With an impatient shove, Ironclad pushed the main doors of the fortress open. Its well-oiled hinges didn't squeak at all, but all the same it groaned beneath the weight of the wood. Any normal human would have been unable to open it, but thought Ironclad wasn't renowned for his strength, such an obstacle was a piece of cake for him. Inside, his heavy metal frame clicked on the marble floor of the great hall. Though the wall sconces, blazing with white light, were ornate, and the draped banners eye-catching, the alter ego ignored them and strode straight through to a staircase. The ascent was tedious -it would be for any individual who weighed in at half a ton and had feet larger than the stairs on digitigrade legs- but before long Ironclad was on the battlements. Up here the wind sang through the carved stone, but it was a different beauty that the steel warrior had in mind.

One of his allies stood be the parapets, loosely holding an intricate bow. Her name was Quicksilver Seraph, though Ironclad called her Sera. She wore a festive dress, layered with regal garments, giving her the semblance of a queen. Beneath the majestic exterior was a gorgeous face, green-eyed, crowned by long purple hair tied in a huge braid. Though far from overweight, there was an enticing fullness and vitality to her figure. Most impactful, however, was her personality; Ironclad knew from experience that while she was generally compassionate and stately, she could also be playful with those she knew well and deadly with her enemies, as evidenced by how she dispatched the negative from afar. Of every alter ego he had ever encountered, this woman was the only one who truly held his respect, but there was something else as well. As Ironclad approached, she span around with a smile on her face. “My friend,” she sang, “I trust you are unhurt?”
“No negative can hurt me.”
Sera rolled her sparkling eyes. “There's the Ironclad I know. Tough, brash, untouchable...” She was closer now than she was a moment ago. Her hand was on Ironclad's shoulder, and the metal was not so cold. “Or are you? Good to see you again.” He waited a moment before lifting her hand off with uncharacteristic gentleness. “Likewise. Won't be long before Midwinter's Envoy arrives as well. Any news?” She shook her head. “Not really. I heard that Black Storm Barrage attempted to free poor String Master from the black lotus again. No effect.”
“Her persistence only belies her desperation,” remarked Ironclad callously. “And incompetence. If Black was a real protector she'd be able to help her friend. Not that String Master deserves it—her weakness and instability enabled this mess.”
“How could you, Ironclad?” Sera admonished him, “Those two are friends. You can't simply abandon people because they're weaker than you. The strong protect the weak, help them and fight for them when necessary. You and Envoy and I should be right alongside Black to help break String Master free.”
“The strong survive while the weak perish,” came the cold, impersonal retort. “Nothing is more natural than that.”
In response, Quicksilver Seraph's eyes began to burn with teal flame and she angrily crossed her arms beneath her chest. Before she could respond, whether with words or blue-green fire, there came an distant roar. Approximately a mile away and several hundred feet in the air, a huge, winged negative flew over the autumn forest. For a moment, both Ironclad and Sera were stunned by the size of the thing. In the silence that followed, the metal warrior was first to speak. “Engage?”
“No.” Her rage fading fast, Seraph bent forward, hands on the battlements, to get a better look at the monster. “Not yet, at least. Only one person could have attracted a negative that large on so glorious a day. Midwinter's Envoy is bringing company.”

-=-=-

The door to the King family apartment opened abruptly, and in walked a bedraggled man in cheap formal clothes. His hair, including his goatee, was just beginning to gray, and his fatigue was apparent on his face. “Anyone home?” Called Gregory King, Sr.