Authority of the Sword, Part 1

Roman Haywood graduated from college and entered the workforce when he was twenty-two years old. At twenty-three, he was fired for working too efficiently and being stubbornly principled—or, as Human Resources put it, being "unaligned with core values" and "not progressing as hoped in professional development." He began searching for a new job immediately, but it didn't matter. His faith in society had been violated.

Several months later, Roman was languishing. He rarely left his small apartment, his bank account was quickly becoming empty, and he had lost all motivation to find employment. He knew there were things he could do to improve his situation, but they all seemed pointless. The world operated under rules different from those he had been taught, and he had too much pride to ingratiate himself with this new order. Was life really just about keeping your head down and avoiding painful things until you died? If that was happiness, he didn't want it.

Eventually, with his financial and mental state on the brink of ruin, he received a letter from the Human Elevation Association. Both the timing and the contents were obviously suspicious. Roman imagined his mother would say something like, "They'll kill you and harvest your organs!" But at the time, such a fate didn't sound all that bad to him, so long as it happened in that order.

Twenty-four hours later, he was blindfolded and in the back of a black SUV. The invitation's promise of a substantial monetary reward had caught his attention, of course, but the mention of an unusual and difficult challenge was what finally convinced him. If he wasn't suited for a "normal life," then perhaps he could find some purpose at the fringes of society. Or he was just going to get himself killed; he wasn't sure which was more likely. Strange men in black drove him from the meeting place—where he had left his personal effects—to another location where he was led into a small room and asked to read and sign a stack of paperwork.

Afterward, he was ushered down a narrow flight of stairs to a room that looked considerably older than the rest of the building. The floor, walls, and ceiling consisted of stone bricks, and the room itself was triangular, converging to a point on the opposite side. It was warm. In the middle of the room, an inverted triangle was drawn on the floor with what might have been chalk. Three objects rested at each of this triangle's points. Nearest to Roman was a small wooden desk. To the left of that was a metal brazier containing a dancing flame. To the right was a balance scale, one of the old kinds with two suspended pans, large enough to reach from the floor to Roman's waist.

He approached the table, upon which was a rolled-up paper, an envelope, a quill placed in an inkwell, and a small dagger. The paper was made of some rough parchment that naturally curled in on itself. Roman unrolled it and discovered the purpose of the room: "Describe your wager using the provided ink and quill. It may take the form of any object possessed by the mind, such as a memory or an emotion. In the event of your loss, your wager will be taken from you as collateral. Should you win, you will be rewarded in proportion to the value you place on the object or objects wagered. To complete the process, prick a finger with the provided knife, stamp this paper with your fingerprint, seal it inside the provided envelope, and drop it into the brazier."

Roman had to read this three times over. He glanced back at the man wearing a suit and shades who was waiting by the stairs with a stony expression. Maybe it was desperation, or maybe it was curiosity, but Roman felt he had to keep going. He followed the instructions, and as the fire devoured the envelope, he felt the temperature in the room drop. A voice in the back of his head was reminding him of something Gunther said once: "The devil is not some distant force. He is here, and he prowls this world like a lion."

The man in the suit approached and held up a small screen displaying a number preceded by a dollar sign, and Roman's eyes widened.

He was blindfolded again and driven to a third location. Roman guessed that in total, about an hour had passed. This was the final stop. When his blindfold was removed, there was a door in front of him, and he was flanked by three other participants, all blinking as their eyes adjusted. The door opened.

In stark contrast to the gray hallway that came before it, the room was garishly colorful. The floor was covered in artificial grass that crackled beneath one's feet, and the walls were painted sky blue with puffs of white clouds reaching up to the ceiling. The only object in the room was a pyramid-shaped pedestal, from which protruded the hilt of a sword.

The four participants took all of this in and exchanged quiet glances as the door shut behind them. Other than Roman, there was a young man with a brown bush of hair and round, bug-eyed glasses, a stocky man with a five o'clock shadow and long sandy hair, and a woman with sun-kissed skin and bleached dreadlocks. They meandered about the room, but eventually they all ended up standing before the pedestal. On the side facing the entrance was a small digital display with a timer counting down from sixty minutes. On the opposite side was engraved four lines of verse.

Bound in stone, the blade must wait
For one of you to answer fate.
Who draws it free shall make the rule,
And who remains is made a fool.

Roman reached for the hilt, but the man with glasses held up a scrawny arm to stop him. "We should take a vote," he said.

"Last I checked, King Arthur didn't get elected by a vote," Roman said with a shrug.

"Thankfully, in the real world, we decide on important things with a democratic process."

The woman, who looked like she wanted to speak from the moment they entered the room, suddenly said, "I agree, we should vote. All humans are equally worthy of love in the eyes of the universe."

"I'm Gilbert." The bespectacled man nodded. "I have a wide breadth of knowledge that should be useful to us. Let's take this slow and make rational decisions."

"My name is Astrid," the woman with dreadlocks cooed. "I am blessed that our paths have crossed today."

"I'm Roman."

They turned to the short, muscular man whose dark eyes were fixed on the sword. An awkward silence settled. Eventually, the man's lips curled into a grin. He reached for the hilt.

"You can call me King Wyatt."

Gilbert moved to stop him, but Wyatt was faster. His hand shot out and grasped the hilt and his arm flexed—the sword didn't budge. Wyatt adjusted his stance and tried again using two hands, but the blade remained steadfast.

"As I said," Gilbert said with barely concealed annoyance, "let's vote on it."

"I would like to vote against Wyatt. Those who do not give love freely cannot expect to be loved in return," Astrid declared.

Wyatt was still pulling at the hilt. "Vote all you want. None of you is touching this sword."

Roman opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a loud metallic clang, followed by Wyatt staggering backwards. In his hand was a broken blade. The sword had snapped in two.