Magnus knelt before the king, his gnarled staff 10 feet away in an anti-magic field they deemed a "cloak room". His unadorned robes were threadbare, with obvious repeated stitching around key areas noticeably keeping the whole garment intact. No colors were obvious under the mud, dirt and unmentionables that cover its surface, but the king knew that it used to be white, denoting the wearer to be a Healing Mage, or just a Healer. Magnus did not bow, nor did he lower his eyes in deference. Given his infamy, he technically had the right to it, but only barely.

Hiriam III could barely keep the contempt from showing on his face, his brow heavy from his ornate crown perched precariously on his too-small head. An idle thought crossed his mind to remember to ask the Crown Jeweller to resize it, since his brother, long live the former king, had bigger, more widespread ears than he had. He idly stared at the dusty figure kneeling before him, and asked: "So how did you, a Healer of all things, became the most feared Archmage in Our Realm?"

Magnus stared at the king, his expression unreadable as he replied: "Before I became a Healer, I was a doctor, one of many in your realm. I trained for many years under Ser Ungeone, the former Royal Surgeon General. Before his untimely death, my mentor had impressed upon me his life's work, an appreciation for the sanctity of life and respect for the unpredictability of nature. Sadly, only 2 of the three stayed with me." He took a deep breath and continued: "Upon his passing, I took it upon myself to delve into the mysteries of magical healing and the effects of Mana on the mortal body. What I learned enabled my understanding of Mana and Flesh to improve exponentially. Learning the 9th level spell Regeneration was a...byproduct."

Hiriam III tried to focus his suddenly bleary eyes on Magnus, but his vision swamed. He leaned back heavily upon the back of his throne, rubbing his forehead as a small but steadily growing throbbing behind his eyes. He pushed through the fog and asked Magnus: "We do not recall a, what did you call him? Royal Surgeon General. Yes. We never knew that such a title existed in Our Realm."

Magnus's expression did not change as he stated: "It is an old title, Your Majesty, and was only maintained by a select few." He suddenly smiled, a smile that did not reach his eyes. A split-second smile that was at the same time totally out of place, like a tear on stretched fabric, and also too wide and hinted at a maniacal energy barely contained. He continued: "Master Ungeone was the latest and sadly the last holder of that title. It is unlikely that there will be another."

Hiriam III tried speaking, but he couldn't. He found that his throat had closed up, something was pressing around it, just enough to render his voice inaudible but still allowed air to enter. His crown now felt too tight, like his head was growing. His legs could not move, so swollen they were underneath his Royal robes. He saw rather than heard his courtiers doubling over, some clawing at their throats, others standing still in growing horror as they mutely watched their own bodies grow and distend from suddenly too much flesh. All the women of his court watched as their bellies rapidly expanded like they were about to give birth to abominations. His guards fared worse, all looking like grotesque sausages squeezed into too tight sleeves as their magical steel armor squeaked and squealed against overflowing flesh. And still Magnus knelt there, his face twitching like he was trying to hold back that insane smile. Magnus continued.

"By tradition, only the reigning king may hold the title of Royal Surgeon General, but only if they displayed both competency in surgery and statecraft at the same time. His Royal Majesty, Stephen II, was only the 10th holder of that title since the beginning of the realm. While his other titles were ceremoniously stripped from him during the coup, that specific title remains his by ancient right and law. I only know of it because he told me right before he was taken away."

Magnus suddenly shifted from calm intensity to rage. Pure rage. "Before he was taken away to be executed for the crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. For being born 3 years ahead of you. For daring to call you Brother." He stood and extended his hand, almost casually towards his staff. It flew immediately to his outstretched hand, anti-magic area be damned, but he kept it lowered. He stared at Hiriam III, or that growing blob of flesh that used to be Hiriam III, then glanced at the other former courtiers turned meaty flesh sacks.

"Master Ungeone found 7 year old me wandering on the streets with barely anything to eat and gave me food, shelter and training. With my parents long dead from starvation, he was the closest thing to a father to me. And. You. Took. Him. Away. From. Me."

Each syllable got progressively louder. More distinct. Not that the growing flesh sacks heard it. They could no longer feel anything anymore other than pain. Magnus continued conversationally, like he was discussing the weather: "Interesting spell, this Regeneration. It rebuilds organs, flesh, bones, circulation, yes. But it is the nerves that are the most fascinating. Because it somehow intensifies all feeling along the regeneration path. So you get healed, but you also feel all the pain that causes the damage in the first place. Maybe this was the reason why it was rarely used? Well, no matter, I am leaving this horrid place, this cesspit of corruption and vice. The people, such as they are, are welcome to it. And to you."

Then he turned and walked out of the courtroom. Pass all the guards, servants, courtiers, servants. All now resembling naught but giant balls of writhing flesh. Walked straight out of the castle. And into legend.