On the wall behind the clown puppet hung a collection of brightly colored, disarmingly cute stuffed toys. Nearby stood a small wooden table, covered with an embroidered cloth and adorned with a simple vase of white wildflowers. It was a quaint, whimsical, and utterly wholesome little cabin.

"So, Arthas has ascended to demigod," the puppet murmured, its voice devoid of judgment, impossible to read. "I imagine Leonidas and Alexander are not far behind. And here we are, the Witch and I... with the power of demigods, yet still trapped at the peak of the arch lord rank."

The Clown's thoughts drifted back to his old teammates in the Champions Alliance. Yes, teammates. If he hadn't betrayed their commander, that's what they would still be.

The power we gained... it belongs to others. We are merely pseudo-gods. Was this power... worth the regret?

By betraying the Champions Alliance and joining the Cult of Four, the Clown and the Witch had been granted a boon from the gods, becoming pseudo-gods and gaining the power of demigods ahead of their time. But the path they had chosen had bound them irrevocably to the Cult. The Clown had embraced it fully, throwing himself into his new role and becoming one of the twelve Pontiffs. The Witch, however... he knew she still held onto some fragment of her past.

He didn't resent her for it. In a way, that small, lingering attachment she held was a reflection of his own. The feeling had been faint, unnoticeable, back when the Deputy Commander, Arthas, Alexander, and Leonidas were still lords. But now, with the news of Arthas's true ascension, of him grasping the laws of reality for himself, the hearts of both the Clown and the Witch were in turmoil.

"Tell me what happened," the Clown said, his inner storm subsiding. His eternally fixed smile betrayed nothing.

"I encountered a giant lord in the Forest of Nature in the Silverwood Realm," the Witch's voice came through the platform. "He destroyed my avatar in two consecutive engagements. Before I was eliminated, I saw Arthas's will projection descend upon him."

Her voice had regained its composure. She had come to the Clown to solve a problem, to find a strategy. She laid out the facts.

"One moment. I'll look into it." As one of the twelve Pontiffs, the Clown had access to the reports from other regions. He could pull the after-action report from the Pontiff responsible for the Witch's sector.

A few minutes later, he responded.

"Pontiff Yriel's will projection was destroyed. According to him, his demigod phantom was annihilated by a joint attack from a skeletal apparition and, later, a dagger phantom. I imagine the dagger was Alexander."

He had not only confirmed the Witch's intel but, with this new information, had also deduced that Alexander, too, had ascended.

"You and I both knew this day would come," the Clown said, his tone flat. "Given the talent and foundation of our old teammates, I'm not surprised they've become demigods. I just didn't expect it to be so soon. Our quiet years are coming to an end."

In the past, the main force hunting them had been their commander and the Deputy Commander. At the time, they had fatally underestimated the commander's terrifying power. The Cult of Four had dispatched one of their Archbishops to protect the two of them. The result? The Archbishop, a being of immense status within the Cult, was killed by Commander Thresh in three slashes.

After that, the Cult, the Clown, and the Witch had all gone into hiding, avoiding Thresh and the Champions Alliance at all costs. Their only saving grace was that Commander Thresh, after being betrayed, had fallen into a deep slumber. With Arthas and the others still lords, the Clown and the Witch had been granted a period of peace.

Now, with the re-emergence of Arthas and the appearance of a new member of the Alliance, they both knew their peaceful days were over.

"So," the Witch's message came, her anxiety palpable. "Do we fight or run?"

"Why must we choose either?" the Clown replied.

Before she could ask what he meant, he sent a rapid-fire series of questions.

"Witch, you seem panicked. Does this mean you've exposed your own location? Are you afraid of Arthas hunting you down? Or has the commander awakened?"

Any of those three possibilities was a nightmare he didn't want to face.

"No," she replied, her relief evident. "I haven't exposed my position. Arthas only saw my avatar. There was nothing on it that could be traced back to my true body. And as for the commander... I don't know if he's awake."

"Then what's the problem?" the Clown said. "It was just an avatar. You can afford the loss. As for the Silverwood Realm, we just walk away. Find a new world to invade. Let the rest of the Cult of Four deal with the headache of the Champions Alliance."

His meaning was clear: as long as their true bodies remained hidden, all they had to do was lie low and avoid their old comrades.

"You're saying we just ignore Arthas?"

"Yes. And no."

"Explain."

"We will ignore them personally. That doesn't mean we can't arrange for others in the Cult to cause problems for them."

"You want to use the Cult's forces to tie up the Champions Alliance in the Silverwood Realm," the Witch quickly grasped his logic. "That way, no matter where we hide, we'll be safe." She could see the brutal elegance of the plan.

"In fact," the Clown continued, "your exposure might actually be a good thing. Before, we never knew where they were, and they never knew where we were. We were constantly on guard. But if we create a smokescreen in the Silverwood Realm, we can fix their attention there. We'll know exactly where they are and what they're doing. And that," he concluded, "is how we guarantee our own safety."

He had a knack for seeing the bigger picture. In his eyes, this disaster was an opportunity.

"If those incompetents in the Cult aren't enough to keep them busy, we can even send an avatar or two ourselves just to keep their attention focused. The only prerequisite is that the Cult must commit enough forces to the Silverwood Realm to actually be a threat to the Alliance."

In the span of a few moments, the Clown had already formulated a counter-strategy.

"The Pontiff in charge of that invasion is Yriel. His strength alone won't be enough. We'll have to manipulate at least one more Pontiff into going to help him. Only then will they have enough power to tie down our old comrades."

"The Silverwood Realm is a fine place, Witch," he mused, a hint of sinister amusement in his voice. "All we have to do is make sure we turn it into a quagmire for them."

Hee hee hee...

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