The Matchmaking Agency The high tower of the Dark Castle blotted out the setting sun, looming ominous against the blood-red sky. It seemed to radiate darkness and cold into the surroundings. Yet none of this deterred the weary Hero—a spear hammered demandingly against the massive gates, which were reinforced with black iron. After the third blow, the sleepy face of a guardsman peeked out from the slightly opened gate. "Yeah? Who's there? What d'ya want?" "I wish to do battle with your master," a muffled voice echoed from beneath the helmet. The guard glanced over the aging horse, the battered, outdated armor—which had clearly once been of fine quality—and the shield bearing a long-forgotten coat of arms. Spitting to the side, he demanded: "Show your mug!" "Wh-a-at?" the knight stammered, his voice jumping half an octave in pure disbelief. "Lift your visor, I say! Who knows—maybe you're some wench! If you beat me, I'll never hear the end of the shame..." Seething with rage, the knight lifted his visor, revealing a youthful face. A rather homely one at that. Chubby cheeks, freckles, tiny pale eyes, a button nose, and a sparse little beard grown in a desperate attempt to look older. All of this flashed for a second before vanishing behind the bar of grey metal. "Satisfied, you peasant?" the young Hero’s voice sputtered with indignation. "Now! Open up!" With a sigh, the guard swung the gates wide. Shivering slightly from a sudden wave of fear, the knight rode beneath the archway. His horse's hooves clattered loudly against the dark stones of the paved courtyard. The Dark Lord was already waiting. He advanced to meet him from beneath the high colonnade at the base of the tower. Mounted on a jet-black, heavy-maned stallion, he was clad in solid black armor, a massive sword strapped to his saddle. His dark shield bore no coat of arms, but a skull amulet gleamed upon his chest, its jaws unmistakably set in a mocking sneer. It was the solitary glint of light on a figure woven from pure shadow. From a high window of the tower, the wretched kidnapped maiden leaned out, waving her handkerchief invitingly to her savior. The wind snatched it from her delicate fingers and carried it straight onto the young knight’s saddle. Taking it as an excellent omen, he caught it and tucked it behind his belt. The Dark Lord backed his horse away, giving the steeds enough room to build up speed. A ringing silence fell for a moment. The maiden in the window shrieked with delight, and the riders spurred their mounts. The silence shattered into a frenzy of clanging metal and thundering hooves. The duel had begun. Spears struck shields, and the opponents wheeled their horses around for a second pass. It was painfully obvious that the young knight could barely hold his spear, let alone aim it properly, whereas the Dark Lord’s lance struck precisely where he intended. Upon the second impact against the shields, the spears splintered into pieces. At the final microsecond, the Dark Lord pulled his blow slightly, but it was still enough to send his opponent flying from the saddle. The young man tumbled across the ground, his gauntlets clawing at the dirt in a futile attempt to stop. He froze for a second, shaking his head, but scrambled to his feet instantly, adjusting his shield and drawing his sword. The Dark Lord dismounted as well, swinging his leg over the saddle’s pommel with impossible agility. Tossing his shield aside, he gripped a colossal sword with a jagged edge. It was just as black as his armor and his steed. A crimson flame flared within the slits of his helmet, and the Dark Lord instantly closed the distance. The sword flew up in his hands as light as a feather and crashed down, ripping up the earth right where the young knight had stood a moment prior—the enemy had missed. The hero caught the next blow on his shield and realized instantly: it was a mistake. The impact hurled him toward the columns, his shield shattering to pieces as a sharp pain shot up his arm. The Dark Lord, however, did not capitalize on the blunder; instead, he threw his head back and unleashed a loud, demonic laugh. This bought the defender of the innocent maiden enough time to recover, realize that a broken shield was useless, toss it aside, and charge. Swords clashed, throwing off sparks. The Dark Lord parried the flurry of blows effortlessly; the arms wielding the massive sword seemed forged of solid iron. The knight quickly ran out of breath; he stumbled, even dropping to one knee at one point. Yet again, the Dark Lord withheld his strike. He waited for his opponent to stand up and resume the assault. The maiden watched the battle anxiously from above. Her captor was clearly superior. He was putting on a show, asserting his dominance with every single step. And so, she made her move—just as the knight swung his sword for another strike, she hurled a copper washbasin out of the window. Of course, she missed, but the Dark Lord was briefly distracted, turning toward the clatter, and the hero's sword struck his armor. The dark figure collapsed into the dust and, flashing with a brilliant blue flame, vanished. A raven took flight from the tower's roof. Screaming piercingly, it disappeared into the sky... Still unable to believe his luck, the victor smashed the chain securing the tower door. Rushing up the stairs, he swept the crown princess—his future bride—into his arms... Years passed. Grumbling at the perpetual lack of decent roads and the necessity of managing without the royal carriage, he approached the gates. The Black Tower stood as immovable as ever. For a moment, the visitor stared at it with silent reproach, then finally knocked with the hilt of his sword. A hatch slid open, and a guard peeked out. The exact same guard from seventeen years ago, though it felt as if a whole eternity had slipped by... "Yeah, what d'ya want?" the guard began, but taking a closer look, he quickly corrected himself: "Ah, it's you, Your Majesty! Well, come on in!" "Him?" "Of course, Him. He's expecting you." "Ah..." "Naturally, He is fully aware. Step right through, Your Majesty." The hall was illuminated by dozens of candles and torches. A carpet runner, worn down by countless feet, spilled carelessly from the doorway. In the corner stood the terrifying, blued-steel armor, devoid of a single dent or scratch. Upon spotting the master of the castle, the King—who now resembled a thoroughly fattened piglet—glared at him unsympathetically. The Dark Lord sat cross-legged on his throne, seemingly ignoring his guest entirely as he focused all his attention on a stout metal keg. He turned out to be of average height, slender, with dark hair tied back into a rather substantial ponytail. Furthermore, he was young—outrageously, ridiculously young. He was absolutely nothing like the image the king had harbored all these years. The king had to console himself with the thought that sorcery was undoubtedly involved. Granted, the Lord was dressed entirely in black, and the familiar skull medallion dangled from a chain, so at least something matched the memories and the tropes sung in ballads. A hand clad in a black glove gave a slight flick, and an armchair glided forward on its own, neatly catching the rather plump royal backside and wheeling it right up to the table. "Mulled wine, Your Majesty? And how are your wife and daughter?" "Yes, wine, please... I suspect your vintage is excellent... Actually, I am here precisely because of my daughter!" "Ah. Marriage troubles, I take it?" "Well, yes, we would like to, so to speak... well, you understand?" "Of course," the Dark Lord nodded encouragingly. "And let me guess—she is no beauty, and the kingdom isn't particularly wealthy." "It’s a page and a half of ditches! And as for her looks... well, you saw her mother! And just look at me!..." the King exclaimed, forgetting both etiquette and fear in his exasperation. "I see. So, the ideal candidate: a young knight, descendant of an ancient lineage..." "And not related to us! Brave, handsome!" At the last word, the king faltered under the Dark Lord’s mocking gaze. "Well, at least somewhat presentable! You're a sorcerer, aren't you?" "An evil sorcerer who kidnaps innocent maidens!" the Dark Lord corrected predatorily. "Very well—a chest of gold!" "But that's highway robbery!" "Your Majesty," the Dark Lord countered reproachfully, "calling it 'highway robbery' implies I'm ambushing you in the woods. This is strictly business. Look at it from my perspective: I have to market a homely girl with a terrible figure. And what if she inherited her mommy's temperament? Am I right? Did I hit the mark?! And I’m the one who has to share a tower with her!" "I’ve been living with her my whole life!" the king yelled, jumping up. "You simply have no idea what it's like!" "I do. Which is why I am only asking for one chest instead of two. Purely out of professional courtesy. I still have to pay the minstrels—do you know their current rates? The armor, the horse—none of it comes cheap. And what about emotional damages? I only got rid of the last 'innocent maiden' a month ago! She was loud, toxic... smashed all the crockery, worked the servants ragged." At a clap of his hands, the same guard from earlier walked in. He sat on the floor, arranging his writing supplies beside him, and looked up inquiringly. "The usual," the Dark Lord sighed, then turned back to the king. "Or do you have any special requests, Your Majesty?" "None in particular, really... just someone from a nobler house... By the way! Tell me... why don't you get married yourself?" "I will," the Dark Lord brushed the question off, "the moment I kidnap a maiden who is slightly smarter than a cow and marginally better-looking than a wyvern! But in all my years of practice, I haven't encountered one yet. Perhaps they simply don't require my services. Now then. Would you care to inspect the tower?" "I've seen it, long ago as it was," the king chuckled. "The money will be delivered tomorrow, and my daughter..." "Send your daughter out in three days to pick flowers with friends in the meadow below the walls. You can throw in a few expendable guards for dramatic effect. After that, just wait for her to come home with a fiancé." "My thanks!" And the Dark Lord shook the extended hand. The client departed. The Dark Lord approached the armor and sat down on the floor beside it. The armor obediently sat down next to him. "Well, old friend, looks like it's time for you to lose to me again!" A crimson glow flared within the helmet's eye slits. The ancient artifact raised its hand and touched its master's shoulder. "Are you bored?" the Lord continued. "You were created to lead armies into battle while your master sits safely in his castle!" The helmet swayed from side to side. The crimson glow shifted to an icy blue. "Alright, do as you please for now, just don't kill the orcs—they're terrified of you as it is. When I need you, I'll call." The slits of the helmet flashed with a blinding light, and the armor vanished. "Where does it actually go?" the guard asked softly. "I don't know, Rilian! Maybe some attractive chainmail or a ball gown is waiting for it somewhere? Who knows what these ancient artifacts get up to? Go kick the servants, tell them to get the chambers ready! I'll head up later to refresh the anti-destruction warding spells—if the princess's temper is anything like her mother's, we're going to need them!"