Three days earlier, before House Butcherie encountered Arnzos Loftclaw, a Victus cried. Victus Vaelar, never to see again. Though he did not know what they were, he sat by an army of frogs and cried. But he didn’t cry for his dead companions. Like Chripar. Impaled on a jagged stump. Or Vestan, his windpipe decimated. Or even that unnamed one. Hmm, couldn’t recall him. Anyway—that one broke his neck.

  Yet, it didn’t matter, because the tears were for a much more vain loss. His extraordinary belt—better than any belt he’s ever seen anyone wear—was never to be seen by him again. His two mistresses, Octea and… whatshername? His memory failed him; His perceived reason for that? Brain damage. Regardless, when he returned to Nenthage, he would not be able to see them. He could see them but never again see them. Oh, how he dreamed of Octea’s and… that other woman’s touch right now.

  Their soft escapades always revitalized him after grueling labor. He wanted to lay in bed. Sleep an entire day. Forget all about his responsibilities.

  Vaelar grasped at a faint hope. Specifically, one of Ontullia having a secret magic that can cure blindness. He wasn’t very familiar with any type of sorcery, but there had to be a type that could mend the worst of wounds. Right? He deserved it. All of his best days he spent toiling for the crown. The Emperor would help him. He had to.

  Slight rustling in the nearby bush made Vaelar jump. “Lay a finger on me and I will have you beheaded!” he wept, trying so hard to sound threatening. “I mean it. No one disrespects a Victus.”

  He was at the whims of nature. Luckily for him, it showed him mercy. It brought back the only surviving soldier of his charge. Sternus, miraculously alive, albeit with a jaw that would make morticians wince. Twisted beyond such normal proportions that it would make Vaelar regret having his eyesight back.

  “Buhc-dus?” the soldier garbled. “Iz dat y’u?”

  “Sternus?! OH, my best friend!” Vaelar barely knew him. Pretty much just his name. “I won against that evil dracokin but his cowardly self retreated! Left a massive gash in his chest. Must have bled out by now. But… um… we need to return to camp! More enemies are soon to arrive.”

  Sternus’ eyes practically leapt from his skull. “Wuhlly? Denn less’ g’t ahta heh! Wuh kun tae muh ors’.”

  Vaelar didn’t have the faintest idea of what he just said, but he heard a horse neigh close to him. Must have meant Sternus had a plan. “Excellent, my best friend. Onward then.”

  They both hopped on one of the leftover mounts muddling about. The Victus knew there was a higher power, ensuring his safety. He was the best a Victus could be, after all. No other elf in the history of their military matched up to him. He already imagined it. Shoulder to shoulder with the Emperor. A gray dust wiped over his eyes. Or a red dust? Whatever color the Emperor’s secret healing magical dust was! Maybe it wasn’t a dust. Vaelar didn’t know.

  Nevertheless, Ontullia’s extremely confidential healing sorcery (which was definitely real and not delusion) had to be his. For the good of the Legus.

  “I ‘avv a kweshtun, Bicdus.” Sternus gargled. “Rhy err yur iyz suw reh an’ klou’ee?”

  Once more, Vaelar was bewildered listening to the fellow’s verbal diarrhea. Instead of deciphering the words, he said, “Of course, Sternus. Very observant.”

  “Buhd y’u tid’t anzir muh kweshtun.”

  “Absolutely, my best friend! Enough meandering. Take me back to camp or I’ll have your hands cut off.”

  All right, Sternus understood him. No more questions for Vaelar for the rest of his natural life. The humble soldier clicked into place, cracking the horse’s reins. “Hyyah, gyurl!” They’d arrive back at the greenage in due time. A story in their pockets to tell for the bored masses. But, for Vaelar, it was more than just a story. It would be his calling for a better life. If he had to will a new magic into the world to cure his affliction, he would. He always needed to take and take and take. Because the world deserved to bow before him. He would heal, and the mercenary would bleed.

  ?

  House Butcherie’s caravan stained the blue thistled forests it traversed through. Each spinning wheel a reminder that their unjust rule encompassed nearly half of the Scrupled Lands. Against trees and buried in brush were Psiona Constructs long deactivated. Lord Palmgrease gazed at them, as if he was a starving dog gazing upon a king’s feast. Arnzos knew the look. An insatiable greed. As long as his attention was away from Arnzos, there was no worry.

  Indeed, these dead constructs were once vital to the tribes living here. They grew up, got married, raised children, and died all under the protection of the Psiona. The Southern Gathering fended off nests of impurities, as the Northern Gathering enjoyed a natural protection in their mountain range. The impurities and constructs mutilated each other in their centuries’ long battle. And at the end of it was a graveyard for their finest guardians. No more impurities, but also no more constructs.

  And no more constructs meant another evil could soon take hold. All of the Southern Gathering fell under King Sin’s fist.

  It was a common history told around here, although Arnzos didn’t know it. The felinian tribes had to give answers to their curious young. They were not satisfying or joyful, but they were still answers nonetheless. House Butcherie expected fealty from their new subjects. Any hint of resistance was met with the cruelest of punishments. No matter who you were.

  It had been a long time since Arnzos had dealt with any batch of criminals like the House before. Before he moved to Vannid-Brugen, his family grew up in the city of Day’s Sunder. A rich trading hub of cultures from Balocord to Gottyarz to even the far reaches of the west in Vrestatifi. Wares from all around Ystryx. This melting pot brought money and money always brought trouble.

  He recalled the largest criminal syndicate in Day’s Sunder. The Many Destitute. A microcosm of the avarice plaguing the world. Although they did have a few jobs for him when he was at his lowest. Of course, he couldn’t think about the Many Destitute without also remembering Cyrille Belrose. Ugh, what a piece of human trash. Arnzos quivered. His mental disgust manifested. Fortunately, a comment from Phyletta guided his attention elsewhere.

  [“Arnzos, is there no way for you to reconsider?”]

  This was a different manner of speech than Arnzos was used to. In fact, it wasn’t speech at all. It was like a transmitted thought, radiated directly into his brain. His eyes darted towards Phyletta, as she was just as surprised. Expecting her to know how that happened would yield no result.

  [“Could you always do that?”] Arnzos telepathized.

  [“I believe I would have used that before if I could have. I meant to speak and instead I… did that.”]

  [“Hmm. Well, don’t pry into my thoughts too much. Please.”]

  [“Are you just going to ignore what I asked you?”] Phyletta relayed passive-agressively.

  [“I’m not repeating myself. I gave you my answer back at the lake.”]

  [“How exactly is mingling with these lowlifes going to help you or your sister and her children? It’s quite reckless. There are better ways to—”]

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  Arnzos rode alongside Palmgrease, as the Lord was off put by Arnzos’ silence. So, he interrupted the mental conversation with a clearing of his throat. Unaware of the conversation’s happening. How could he, honestly? “How did you end up here, my draeken?” Palmgrease said. “Adventurers rarely find themselves travelling around these parts.”

  “Never was one.” Arnzos said back. “I wanted more reliable work. Became a mercenary instead. In my opinion, adventurers are just delusional farmers or bored nobles thinking they can change the world by wandering around like bums.”

  Palmgrease chuckled, looking at Modra. Hoping he would chuckle as well. He didn’t. Palmgrease wagged his hand. Itching his lip with a taloned thumb. “I used to be an adventurer. I met plenty of delusional farmers and bored nobles! Others wanted to etch their name into the marble of history. I’d say ninety nine percent of them failed. I was lucky to be in the other one percent.”

  “Were you active in Hylverea? May have heard of you.”

  “Ho! Yes, we were. The Knights of Braverie. Surely to remain the peak of my life.”

  “I should thank you then. My old sword was a Sorcerum Construct’s arm. One created by the Magician’s Cabal. If you didn’t hunt them all down, it wouldn’t have weakened the construct, and I wouldn’t have gotten my sword.”

  Arnzos knew of the Knights of Braverie and their fated skirmish with the Magician’s Cabal. A rogue sect of Hylverean mancers that tried to exterminate the nonmagical peoples of the country. Occurred around six years ago. Everyone would await the bits of news spouted by criers. Who died and who lived. Who won their battles and perished within them. Arnzos and Olexei busied themselves with work, but heard of the passing reports after every job. He wasn’t familiar with any of the specific members. Yet, he still cheered them on to destroy the Cabal.

  What Arnzos didn’t understand was why Palmgrease was here now. He would have been celebrated as a national treasure. Set for the rest of his days. Did he ruin his chances somehow? How would one even ruin such a massive triumph? Too many questions and dangerous to ponder on while surrounded by his thugs.

  “You are most welcome.” Palmgrease sniffled. “I enjoyed slaughtering those mancers just as much as the public enjoyed watching me do it.”

  “None of your partymates practiced sorcery?” Arnzos said.

  “Fuck no!” the Lord shocked Arnzos with his vitriol. “We were real warriors! Of truest skill and spirit. I should disembowel you for even suggesting that.”

  “I apologize. Maybe we should just talk about my job from now on.”

  Phyletta dug into Arnzos skull. Leaving another message. [“Get out now. Whatever plan you have—that you think is so clever—will get you killed. Please…”]

  He disregarded it.

  Hours later, on the war wagons’ tail, the caravan pulled Arnzos and Phyletta into the felinian village of Arhuinim. Deep cerulean colored vegetation was thick in this area. Tall grasses and blue ferns reached heights unseen. Measured up to the stomach of Arnzos. If he had waded through them on foot, it would be like walking through teeming brushy sludge. However, he was on horseback. So no such challenge arrived.

  Palmgrease’s knights made familiar pathways in the natural verdure. From dozens of trips across the Scrupled Lands, the yearning wagon wheels carved miniature roads in the soil. A sign of dominance over nature. Just as Palmgrease had dominance over Arhuinim. Still, these miniature roads were barely a footnote in the spectacle of the village. For Arnzos looked up. He saw a culture unlike any he’d seen before.

  Housing carved out of the massive oltaran trees, with blocks of oltaran wood strung together with rope to create bridges across. Arnzos likened it to those children’s stories about chipmunks and birds making trees their home. Although this was at a scale he never imagined. Felinians—fur covered cat people—mingled above. Many of them hurried to shelter or froze in place upon seeing Palmgrease. Not hard to imagine why. They closed their half-circle shaped doors and hid inside the bark.

  The few felinian villagers below scrambled up the trees. Climbing solid notches in the wood to get to higher ground. They cowered on the thin oltaran and cloth platforms above. Even with their network of hundreds of twee houses, connected by bridges and notches and elevated walkways… they could do nothing but cower. Arnzos felt a pinch in his heart. It begged him to leave. He glanced again at Palmgrease’s luxurious wool coat.

  Leave, or not. That coat… imagine the glintons it could bring in. A felinian’s frenzied yelp took him out of it. At the northern edge of Arhuinim, filling the atmosphere with flavors of dread, was Palmgrease’s manor. A sickening monument of oppression. For Arnzos’ sanity, he repeated the words in his head. ‘Steal the coat and leave.’ Now wasn’t the ideal time to do that. But he would find it.

  A dwarven subordinate of the Lord approached the carriage. Right as the war wagons pulled into the front yard of the manor. “Lord Palmgrease. We captured a savage trying to break in. He killed two guards. What should be done with him?”

  “Bring him here.” Palmgrease said.

  The dwarf pounded his fist across his sternum. And then he shouted, “In the front! The Lord demands it!”

  The source of the yelp was found. A lanky gray haired felinian. Bruised around his eye. Bleeding from the nose. He struggled and hissed, until a knight shoved his mouth into the dirt. He kicked the grayhair beside the kidney. A muted groan spilled out before he quieted down.

  Down from his royal caravan car, came the Lord. He walked around the grayhair and observed his fur. Tapping his chin. “Arnzos?” he called. “What do you think about this situation?”

  Arnzos scrunched his maw. Puzzled. “In terms of…?”

  “What I’ve done to these uncivilized freaks. Tell me your opinion. Do you think it’s right? It’s wrong?”

  “To be honest, Lord, I don’t exactly know what you’ve done to these tribesmen.”

  Palmgrease snarled. “Don’t play the fool! You know exactly what I’ve done. It’s what any right-minded servant of civilization should do. Like I said before. Tell me your opinion.”

  “I have no opinion.” Arnzos said.

  Palmgrease juggled that answer around. “No… opinion.” He paced, this time over to a human henchie. The Lord snatched his crossbow, pacing back. “No opinion, huh?” He oomphed the weapon into Arnzos’ grasp. Forced him to take it. Wouldn’t remove his beckoning hand until he did. Arnzos obeyed—eventually. He feared what would have happened if he disobeyed.

  The Lord locked eyes with him. “If you truly have no opinion… then I want you to kill this savage.”

  Arnzos wasn’t sure if his earholes had just betrayed him. Palmgrease wanted him? Why him? Why now? He surveyed all the capable heads that could have done this. Like Modra, or that dwarf, or even the human he took the crossbow from. Arnzos tried to speak, but it was like a bitter fuzz was caught in his mouth. He only groaned. As if he was stuck in a spider’s web. Palmgrease pushed him towards the grayhair.

  “Put him down.”

  The crossbow shook in Arnzos’ grasp. The bitter fuzz he tasted in his mouth moved down to his stomach. Cramps, nausea, and heartburn. His lungs felt the effect too. All he could focus on was the little details of the grayhair’s face. His beady yellow eyes. The tiny scratch across his ear. The way his whimpers began to fade as he cried. Arnzos held the weapon up. Though he couldn’t keep his aim fixed.

  “Put him down or I’ll kill the both of you!” Palmgrease lashed.

  Arnzos thought to flee. It wasn’t worth it at all. Ones above, why didn’t he listen to Phyletta? Was he so careless to think he could escape any consequences of fraternizing with a crimelord? He had been so beaten down. By Da’haz, by the Whirlwind and the Maiden. By Vaelar and that damned brat Trucius. So desperate—he was—for a way to win against the unflinching tides that battered him over and over. He indeed thought he could swindle the Lord.

  If he ran, what would happen? He calculated options. Fleeing on foot? He would die with bolts in his back. Taking the carriage? Another chase, like the one in Ontullia. However, this instance would have ten times the amount of pursuers. Shoot Palmgrease between his eyes? Satisfying—only for a second. Then put to death. Phyletta’s assistance would only be a drop in the ocean. Ultimately, she wouldn’t change much. He stopped calculating. There was no way out.

  Now, in this moment, he had to pull the trigger. Pull the trigger. His finger was quaking. Pull… the…

  “Ha-ha! I only jest, my draeken.” Palmgrease roared. “How much of a bastard must I be to make you do that!? Here. Give me.”

  He blankly gave Palmgrease the crossbow. “Modra!”

  The rodinkin arrived and took the weapon. In a tenth of time that Arnzos pondered his life and his failings and the secrets of fate itself, Modra pulled the trigger. A bolt stuck into the grayhair’s skull. Leaking brain matter and the red. Arnzos felt his stomach drop. He couldn’t swallow. The fuzz on his tongue soon clouded his sight. Ringing, blinding. His nerves fried. Arnzos uttered a series of little whines. Each one fainter than the last.

  He couldn’t pull his murky eyes away from the dead grayhair. Phyletta froze above him. She gave him a stare that could cut diamonds.

  She telepathized to him, [“When nightfall arrives, you have to run.”]