The rain felt like it was personally trying to push Wilhelm off the bridge.
The column of Baldur's men marched past him boots thumping in rhythm, armor clicking, faces grim under their visors.
They were 'Angels'. The rank and file. Knights. Honorable sorts who would probably stab him if he looked at them wrong.
[ WAR INTEL: ARMY OF THE GREY ONE ]
(Estimated Forces: Prince Baldur Stormsong)
COMMANDER IN CHIEF
đź‘‘ Lord Baldur Stormsong (Leader)
Spirit Power: 800.000 SP
Trait: Unyielding Will (Morale cannot break).
Threat Level: High-End Demigod.
Cast: Archangel
VASSAL COMMANDERS (The Archangels)
(Elite Counts -)
Countess Paula Tempestov: ~200.000 SP (Wind/Storm Specialist)Count Dalinar Galevar: ~200.000 SP (Tactician)Countess Relisa Galehart: ~200.000 SP (Siege Expert)
Combined Vassal Power: ~600.000 SP
THE IRON FIST (The Angels)
Unit: 500 Stormsong Angel Knights (Heavy Cavalry)
Average Power: ~30.000 SP each
Calculation: 500 x 30.000 = 15.000.000 SP (Mass Energy)
Status: Angels Caste. Fanatically loyal.
Brandan was up front, looking like a bear trying to out-walk a thunderstorm. Baldur was right beside him, rigid as a plank.
Gutrum brought up the rear, silently judging everyone's moral compass.
"I'll just... catch up!" Wilhelm shouted, waving a floppy hand towards a massive side-door. "Need to inspect the facilities! The books! Master of Coin business! Very tedious! You wouldn't like it!"
Brandan grunted something that sounded like "Don't drown," and kept walking.
Wilhelm grinned. He slipped away from the march, scurrying towards the heavy oak door carved with a wolf's head.
The wolf had a coin jammed in its mouth. The symbol of the Treasury. Subtle. Like hitting someone with a brick.
He pushed the door open.
Creak.
He expected darkness. Dust. Maybe a lonely accountant counting beans. He was ready to shove a few fistfuls of gems into his pockets "administrative expenses," naturally before joining the war.
Instead, he walked into a wall of velvet-scented silence.
The High Steward's Office. It was posh. Mahogany that looked darker than sin, curtains thick enough to strangle a man.
And it was quiet. The roaring storm outside was just a whisper against the glass here.
Sitting behind the desk was Lydia.
She looked... well, she looked terrifyingly calm. Her hair was perfect, a golden braid crowned around her head, not a single strand out of place. She held a goblet of wine Ironvine red, judging by the smell and she swirled it gently.
"Wilhelm," she said. She didn't look up. "You're dripping on the rug."
"Lydia," Wilhelm swayed, blinking water out of his eyes. "Lovely evening for a coup, isn't it? Just thought I'd check the... the liquidity. Of the assets."
He stepped closer.
That's when he saw the previous occupant of the chair.
Lord Velarys. The High Steward.
He was in the armchair next to the desk. His head was lolled back at an impossible angle. His eyes were wide, bulging like hard-boiled eggs.
A steady stream of white foam bubbled from his mouth, dripping onto his silk doublet.
On the desk in front of him, a half-finished letter. Something about ...Warn the Pontifex... usurpers...
"He had indigestion," Lydia said, taking a sip of her wine. "Acute. Terminal."
Wilhelm stared at the dead man. Then at Lydia. Then back at the dead man.
"Right," Wilhelm muttered, edging a bit to the left. "Nasty stuff, indigestion. Probably the shellfish. Never trust the prawns in a siege."
"He was writing to the Archbishop," Lydia said coolly, setting the glass down with a soft clink. "He intended to sell us out. To offer the keys to the Cathedral in exchange for sanctuary." She picked up the letter, held it over a candle, and watched it burn.
The flames danced in her cold eyes. "Now the keys are mine."
Wilhelm swallowed. His throat felt dry. "Yours? Efficient."
"Not just the keys," she continued, voice smooth as silk over a blade. "The kitchens. The maid's quarters. The scullery. I have informed the staff that tonight's meal was... seasoned. Specially. With a delayed agent from the marshes."
Wilhelm's eyes widened. "You poisoned the help?"
"I told them I did," she corrected. A thin, cruel smile touched her lips. "I told them the antidote will be distributed with breakfast tomorrow. Ifthey serve House Stormsong loyally tonight. Fear is a better leash than coin, Wilhelm. You'd do well to remember that."
She finally looked at him. The weight of her gaze made him want to sober up instantly.
"So," she said, standing up. She was small, delicate even, but she cast a shadow that seemed to swallow the room. "You are the new Master of Coin?"
"Uh," Wilhelm rubbed the back of his neck. "In title? Brandan insists. nepotism, really. Terrible business practice."
She walked around the desk. She stood right in front of him. Close enough that he could smell lavender and poison.
"Listen to me, you preening little pirate," she hissed. Her hand shot out, grabbing his damp lapel, pulling him down to her level. Her grip was iron.
"Brandan is the hammer. He breaks things. Baldur is the shield. He endures things. But I? I am the mind. I am the reason you won't all be hanging from the walls by sunrise."
She shoved a heavy iron key into his chest. It hit his ribs with a dull thud.
"The treasury," she said. "Use it. Buy loyalty. Bribe captains. If you can't buy them, find their debts and squeeze."
Wilhelm fumbled with the key, nearly dropping it. "Right. Squeeze. Got it."
She leaned in closer. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"And Wilhelm?"
"Yes?"
"I heard your little proposal earlier," she murmured. Her eyes were arctic. "Taking children as hostages. Creating a shield of innocents."
Wilhelm paled. "I... I retracted that! It was... brainstorming!"
"If you ever," Lydia said, punctuating every word with a poke to his chest, "If you ever endanger a child again to save your own worthless hide... I won't poison you. I won't hang you." She smiled. It was the scariest thing he had ever seen. "I will have you peeled. One inch at a time. While I drink my wine and watch."
She let go of him. Pushed him away.
Wilhelm stumbled back, hitting a bookshelf. "Understood. Crystal clear. No peeling. Big fan of my skin. Attached to it, really."
Lydia turned her back on him, returning to the desk. She looked bored. Utterly, royally bored.
"Go," she dismissed him with a wave of her hand. "The grown-ups have work to do."
Wilhelm nodded furiously. "Leaving. Gone. Just a vapor in the wind."
He turned for the door, practically sprinting.
"Oh," Lydia added, just as his hand touched the doorknob.
Wilhelm froze. "Yes?"
She gestured lazily with her wine glass towards the heavy velvet curtains on the far side of the room. They bulged slightly at the bottom.
"There are three Bladeblood assassins behind those drapes," she said casually.
"They came in about ten minutes ago. I paralyzed them with a paralytic mist before you arrived. They can see you. They can hear you. They just can't scream."
She took a sip.
"Be a dear and dispose of them on your way out? It saves me ringing for the maid. She's busy looking for an antidote that doesn't exist."
Wilhelm stared at the curtains. He stared at the bulge of bodies.
"Right," he squeaked. "Trash duty. Consider them disposed."
He opened the door, gave one last look at the golden-haired monster sitting calmly next to a corpse, and bolted into the storm.
He dragged the paralyzed weight through the Servant's Vein, narrow tunnels hidden behind the mahogany wainscoting so the highborn wouldn't have to see how the sausage or the laundry moved.
The walls were slick with Black-Grease, a lubricant used for the dumbwaiters that smelled like licorice and bad decisions.
The rain outside was a wall of water. It drummed on the black stone like a thousand nervous fingers.
Wilhelm dragged the third Bladeblood assassin to the edge of the promenade. The man was heavy dead weight, literally, even though his eyes were darting around in panic.
Wilhelm grunted, giving a final shove with his boot. The paralyzed body teetered, then tipped over the precipice.
Down.
Down into the gloom.
Past the bridges. Past the ventilation shafts.
Down to the Grotesque. To the muck and the rot below, where the magic-less scavengers waited.
Wilhelm didn't watch him fall. Instead, he shook the small pouch he'd lifted from the man's belt. Clink-clink. Annunaki silver. Nice tone.
He checked his other pocket. Two bronze pieces from the first guy. Not a fortune, but hey, beer money.
"Reduce, reuse, recycle," Wilhelm muttered to himself, pocketing the coin with a satisfied little pat.
He turned around and nearly bumped into a chestplate.
Gutrum Falken.
He was standing there like a statue left out in the rain, water streaming off his wolf-pelt cloak. He had seen everything. The looting. The shoving. The complete lack of reverence.
"They were warriors," Gutrum said. His voice wasn't angry. It was just tired. Bone-deep tired. "Enemies, yes. But men. To toss them like garbage... to steal from their pockets before their bodies are even cold?"
Wilhelm flinched. He wiped a wet hand on his coat, trying to look dignified. "Waste not, want not, Your Grace. The Grotesque will just strip them anyway. Probably eat them, knowing their table manners. Why let good silver go to the worms?"
Gutrum shook his head. He started walking again, his heavy boots splashing in the puddles, following the distant torchlights of Baldur's army.
Wilhelm scurried after him, half-jogging to keep up with Gutrum's long strides. The bridge they were on felt endless, a spine of stone connecting the peaks of this nightmare city.
"You judge me," Wilhelm panted, the rain matting his hair to his forehead. "You judge me, Lord Falken. I can feel it. It's coming off you in waves. Heavier than the damp."
"I worry for you, Wilhelm," Gutrum said, not looking down. He stared straight ahead at the backs of Baldur's soldiers. "You have a good heart. I've seen it. When you taught Brandan to laugh again after Lisa... after she passed. When you sat with the stable boys in Kaledon. There is light in you."
He paused, glancing sideways. His Archangel face was soft, almost painfully kind in the harsh lighting of the distant lightning strikes.
"But you bury it," Gutrum continued softly. "Under layers of grime. Under jokes. Under petty thefts. Why?"
Wilhelm slowed down. He looked at his hands. Bastard's hands. No ring of lordship. Just scars and ink stains.
"It's survival," Wilhelm muttered. "Down here... in the gutter... you have to be slippery. The stiff trees? They snap in the wind. Ask Brandan. Ask Hartmut. I'm just... bending."
"You are not in the gutter," Gutrum stopped. He turned fully, ignoring the rain soaking his expensive cloak. He put a hand on Wilhelm's shoulder. It felt warm, heavy. An anchor.
"You are standing on the Weeping Span. You are a Storm. You are my ward, in spirit if not by law. I looked at your father, Arnold... and I saw honor. I look at you, and I see a man terrified that if he stops dancing, the world will realize he's sad."
Wilhelm opened his mouth to make a quip. A joke about dancing lessons. Something about pirates. But the words died in his throat.
The rain ran down his cheeks, masking whatever else might be leaking out of his eyes.
"It's easy for you," Wilhelm whispered, his voice cracking.
"You're The Falken. The North. Honor is your currency. People pay you in respect just for waking up. Me? I walk into a room, and they count the silverware. I walk out, and they check if I left a stain."
He looked up at Gutrum, eyes wide and vulnerable for the first time that night.
"If I don't steal the scraps, Gutrum... who's going to feed me?"
Gutrum's face softened even more. He didn't pull away. He squeezed Wilhelm's shoulder.
"I would," Gutrum said simply. "Brandan would. We are family, Wilhelm. Blood or not. You don't need to be a thief to have a seat at our table. You just have to sit down."
The wind howled between the towers, a mournful, hollow sound.
Wilhelm stood there, feeling smaller than he ever had. The pouch of stolen silver felt heavy in his pocket. Dirty.
"I..." Wilhelm swallowed. He tried to summon the swagger, the Clown smirk. It fluttered and died. "I'm not a knight, Gutrum. I'm not... I can't be you."
"I don't need you to be me," Gutrum murmured. He let go of Wilhelm's shoulder, turning back to the path. "I just need you to be a man I can look at without wondering where my purse went."
He started walking again. A slow, steady march toward the war.
Wilhelm stood in the rain for a moment longer. He touched his pocket.
With a quick, violent motion, he grabbed the pouch of silver and bronze. He hurled it over the railing.
Splash.
He watched it vanish into the dark abyss.
[ SYSTEM ALERT: ITEM DISCARDED ]
Event: Voluntary Asset Disposal
Cause: Emotional Resonanz (Guthrum's Influence)
[ LOST INVENTORY ]
đź’° Currency: 50 Annunaki Silver
đź’° Currency: 25 Annunaki Bronze
Total Market Value: 5.250 Falken Thalers
 "Don't spend it all in one place," he whispered to the void.
Then he pulled up his collar, shook off the feeling of being exposed, and swayed after the Duke, adopting a drunken wobble that felt a little less fake than before.
"Wait up!" Wilhelm called out, jogging through the puddles. "And for the record... I never steal the silverware. Only the spoons. Nobody misses spoons!"