a heavy thunk that seemed to seal them all inside a tomb. The veteran's weathered features betrayed nothing, but Peter caught the slight tremor in those capable hands—barely visible, but present. Fear, or perhaps anticipation of violence.
"Sit." Albatross gestured to the two chairs positioned before his massive oak desk.
Peter's powerful legs carried him forward on autopilot. His muscular thighs flexed as he lowered himself into the seat, every nerve ending firing with adrenaline that had nowhere to go. The chair creaked beneath his weight—all that sculpted muscle and bone compressed into sudden stillness. His broad hands gripped the armrests, knuckles still raw from the tournament, calluses pressing into polished wood.
John took the other chair, his angular frame perched at attention rather than relaxed. Those sharp, grayish eyes never left Albatross's face, watching with the intensity of a man expecting ambush.
The guild master's weathered hands unlaced from beneath his chin, spreading flat against the desk surface. Age spots dotted the tan skin stretched over prominent knuckles—hands that had crushed enemies and signed treaties with equal efficiency. His white cloak shifted as his armored shoulders rolled back, preparing for something that clearly weighed on him like iron chains.
"What I'm about to tell you both stays in this room." Albatross's voice dropped to something barely above a whisper, yet somehow more commanding than any shout. "Break that confidence, and I'll kill you myself. Tournament champion or not, Peter. Friend or not, John."
Peter's throat constricted. His blue eyes went wide, confusion mixing with genuine fear that made his champion's pride seem suddenly hollow. Beside him, John's sharp features tightened further, lips pressing into that thin line that emphasized the hard angles of his jaw.
"A powerful oracle had a vision." Albatross's ancient eyes burned with something Peter had never seen there before—not anger, not disapproval, but something closer to terror. "Seven months ago, before she died. A vision of calamity so complete, so absolute, that it makes every war we've fought seem like minor squabbles over territory."
The words hung in the air like poison gas. Peter's muscular chest forgot how to expand, breath catching somewhere between his lungs and throat. His powerful hands clenched the armrests hard enough that wood groaned.
"What kind of calamity?" John's gravelly voice cut through the tension, pragmatic even in the face of apocalypse.
"The end of everything." Albatross's weathered face looked suddenly older, every wrinkle deepening into crevasses carved by worry. "Cities burning. Nations crumbling. Entire races wiped from existence. The oracle saw death on a scale that would make the Demon Wars look like children playing with wooden swords."
Peter's mind reeled, trying to process words that felt too big to fit inside his skull. The tournament, his victory, even thoughts of Luvelia—all of it shrank to insignificance against the weight of what Albatross was describing. His muscular frame trembled despite his best efforts to remain still, adrenaline flooding his system with nowhere to go.
"When?" John leaned forward, those angular features hardening into something resembling battlefield readiness. "When does this happen?"
"Sometime in the coming years. The oracle couldn't pin down exact timing—visions don't work like calendars." Albatross's massive hands curled into fists against the desk surface. "But close enough that we've been preparing in secret. Only a handful of people know—myself, a few other guild masters, some of the high-ranking nobles from allied nations."
"Why keep it secret?" Peter's voice cracked slightly, but he pushed through the fear coating his tongue. "If something that catastrophic is coming, shouldn't everyone be preparing? Shouldn't we be mobilizing armies, fortifying cities—"
"And cause mass panic? Riots? Nations turning on each other trying to hoard resources?" Albatross's ancient eyes burned with intensity. "We tell the world about an undefined threat years away, and we'll tear ourselves apart before the calamity even arrives. No. Better to prepare quietly, strategically."
John's weathered features twisted with understanding and disgust in equal measure. "You used the tournament. You knew something specific about who could stop this."
"The oracle's final prophecy before she died." Albatross's voice dropped even lower, barely audible. "She saw a way to prevent total annihilation. A warrior—the winner of this year's Grand Fighting Tournament—would face this calamity. But not alone."
Peter's heart hammered so hard he thought his ribs might crack. His blue eyes locked onto Albatross's face, drinking in every word despite how much they terrified him.
"The oracle saw him leading an army. Not of soldiers, but of children." Albatross's tan skin had gone pale, those wrinkles seeming to shift in the dim light. "His own children. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of them. Each one from a different race—human, orc, elf, dwarf, ogre. Every nation, every species represented in his bloodline."
The words crashed into Peter like a battering ram to the chest. His powerful frame went rigid, muscles locking up as his brain tried and failed to process the implications. Children. His children. An army of them, all different races. That meant—
"An army bred specifically to unite every race under one bloodline." John's gravelly voice cut through Peter's spiraling thoughts, cold and analytical despite the madness of what he was saying. "You're talking about creating a living symbol that crosses all boundaries. Something that makes every race have a personal stake in survival because their blood runs through it."
"Exactly." Albatross leaned back in his chair, armor creaking. "The oracle saw it clearly—the tournament winner fathering children with females from every major race. Those children becoming warriors themselves, uniting the fractured nations through shared heritage."
Peter's throat worked soundlessly. His mind conjured images he couldn't control—himself with women from dozens of races, creating life after life until an entire generation carried his bloodline. The sheer impossibility of it clashed against the deadly seriousness in Albatross's weathered face.
Peter's muscular frame jerked forward in the chair, his broad hands gripping the armrests so hard the wood creaked beneath his raw knuckles.
"No." The word ripped from his throat, raw and desperate. "Absolutely not. I have no plans to father children with anyone except Luvelia. That's why I fought in that damned tournament—to marry her, to build a life with her. Just her."
His blue eyes blazed with something between panic and defiance, chest heaving beneath the tunic still damp with tournament sweat. Every sculpted muscle in his powerful body tensed like he was preparing to fight his way out of this conversation through sheer force of will.
Albatross flinched.
The reaction was subtle—just a slight tightening around those ancient eyes, a barely perceptible shift in his weathered shoulders beneath the pristine white cloak. But Peter caught it, and that tiny crack in the guild master's iron composure made his stomach drop like he'd been kicked in the gut.
"Peter." Albatross's gravelly voice came out softer than before, almost gentle. "If you don't do this, Luvelia will die."
The words hit harder than any blow Peter had taken in the arena. His vision tunneled, the edges going dark as blood roared in his ears. His powerful hands went numb, releasing their death grip on the armrests as shock flooded his system.
"What?" The question came out strangled, barely human. "What did you just—"
"The oracle's vision was clear on this point." Albatross's tan face looked suddenly haggard, every wrinkle deepening with something that resembled pain. "If the calamity comes and we're unprepared, everyone dies. Everyone. Luvelia included. The cities burn, the nations fall, and your future wife becomes ash along with everything else you've ever loved."
Peter's chest constricted, breath catching somewhere between his lungs and throat. His mind conjured images he couldn't stop—Luvelia's innocent smile consumed by fire, those trusting eyes going dark, her body crumbling to nothing while he stood powerless. The tournament victory, all that strength he'd built, all of it meaningless if he couldn't protect the one person who mattered most.
"Peter, breathe." Albatross's voice cut through the spiral of horror. The old man leaned forward, those weathered hands spreading in a gesture that might've been meant as comforting. "I know this is overwhelming. Believe me, when I first heard the oracle's prophecy, I wanted to dismiss it as madness. But I've seen too much in my years to ignore visions from someone that powerful."
The guild master's white moustache shifted as his jaw worked, armor creaking beneath his cloak as he drew a deep breath.
"You think I want this for you? You think I want my daughter's future husband bedding females from every race across the continent?" Something that might've been sympathy flickered across Albatross's weathered features. "This prophecy has haunted me for seven months."
Peter's throat worked soundlessly. His muscular frame trembled despite his best efforts to control it, adrenaline and fear warring inside his chest until he thought his heart might explode.
John's gravelly voice cut through the tension, sharp and pragmatic. "There has to be another way. Some alternative that doesn't require—"
"There isn't." Albatross's ancient eyes hardened. "The oracle was dying when she gave this prophecy. She used the last of her power to see the only path that prevents total annihilation. This is it. This is the only way."
Peter's blue eyes burned, moisture gathering at the corners despite his desperate attempt to maintain control. His powerful hands curled into fists against his thighs, those raw knuckles going white with pressure.
"I once made you a promise, but now I must make a new one." Albatross's weathered face shifted, some of that tactical brilliance Peter had seen in battle returning to his expression. "If you can impregnate females from every major race—enough to create an army that unites the nations—then the prophecy is fulfilled. When that's done, when the bloodline exists and the calamity can be faced, you can marry Luvelia."
The words hung in the air like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man. Peter's chest expanded with a desperate gasp, hope and horror mixing into something that tasted like bile on his tongue.
"You're serious? Once I've... once there are enough children, I can still marry her?"
"You have my word." Albatross's massive frame straightened, taking on that commanding presence that made men follow him into impossible battles. "Fulfill the prophecy, save the world, and Luvelia is yours. Forever."
Peter's mind raced, trying to reconcile the future he'd imagined—marriage to the woman he loved, a life of honor and devotion—with this nightmare alternative. He shifted in the chair, every instinct screaming that this was wrong, that bedding other women while claiming to love Luvelia made him the worst kind of hypocrite.
But the image of her burning, dying, crumbling to ash...
"I was so excited," Peter's voice cracked, emotion bleeding through despite his best efforts. "I've been planning how to propose properly for months. I wanted everything perfect for her."
"I know." Albatross's weathered features softened slightly, though his ancient eyes remained hard with necessity. "Which is why I'm suggesting you shouldn't be engaged to her while you're... fulfilling the prophecy."
Peter's heart clenched. "You want me to wait? To not ask her?"
"Would it be kinder to put a ring on her finger and then disappear to bed females across the continent?" Albatross's white moustache bristled. "Better she thinks you're still working toward that goal, still proving yourself worthy, than to break her heart by making promises you can't immediately keep."
The logic was sound, but it carved something out of Peter's chest that left him hollow. His blue eyes dropped to his hands—those calloused, powerful hands that had won the tournament, that had earned Luvelia's father's blessing. Hands that would now touch other women, create other lives, before they could hold the one person he actually loved.
"This is to keep her safe." Peter's voice came out flat, but underneath ran currents of desperate determination. "Everything I do is to keep Luvelia safe."
"Exactly." Albatross leaned back, some of the tension bleeding from his armored shoulders. "You're doing this because you love her. Because you'd rather sacrifice your own honor, your own desires, than see her die in the calamity."
Peter's muscular jaw clenched, throat working around words that refused to form. His broad chest rose and fell with carefully controlled breaths as he forced his mind to accept what couldn't be changed. The tournament had been about proving his strength. This—this was about proving his devotion in a way he'd never imagined.
"Once I impregnate enough females to create an army," Peter's voice hardened into something resembling his battlefield tone, "once the bloodline exists and the prophecy is fulfilled, I marry Luvelia. That's the deal."
"That's the deal." Albatross extended one weathered hand across the desk, palm up. "You have my word as guild master and as her father."
Peter's powerful hand clasped Albatross's, feeling calluses decades older than his own pressing against raw knuckles still healing from the tournament. The grip was firm, binding, sealing a promise that felt heavier than any armor.
"I'm proud of you, Peter." Albatross's ancient eyes held something that might've been genuine respect. "Not many men would make this sacrifice. Not many would put the woman they love above their own desires so completely."
The praise felt hollow against the weight of what Peter had just agreed to, but he nodded anyway. His throat was too tight for words.
"Both of you." Albatross's gaze shifted to include John, who sat rigid in the other chair. "Not a word of this leaves this room. Especially not to Luvelia."
"She can't know?" Peter's blue eyes went wide with fresh horror. "I have to lie to her?"
"Would you rather tell her the truth? That you're going to bed females from every race because a dead oracle said it's the only way to save the world?" Albatross's weathered features hardened. "There's no reason to break her heart with information that would only cause her pain. Better she remains innocent, pure, believing you're still working toward earning her hand properly."
Peter's muscular frame sagged despite his best efforts to maintain posture. The weight of deception added itself to the already crushing burden of what he'd agreed to. Lying to Luvelia, hiding this from her, bedding other women while she waited faithfully—every part of it felt like betrayal wrapped in necessity.
"Guild Master is right." John's gravelly voice cut through Peter's spiral. "Telling Luvelia accomplishes nothing except making her suffer. This way, she keeps her innocence. She doesn't have to carry this burden."
"Exactly." Albatross's white cloak shifted as he leaned forward. "When this is over, when the prophecy is fulfilled and you finally marry her, she never needs to know. The past stays buried, and you build the future you both deserve."
Peter's throat worked, swallowing around the lump of guilt and determination lodged there. His powerful hands trembled slightly before he forced them still.
"I won't tell her." The words came out hoarse but final. "I won't tell anyone. This stays between us."
"Good man." Albatross stood, his massive frame rising behind the desk. "You can leave now."
Peter's legs carried him upright on autopilot, every movement feeling disconnected from conscious thought. The tournament victory that had filled him with such pride an hour ago now seemed like a cruel joke—he'd won Luvelia's hand only to have it snatched away and replaced with an impossible quest.
The heavy door closed behind Peter with a resonant thud that seemed to seal away the young champion's future. Albatross remained standing behind his desk, weathered hands pressed flat against the oak surface as he watched the wood grain with sudden intense focus. His white cloak hung perfectly still across his armored shoulders—immaculate, controlled, betraying nothing of the thoughts churning beneath that disciplined exterior.
John shifted in his chair, the leather creaking beneath his lean frame. Those sharp grayish eyes fixed on Albatross with an expression the guild master recognized from decades of friendship—concern mixed with respect, the look of a man who'd just witnessed something that challenged everything he thought he knew.
"Albatross." John's gravelly voice cut through the silence, softer than usual. "I need to apologize."
The guild master's ancient eyes lifted from the desk, weathered features arranging themselves into a mask of polite curiosity. His white moustache shifted as his jaw worked beneath tan skin gone leathery with age.
"For what, old friend?"
"The past seven months. I thought..." John's angular face tightened, those prominent cheekbones casting shadows in the office light. "I thought you were just being an overprotective father. That your bad moods, your constant tension—it was all because you didn't want to let Luvelia marry Peter."
The veteran's lean shoulders hunched forward slightly beneath that formal dark clothing and high collar. A bead of sweat traced down his weathered cheek despite the cool air, testament to the emotional weight of what he'd just learned.
"I even made jokes about it with some of the other senior members. Called you stubborn, said you needed to accept that Luvelia was growing up." John's grayish eyes dropped to his hands, which were clasped together in his lap. "I had no idea you were carrying something like this. An oracle's prophecy, the end of the world, having to orchestrate something so... complicated just to save everyone."
Albatross moved around the desk with measured steps, his massive frame still powerful despite the wrinkles creasing his face. The armor beneath his pristine white cloak caught the light as he lowered himself into the chair Peter had vacated moments ago. He let out a long breath that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest.
"You couldn't have known." The words came out gentle, touched with the weariness of a man who'd been carrying impossible weight. "I kept it from everyone except those who absolutely needed to know. Even you—and we've fought together for thirty years."
"Still." John's angular jaw clenched, that unsmiling mouth pressing into an even harder line. "I should've realized something bigger was happening. Should've trusted that you had reasons beyond simple stubbornness."
"Your apology is accepted, John. Gracefully." Albatross's weathered hand reached out, clasping John's shoulder with the familiarity of decades-old brotherhood. "You've been a loyal friend through everything else. That doesn't change now."
John nodded, some of the tension bleeding from his lean frame. Those sharp features softened slightly as relief crossed his weathered face. "Thank you. I just... I can't imagine dealing with this alone for seven months. The stress of knowing what's coming, having to manipulate events to fulfill some dead oracle's vision while keeping it secret from everyone you care about."
Inside his skull, behind the mask of exhausted gratitude, Albatross Sanctos allowed himself one small moment of vicious satisfaction.
It's all a lie.
The thought bloomed like poison flowers in the privacy of his mind. His ancient eyes remained fixed on John's concerned face, weathered features arranged in perfect imitation of a man grateful for understanding. But beneath that carefully maintained exterior, triumph sang through his veins with the sweetness of perfectly executed strategy.
There is no calamity. There never was an oracle.
Every word he'd spoken to Peter—the apocalyptic vision, the prophecy requiring children from every race, the terrible necessity of sacrificing personal honor to save the world—all of it meticulously crafted lies. Fiction woven with just enough plausibility that two good men had swallowed it whole without question.
Albatross's massive frame settled deeper into the chair, armor creaking softly. His white cloak draped across his shoulders without a single crease, as immaculate as the deception he'd just perpetrated. Those weathered hands remained perfectly still despite the satisfaction coiling in his chest like a serpent preparing to strike.
Peter will go off bedding different women. Getting them pregnant. Creating bastards across every race.
The mental image brought savage pleasure. Peter Grill—the tournament champion, the "strongest warrior in the land"—reduced to nothing more than a breeding stud chasing a fictional prophecy. All that strength, all that dedication to Luvelia, twisted into something that would destroy him more thoroughly than any blade.
Once he's done it enough times, once there are enough pregnant women or bastard children to show as evidence...
Albatross's weathered face remained neutral, but inside his mind the plan unfolded with crystalline clarity. Documents would surface. Witnesses would come forward. Perhaps even one or two of the women themselves, showing off bellies swollen with Peter's seed. All carefully orchestrated to reach Luvelia at exactly the right moment for maximum devastation.
I'll show my daughter what her "champion" has been doing.
The pure genius of it made something dark and possessive unfurl in Albatross's chest. Luvelia—his innocent, sheltered daughter who still believed babies came from storks and cabbage patches—confronted with undeniable proof that the man she loved had been rutting with females from every race imaginable. Orcs, elves, dwarves, ogres. Evidence so overwhelming she couldn't deny it, couldn't rationalize it away.
She'll be heartbroken. Devastated.
And when she was at her lowest, when the betrayal had shattered that innocent trust into pieces too small to repair, Albatross would be there. Her father. The one constant who'd never lied, never betrayed, never failed her. He'd gather her into his arms the way he had when she was small, let her sob against his armor while he whispered reassurances.
"I tried to warn you, my sweet girl. I tried to protect you from men like him."
The words he'd speak were already composed in his mind, each one designed to drive the wedge deeper between Luvelia and any romantic notions. He'd comfort her through the pain, validate her suffering, and slowly—so carefully—plant the seeds that would ensure she never trusted another man again.
She'll hate Peter. She'll hate all men.
The ultimate victory wasn't just preventing the marriage. It was ensuring Luvelia remained his forever. Pure, innocent, sheltered beneath his protection where no unworthy male could touch her. She'd never want to date anyone after this—the betrayal too complete, the wound too deep. She'd stay with him, her father, the only man who'd never broken her heart.
Foolproof.
Albatross's white moustache shifted slightly as his lips threatened to curve into a smile. He forced the expression down, maintaining that mask of weary gratitude while John sat across from him radiating sympathy.
The whole plan was perfect. Elegant in its cruelty, devastating in its simplicity. Peter would destroy himself trying to save a world that wasn't actually in danger. And when the truth emerged—not the real truth, but the version Albatross would craft—Luvelia would be crushed so thoroughly she'd never recover.
And Alcatraz said my plans were nonsense.