Counting Crows.

Fenrir moved through the halls of the castle with measured strides, his pace calm yet thoughtful. The palace of Outworld never truly slept; even now, long after the fires of sunset had faded beyond the jagged horizons of the realm, life still pulsed through its blackened arteries. Guards marched in disciplined rotations. Servants carried scrolls, wine, steel and secrets alike. Somewhere in the distant lower districts of the fortress, drums echoed faintly through stone corridors like the heartbeat of a slumbering beast.

And yet, despite the movement around him, Fenrir's thoughts remained elsewhere.

Z’Unkahrah. The Ixmucane. Kotal’s words.

The weight of destiny.

By the time he reached the towering obsidian doors leading to Barong’s chambers, his mind had become a storm carefully hidden behind composed eyes.
The doors suddenly opened before he could announce himself. Two familiar figures stepped out.

Carkas halted first. Ermac stopped beside him like a silent spectre emerging from the shadow itself.

“Fenrir,” Carkas said instinctively before quickly correcting himself. He lowered his head respectfully. “Emperor.”

Ermac bowed as well, though, unlike Carkas, there was no haste in the gesture. No nervousness. Only smooth, practised serenity. The crimson-clad amalgamation straightened slowly, his glowing eyes lingering on Fenrir with eerie stillness.

“Emperor,” Carkas continued, “it pleases me greatly to see your safe return. I had intended to welcome you sooner, but I only recently returned from Sun Do myself. I did not wish to intrude upon your meeting with Queen Kitana.”

Fenrir gave a small grin, nodding first toward Ermac.

“At ease, General. I was heading here regardless.” His eyes shifted between the two men. “Though I admit, fortune must favour me tonight. Seeing both of you alive and in one piece is becoming increasingly valuable these days.”

A faint chuckle escaped Carkas. “The pleasure is ours, my liege.” He straightened proudly. “Queen Jade and I have ensured the palace remains orderly during your absence. Secure as requested...” He hesitated awkwardly. “Though Her Majesty did make certain… renovations.”

“He means your chambers,” Ermac stated flatly.

Fenrir laughed softly under his breath. “I see.” Immediately, Jade came to mind. Her warmth. Her scent. The playful confidence in her eyes whenever she invaded his personal space, as though it already belonged to her.

“She did mention wanting to make the room less… Shao Kahn’s.” Fenrir smirked faintly. “I assume the gossip spread quickly.”

“Not in the slightest!” Carkas answered almost defensively. “Only Barong and I are aware of it. Ermac as well.” He paused. “And perhaps Skarlet... though she is technically your personal guard.”

“It spread,” Ermac corrected bluntly.

Carkas grimaced. Fenrir merely sighed in amusement.

Of course, it had.

This was a palace filled with assassins, spies, nobles and servants. Privacy in Outworld was little more than a comforting illusion.

“Figures.” Fenrir shook his head lightly. “Still, it’s good to know everything remains standing.” He looked directly at Carkas. “You have my thanks, General.”

The sincerity in the emperor’s voice visibly caught the large warrior off guard. “My liege...” Carkas lowered his head again, this time more genuinely. “The honour is mine.”

“Emperor.” Ermac’s voice cut cleanly through the moment. Fenrir looked toward him. “Barong requests your presence. He is aware of your arrival.”

Fenrir raised a brow, mildly amused. “He’s requesting my presence?”

“With urgency,” Ermac clarified. “There are matters yet unresolved. We merely stand here consuming fleeting time.”

Carkas looked mortified. “Ermac—”

“What?” the soul construct asked plainly.

“You cannot speak to the emperor like that,” Carkas whispered to his companion.

“We just did.” Fenrir snorted quietly at that. Ermac was respectful in title, yet utterly incapable of fear, social caution, or courtly subtlety. Thousands of souls existed within him, yet tact was apparently absent from all of them.

“Relax, Carkas.” Fenrir waved it off. “I’ve heard worse.”

“We agree,” Ermac added.

Carkas pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“Then I shall avoid making Barong wait any longer,” Fenrir said as he stepped between them toward the chamber doors. “Return to your duties, both of you.”
“Emperor!” Carkas’s voice stopped him before he entered. Fenrir turned slightly. The general suddenly seemed far less certain than before.

“There is... one more matter.” Something in his tone immediately changed the atmosphere. Even Ermac’s gaze shifted toward him.

Fenrir studied him carefully. “Yes?”

Carkas inhaled slowly. “It concerns Reiko.” The name alone sharpened the air.

Fenrir's expression did not change outwardly, but inwardly, something tightened. Ermac’s eyes narrowed faintly beneath his wrappings.
“Go on,” Fenrir said calmly.

Carkas exchanged a glance with Ermac before continuing carefully. “I know the two of you have a history now.” His tone became measured. “First the tournament. Then Sun Do.” His jaw flexed subtly. “And I do not believe it will be the last you hear of him.”

“That would be an understatement,” Fenrir replied dryly.

“Speak plainly, General,” Ermac interrupted. “Your hesitation wastes time.”

Carkas shot him a deadly stare. “You possess the patience of a starving Tarkatan.”

“And you possess the pacing of a dying monk,” Ermac said, deadpanned. Carkas gritted his teeth at the conjunction of souls' retort.

Fenrir almost smiled despite himself. He couldn’t help but be reminded of his Shaolin companions.

Finally, Carkas looked back toward the emperor. “My lord...” His voice lowered. “When the time comes... what do you intend to do with Reiko?”

Fenrir blinked once. Truthfully? He had not fully considered it. In his mind, Reiko existed as an inevitable battlefield confrontation. “As in?” Fenrir asked carefully.
Carkas exhaled through his nose. “I ask that you consider sparing him.”

Silence. Absolute silence imbued the hallway. Even the torches lining the path seemed to crackle more quietly afterwards.

Ermac turned slowly toward the general. “That is foolishness.”

“No,” Carkas shot back immediately. “It is reasonable. Reiko abandoned the empire, I understand that, believe me, yet he believes he is saving it. He burns villages in Shao Kahn’s name because there are still people who follow that vision of Outworld.” He raised one finger to Ermac, “And killing him will not undo that!”

The tension between them rose instantly. Fenrir stayed silent, watching and listening carefully. Thinking with care about his next step.

Carkas stepped forward now, speaking more openly.

“I know what Reiko has done. I know the blood on his hands.” His voice hardened with frustration. “But the people do not merely see him as a traitor. Many still see him as a hero. A champion of Outworld. Outworld’s greatest general.”

“He is a relic,” Ermac hissed coldly. “A blade too rusted to understand peace.”

“He is a symbol.” Carkas corrected sharply. That made Fenrir pay closer attention. Carkas continued.

“The loyalists follow Shao Kahn’s memory, yes. But many follow Reiko himself. His victories. His strength. His reputation.” He looked directly at Fenrir now. “Execute him publicly, and you risk turning him into a martyr.”

Ermac folded his arms. “He already made his choice.”

“And perhaps he can still make another.” Carkas retorted.

“Sun Do was his second chance.” Ermac countered.

“And perhaps pride blinded him.” Carkas defended. “Don’t be so fast in judging Ermac. “

“Pride?” Ermac’s voice deepened ominously. “Tell that to the dead. The lives he and the loyalist have taken in the raid.”

Fenrir's eyes shifted immediately toward him. “The raids?” he asked quietly.

Carkas’s expression darkened. He cursed mentally. He had hoped to avoid telling him tonight.

“…Yesterday afternoon,” the general admitted. “A northern settlement near Sun Do. Dangnan.” His jaw tightened. “The loyalists demanded supplies and allegiance. The town refused.”

Fenrir already knew the ending. “It was burned.”

Carkas lowered his gaze. “Yes.”

A slow anger curled inside Fenrir's chest. It was cold and controlled. A stare of dread only the former emperor could conjure. For a moment, Carkas felt fear rather than respect. For an earthrealmer, he was capable of scaring even the ones made of stone. His companion next to him was proof of that; the souls didn’t know how to react. Silence was the only response they could create.

“How many?” he asked.

“Almost 300 dead…Mostly civilians.” Carkas said weakly. “The few that remained begged for mercy and joined their cause out of fear. Two escaped to tell the tale.”

Fenrir clenched his fist silently. There it was again, the poison of Shao Kahn’s legacy. Malice and cruelty disguised as strength. Reiko spoke endlessly of honour and Outworld tradition, yet every action dragged the realm further into brutality. Further into the very cycle Kitana had bled to escape. And worst of all? Part of Reiko probably believed he was right.

That was what disturbed Fenrir the most.

“I intended to inform you sooner,” Carkas said quietly. “But you had only just returned, and—”

“At ease.” Fenrir stopped him gently. “You made the correct call.”

Still, his anger remained. Reiko was becoming more than a rival, more than a political enemy.

He was becoming inevitable.

A looming shadow that refused to die. Fenrir could already picture it: Reiko training, preparing and obsessing over their next confrontation. The general’s pride would never allow defeat to stand unchallenged.

And somewhere deep down, Fenrir knew the truth. The next time they met, one of them might not walk away.

“After hearing all of this...” Fenrir looked toward Carkas again, his gaze sharper now. “You still ask me to spare him?”

“…Yes.” No hesitation this time. Carkas stepped forward fully. “My emperor... I once admired Reiko.” His voice carried genuine disappointment now. “Many of us did.” He shook his head bitterly. “He inspired soldiers. United armies. Protected Outworld during its worst years.” His eyes hardened. “Watching him become this... disgusts me.”

Ermac remained silent now, listening.

“But killing him without thought will solve nothing,” Carkas continued. “It will only immortalise him in the minds of those already **** for war.” His tone softened. “I am not asking you to forgive him. Only… to think beyond vengeance.”

Inside Ermac, the souls stirred violently.

“FOOLISH GENERAL, TO TRUST THE BLADE THAT CUTS DEEP AND FROM BEHIND. FOOLISH I SAY!” a crude voice screamed.

“Perhaps…yet we must think of the consequences of our actions. Let justice fall upon him rather than ire.” A calm soul, regal, ancient and benevolent.

“AND MERCY WITHOUT CONSEQUENCE BECOMES WEAKNESS.”

“HE’S A MURDERER. A TRAITOR.” An irate voice screamed.

“We are many, but this choice is one the emperor must take. Not us. We have spoken.” A mediator conjunction of souls stated.

Silence settled once more.

Fenrir took a slow breath. Then another deeper and more resolute one. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm. Measured. “It is not **** that defines a man’s legacy, Carkas.” He turned slightly toward the chamber doors. “It is the life he chooses to live.”

His gaze hardened faintly. “Reiko understands that. And so do I.”

Then he pushed open the doors to Barong’s chambers. Darkness swallowed him whole.

Carkas stared after him, speechless. “He’s…” the general muttered weakly.

“Unique,” Ermac finished quietly.

This time, there was the faintest trace of amusement beneath the bandages as the soul construct turned and disappeared down the corridor.

Fenrir entered the chamber with measured poise, the door closing softly behind him.

Barong’s office was less a room than a controlled darkness, shaped by candlelight and silence. Shelves of old tomes climbed the walls like stacked gravestones. Scrolls rested in narrow drawers, some sealed with wax, others tied with dark thread. A few crows perched in the high corners or along carved ledges, their stillness so complete they seemed less like birds than patient witnesses waiting to decide whether the living were worth their attention.

At the centre of it all stood Barong.

Tall and solemn, his long pale hair falling loose over the black of his coat, he looked like a man carved out of winter and shadow. A candle burned beside him. Then another and then another.

“One for sorrow,” Barong said quietly as he lit the first flame.

Fenrir stopped just inside the threshold, one brow rising.

The crow nearest the desk turned its head toward him. Its feathers were dark as obsidian, but its eyes were an unnatural violet, almost luminous in the dimness.
Fenrir had seen crows before, of course. Earthrealm had plenty of them. But these were different. Too observant…Too still. He had already learned enough to understand they were not merely animals in Barong’s service. They were extensions of him.

“Two for mirth,” Barong continued, lighting the next candle with a slow flick of his wrist.

Fenrir's gaze remained fixed on him. The cadence was familiar, though he could not place it at first. A nursery rhyme, perhaps. Old enough to feel half-forgotten, yet precise enough to be deliberate.

Barong moved from candle to candle, each flame appearing with ritual care rather than necessity. Two became four. Four became seven. Seven became ten. The room gradually gained shape as more of Barong’s face, hands, and posture emerged from the dark between the lights.

Fenrir listened without interrupting. He had the distinct feeling he was not simply being greeted. He was being examined.

By the time the thirteenth candle was lit, Fenrir knew which rhyme the crow was speaking. Barong turned then, the final flame reflecting in his eyes.

“And thirteen,” he finished. “Beware the devil.”

Fenrir let the silence linger a beat, then gave a faint, knowing smirk.

“Counting crows, Barong?”

The older man’s mouth curved slightly. Wry. Elegant. A smile with more wit than warmth.

“A rather vulgar reduction of a civilised habit, Emperor,” Barong replied. “But yes. Counting crows.”

Fenrir stepped farther into the room, the floor giving no more sound beneath his boots than a whisper. “I thought Outworld was done with old superstitions.”

“Outworld,” Barong said as he moved toward his desk, “is done with many things it ought to have kept.”

That earned the smallest of grins from Fenrir. There was something almost dry in Barong’s tone, something amused by the failures of kingdoms and people alike.

Fenrir had to admit he liked that.

Barong bowed his head slightly, just enough to remain respectful without surrendering his authority. “I am glad to see you returned safely from the lands of General Kotal.” His voice lowered a fraction. “I trust your business was successful.”

Fenrir folded his arms loosely and tilted his head. “Are you asking me that, or are you asking me to confirm the validity of your sources?”

Barong’s eyes sharpened with quiet approval. “Very good,” he said. “You learn quickly.”

“Usually when I’m being manipulated,” Fenrir answered.

“A useful skill.” Barong crossed to the desk and lowered himself into his chair with graceful deliberation. “I prefer honesty, if only because it tends to frustrate liars.”
Fenrir huffed a soft laugh. The crow on the ledge behind Barong gave a low, rasping sound, almost like judgment given form. Fenrir glanced at it again. The room felt alive in a strange, unsettling way. As if everything inside it had been arranged to witness and remember.

Barong noticed his attention flick to the bird. “They do that,” the spymaster said mildly.

“Do what?”

“Stare until people become uncomfortable.” He folded his hands atop the desk. “It saves time.”

Fenrir snorted under his breath. “That’s one way to run an intelligence network.”

Barong’s smile deepened by a degree. “It is the only sensible way.” Then, without warning, his tone shifted. Still calm. Still measured. But more direct now. “I can tell the Osh-Tekk has taken you through the Ixmucane.”

Fenrir's expression stayed neutral, but his eyes narrowed slightly. “That obvious?”

“To anyone with eyes and a rudimentary understanding of posture, yes.” Barong leaned back in his chair, gaze steady. “Your steps are heavier than before.” A slight pause. “You are carrying something.”

Fenrir said nothing immediately. Barong waited. That, too, seemed intentional. The silence stretched just long enough to be felt.

At length, the spymaster gestured to the chair opposite his desk. “Sit with me.”

Fenrir did, though the motion carried the air of a choice rather than an order.

Barong reached for a dark tome beside him and opened it slowly. The pages were blank at first glance, clean and empty, but Fenrir had learned enough about secretive men to know that blankness was often a disguise for controlled revelation.

Barong dipped his quill into ink. “I would like to offer you something,” he said.

Fenrir rested one hand along the arm of the chair. “That sounds suspicious.”

“That is because you have not learned to appreciate sincere offers from dangerous men.”

Fenrir's mouth twitched. “I’ll work on that.”

Barong wrote across the first page with careful, deliberate strokes.

Fenrir. Third Kahn of Outworld.

The title looked wrong and right at once. Barong’s quill paused. “I would like, from time to time, for you to speak with me.”

Fenrir looked up. “About what?”

Barong set the quill down and regarded him over clasped hands. “Yourself.”

Fenrir gave him a flat look. “That’s your whole pitch?”

“It is the finest one available.” He sounded entirely serious; that almost made it worse. Barong tilted his head slightly. “What makes you act as you do, Emperor? That is the question.”

Fenrir's reply came after only a brief pause. “I’m an Earthrealmer who got chosen by fate.”

Barong’s eyes did not leave his face. “That is the kind of answer men give when they have repeated it enough to convince themselves it is sufficient.”

Fenrir's expression cooled a fraction. Barong seemed to notice and continued in the same measured tone, though softer now.

“It is not the who that interests me. It is the how and the why.” His fingers folded together beneath his chin. “Outworld is a puzzle, Fenrir. A brutal one, yes, but a puzzle all the same. I can place pieces. Remove them. Rearrange them. I can decide who stands where and why.”

He let that hang for a moment.

“Mileena. Kitana. Jade Shang Tsung. Reiko. Kotal.” His gaze sharpened faintly. “I know where they belong in the shape of this realm.”

Fenrir watched him carefully. Barong’s voice lowered another degree.

“But you...” He gave a small, thoughtful smile. “You remain difficult.”

The room seemed to dim around the word. “You are not from Outworld. Nor Edenia. And if I am to speak plainly, you do not appear to belong to Earthrealm in the way most people belong to anything.” His expression remained perfectly composed. “Who placed you here? Why? How did you become the one who unseated Shao Kahn?”

Fenrir's jaw tightened very slightly. Barong didn’t miss it.

“I suspect,” the spymaster continued, “that something larger than either of us is at work.”

“It sounds conspiratorial,” Fenrir said dryly.

Barong’s smile turned faintly amused. “And yet here you are.”

That shut Fenrir up for a beat. Barong leaned back a fraction in his chair.

“Your very presence is disruptive.” He spoke softly, but the word carried. “You are, in several ways, an anomaly.”

Something in Fenrir's chest went still. Kronika’s voice surfaced in memory, cold and exact. “Irregular.” Those were her words that day in the arena. He did not show it, not outwardly. But Barong was watching him closely enough to sense the change. Fenrir let the moment pass before answering.

“Alright,” he said at last. “I’ll hear you out.”

Barong looked pleased, though not triumphantly so. More like a scholar seeing a theory take shape. “Excellent.” He drew the quill back to the page and wrote again. “Tell me. Family?”

Fenrir glanced at the page, then back at him. “None. I’m the only one left.” The answer came without flourish. No self-pity. Just a fact.

Barong wrote a few more lines, the scratch of the quill loud in the stillness.

Fenrir watched him for a moment before leaning back slightly. “You’ve probably already done a background check on me, haven’t you?”

Barong’s expression did not change. “Of course.” His voice held no shame in it, only practicality.

Fenrir gave a quiet laugh. “Right. Fair enough.”

Barong’s quill paused. “Have you kept in contact with the Thunder God these recent months?”

Fenrir arched a brow. “Secret meetings are more your speciality than mine, crow-master. Have I?”

Barong gave him a look that might have been amusement if it had been on anyone less restrained. “You have not,” he said. “But that was not my question.”

He wrote another line. Fenrir's gaze dropped to the tome, curious now despite himself. It felt less like a notebook than a judgment rendered in ink.

Barong’s tone remained gentle, but there was steel in it. “I ask how you intend to deal with a man who has long been considered an enemy of the realm.”

Fenrir's mouth settled into a more serious line. “Then that’s a political question.”

Barong’s head inclined once. “Nay, personal.” He rested the quill briefly against the desk. “The line between the two is thinner for you than it is for most men. You saw as much in Z’Unkahrah.” A faint pause. “Nobles will speak. Houses will whisper. Courtiers will measure your alliances and call it sport. They call it the game.”

Fenrir blinked once. “The game?”

Barong’s smile was faint and dry. “A cruel expression for a cruel thing.”

Fenrir gave a small, incredulous shake of the head. “So, this is what the court does? Schemes and posturing? I thought I was ruling a palace, not acting in some performance for bored aristocrats.”

“Careful,” Barong said mildly. “Shao Kahn was too powerful to care about such subtleties. That is not the same as the subtleties not existing.”

Fenrir's brows drew together.

Barong folded his hands together over the tome. “The game is a system of pressure. Of status, rumour and influence. Alliances are watched. Invitations are weighed.
Failures are remembered. Houses monitor who speaks to whom, who dines with whom, who smiles at whom, and what all of it implies.”

He let that settle before continuing. “It is a war fought without banners. Kitana and I have dealt with it for centuries.”

Fenrir sighed softly through his nose. “Let me guess. Since I killed Shao Kahn, everybody’s decided I’m the new entertainment.”

Barong gave a small, knowing smile. “Something like that.”

Fenrir leaned back in the chair, one hand rising to his face for a moment as he considered the implications. “Wonderful. Another layer.”

“There are many,” Barong replied. “You will be tested,” he said. “Repeatedly. Some will test your patience. Others, your humility. Others, your resolve. They will watch your language, your choices, your silences.” His voice lowered. “And if you give them weakness, they will eat it alive.”

Fenrir nodded slowly. That much, at least, he understood.

Barong continued, “Do not expect kindness from those who have built their identities on surviving stronger men. They are not simple courtiers. They are snakes with better manners.”

Fenrir gave a low hum. “That sounds about right for Outworld.”

“It is,” Barong said. “And unlike Shao Kahn, they do not require immortality to be dangerous.”

A brief silence followed that. Fenrir's expression tightened.

“So what exactly are you saying?” he asked.

Barong’s eyes did not move from him.

“That you must learn to speak as though every word may be repeated in a different mouth by morning.”

Fenrir grimaced. “That’s awful.”

He gave the emperor a smirk. “It is accurate.” It was.

Barong wrote a final line on the page, then closed the tome halfway, though not fully.

“Fortunately,” he said, “you are not entirely without allies. Kitana understands the game. Jade can smell its traps. And Mileena…” His mouth curved faintly. “Mileena enjoys the game far more than she should.”

Fenrir frowned. “That’s a comforting thought.” For a moment, Fenrir sat in silence, taking in what he had been told.

Then Barong’s quill resumed its careful movement. The conversation did not stop there. For the next hour, the spymaster questioned him on everything he considered important. His background. His habits. The way he fought. The way he ruled. The way he saw loyalty. The way he reacted under pressure. The way he spoke of the queens. The way he thought about Outworld’s future.

Every answer was written down. Every hesitation noted. Every truth is tested. And Fenrir found, much to his surprise, that he did not resent it. Barong had a way of making interrogation feel like a duel of minds rather than a threat.

Then, just as the session seemed ready to close, the spymaster asked one final question. His voice remained level. “Have you been intimate with the queens?”
The words landed cleanly.

Fenrir held his gaze. Barong had already known, of course. The question was not for information. It was for confirmation.

“Yes,” Fenrir said after a pause, his tone steady.

Barong gave a low, thoughtful sound and set the quill down. “Then I advise caution.”

Fenrir's eyes narrowed slightly. “Because of the court?”

Barong stood, walking slowly around the desk. He placed the tome inside one of the drawers and locked it with practised efficiency.

“Because of blood,” he said. The tone shifted heavier there.

Fenrir understood immediately where this was going, and the understanding brought a new stillness to the room.

Barong rested both hands lightly on the desk. “Should I be concerned that a bloodline may soon follow your afterglow?”

Fenrir let out a slow breath. “No.” He answered truthfully. “We are being careful. I am trying to be.”

Barong’s gaze never left him. “Then try harder.” Fenrir looked at him steadily. Barong’s expression remained calm, but his words had sharpened. “They are not ready for that responsibility. Nor are you.” He tilted his head a fraction. “As tempting as the idea may sound in the aftermath, Outworld requires stability before heirs, symbols, and succession enter the board.”

Fenrir absorbed that. “You think a child would upset the balance.”

“I know it would,” Barong replied. “Not because children are burdens, but because crowns are.”

Fenrir was quiet.

Barong’s eyes narrowed faintly, but not unkindly. “I cannot rule you, Emperor. I cannot make your choices for you. I can only offer a clearer view of the pit before you step into it.” His voice lowered. “Whether you heed me is your affair.”

Fenrir rose then, the conversation clearly drawing toward its end. He moved toward the door, then paused with one hand on the frame. “Barong.”

The spymaster looked up.

Fenrir hesitated a fraction before asking the question. “Who are you, truly?”

Barong’s expression became unreadable.

Fenrir continued, quieter now. “Kitana told me you are bound to the crown. For eternity.”

The room became very still. Barong lowered his gaze to the crow near his desk and reached out, brushing his fingers along the bird’s feathers with surprising gentleness. For a moment, he seemed less like a spymaster and more like a man carrying centuries in his bones.

“Such is the bargain of service,” he said at last, his tone softer than before. “One life spent in motion, only to become part of the crown’s stillness.” He looked up again, and the old wit returned, but only faintly.

“In my case,” he added, “eternity bound.”

Fenrir held his gaze for a long beat. Then, at last, he opened the door. Beyond it waited shadow, corridor, and questions still unanswered. He stepped out into them anyway.