The window latch snapped with a crisp, expensive sound, reminding Wilhelm unpleasantly of Duke Halven Cavendish’s philosophy on "structural perfection" everything in its place, or broken. He tumbled onto a rug woven from imported Ironvine-Silk, smelling of lavender and the kind of aggressive cleanliness that usually hides a body.

  She wasn't praying. She wasn't crying.

  She was hanging upside down from the chandelier.

  Seriously.

  The girl Clara had her legs hooked over the crystal branches of a massive Enmagic light fixture, swinging back and forth like a bored pendulum. Her silver hair dangled down like a curtain. She was holding a half-eaten tart in one hand and a golden fork in the other, and she was using the fork to try and pry a gemstone out of the ceiling fresco.

  Wilhelm froze. His rapier was half-raised. His "I am a scary monster" speech died in his throat.

  "You're late," the girl said. She didn't even look down. She just kept picking at the ceiling. Scritch. Scritch. "The guard change was ten minutes ago. You’re sloppy."

  Wilhelm blinked. He lowered the sword a fraction. "I... beg your pardon?"

  "Sloppy!" She shouted it, swinging herself up and dropping to the floor with a surprising, cat-like grace. Thump.

  She was small. Twelve, maybe? But she had energy that vibrated the air around her. She wore a dress that looked like a cupcake exploded layers of pink and white frills but she wore it with combat boots. Muddy combat boots.

  She took a bite of the tart, chewing aggressively, crumbs flying everywhere.

  "You're the kidnapper, right?" She pointed the sticky fork at him. "Obviously. You look like you slept in a sewer. And you have that 'I'm desperate and my life is a series of bad choices' look in your eyes."

  Wilhelm opened his mouth. Closed it. Swayed a little. "I... I am Wilhelm Storm! And I am here to "

  "Yeah, yeah, Stormsong, bastard, yadda yadda," she interrupted, waving her hand dismissively. She walked right up to him. No fear. None. She poked his coat with the fork. "Is that real leather? No, wait, don't tell me. It's faux-dragon skin. Cheap. Tacky."

  She looked up at him. Her eyes were huge, electric violet, and sparkling with mischief.

  "So?" she demanded, hands on her hips. "Are we going? Because this place is boring. I've counted the tiles. Four thousand, six hundred and two. I took apart the clockwork bird. It was boring too. I need out."

  Wilhelm stared at her.

  "I have a sword," he said weakly. He lifted it slightly. "I am... dangerous."

  "You're shaking," she observed, snatching a grape from a bowl on the table and popping it into her mouth. "And you're bleeding on the rug. Uncle Desmus is going to be so mad. He loves this rug. It's ugly, but he loves it."

  She zoomed around him literally zoomed, she was fast inspecting him from all angles.

  "You're the Bastard Knight, aren't you? The one who fights with ice and... spoons?" She giggled. A snorting sound."That's hilarious. You're like a Wrongling in your own blood a messed-up stitch the gods forgot to fix."Wilhelm looked at the sword in his hand.

  Then he looked at her. A twelve-year-old girl in combat boots who was currently trying to balance the tart on her head.

  Hostage.

  The word felt like sludge in his brain. Vasco wanted a lever. Lydia wanted a shield.

  Wilhelm looked at his reflection in the mirror behind her. He saw the stitches. He saw the fear. He saw a man who was one step away from being the villain in everyone else's story.

  "I can't," Wilhelm whispered.

  The swagger vanished.He just looked tired.

  He sheathed the rapier. Click.

  "I can't do it," he muttered, rubbing his face with a wet glove. "I'm not... I'm not a kidnapper. I'm just a guy who owes money to bad people."

  Clara stopped balancing the tart. The tart fell. Splat.

  She looked at him. The sass faded for a split second, revealing something else. Loneliness? Curiosity?

  "You're not taking me?" she asked. She sounded... disappointed.

  "No," Wilhelm sighed, leaning against a dresser because his knees were shaking. "I'm going to... I don't know. Jump out the window? Go find a drink? But dragging a kid into a war zone? Even I have standards. Low ones, but they exist."

  He turned back to the window. Defeated.

  "Wait!"

  Clara was in front of him again. Blocking the exit.

  "You can't leave!" she hissed. Her eyes were wide. "If you leave, I have to go back to piano lessons! Do you know how heavy a piano is? It's torture! And Uncle Desmus smells like old soup!"

  She grabbed his coat sleeve.

  "Take me with you," she pleaded. Then a grin spread across her face. A wicked, sugar-fueled grin. "I know where he keeps the good gold. And the magic stuff. We can steal it! We can be partners! 'The Wrongling and the Bastard'! It sounds cool, right?"

  Wilhelm looked down at her.

  "You want to... break out?"

  "Duh!" She rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful. "I've been trying to escape for three years! I built a rope out of bedsheets but the maid found it. Come on, Shiny Pants! Be a monster! Be a bad guy! It's fun!"

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Wilhelm felt a headache coming on. A massive one.

  But for the first time that night... the fear in his chest loosened just a tiny bit.

  "Partners?" Wilhelm asked, a slow, crooked smile tugging at his lips.

  "Partners," Clara declared. She held out a small, sticky hand. "50/50 split on all loot. And I get to drive if we find a carriage."

  Wilhelm looked at the hand. He shook it.

  "Gods help me," Wilhelm muttered to the ceiling. "I think I just adopted a hurricane."

  Stepping onto the balcony felt like walking into the mouth of a beast; the gargoyles here were carved in the likeness of the First Heretics, their stone mouths gagged with lead to stop them screaming. Below, the city sprawled like a broken plate, sharp and waiting to cut anyone stupid enough to fall, just as Queen Seraphine Bladeblood intended when she designed this nightmare skyline.

  The descent wasn't graceful. It was basically a controlled fall with style.

  Wilhelm slid down a gargoyle’s frozen tongue, clutching the silk rope like it was the only thing between him and a very flat death. The rain lashed at his face, blinding him.

  "Weeeeeee!"

  Clara zipped past him. She wasn't using the rope. She was literally surfing down the flying buttress on her combat boots, arms out, cackling like a maniac.

  "Slow down!" Wilhelm shrieked, his voice cracking an octave higher than he would ever admit to. "This isn't a playground! It’s Gothic architecture! It’s full of spikes!"

  She hit the ground first. Thud. A perfect ten-point landing in a puddle of muck that looked suspiciously like sewage. Splash.

  Wilhelm landed a second later. Oof. He rolled, tangled in his coat, hit a crate of rotting turnips, and ended up on his back, staring at the concrete void above.

  "Zero points for style," Clara announced, leaning over him. She was already eating another grape. Where did she get the grape? He didn't see a pocket. "You looked like a dying swan. A very drunk dying swan."

  Wilhelm groaned, peeling a wet turnip leaf off his face. He sat up, checking his limbs. Still attached.

  "I," Wilhelm wheezed, struggling to his feet and swaying dangerously to the left, "was employing a tactical descent strategy. It’s called... falling with purpose."

  He tried to sheath his rapier. Missed. Tried again. Missed. Eventually, he just shoved it into his belt loops and hoped he wouldn't stab his own thigh.

  "Come on,Bastard!" Clara grabbed his hand her grip was surprisingly strong, sticky with sugar and yanked him into the labyrinth of the streets. "The war is that way! I can smell the smoke! It smells like burnt toast and bad decisions!"

  They navigated the Avenue of the Tithe, a miserable stretch of cobblestone laid down by King Malovar Ironvine, who had famously tried to tax the fog before the people rioted. The air here was heavy, tasting of ozone and the rotting bouquets left at the shrines of Queen Selene Stormsong, the only royal who ever bothered to pray for better weather.

  They walked through the twisted, empty streets of the Moonclaw district.

  Well, Clara skipped. She jumped over puddles. She balanced on curbs. She kicked a dead rat into a sewer grate ("Goal!").

  Wilhelm just tried to keep up, his walk a permanent, lopsided stagger. Hands fluttering in the air as he tried to explain the complexities of the world to a twelve-year-old in a cupcake dress.

  "So, let me get this straight," Clara said, interrupting his monologue about the socio-economic impact of rain. "You didn't break in to steal the gold? Or the gems? You broke in to steal... me?"

  She stopped hopping. She looked at him, head tilted. "That's kinda creepy, Shiny Pants. Do you collect kids? Because I bite. Hard."

  Wilhelm stopped. He leaned against a lamppost that flickered with dying magical light. He looked at her.

  "Not steal," he corrected, wiggling his fingers. "Borrow. Leverage. A bargaining chip."

  He sighed, the weight of the night crashing down on him again. The mask felt heavy.

  "Look, Shortstack. The plan... the original plan... was to grab you. Drag you to the Cathedral. And tell your Uncle Desmus that if he didn't call off his shiny metal dogs, you'd have an unfortunate accident involving gravity."

  Clara blinked. She didn't look scared. She looked... impressed?

  "You were gonna use me as a human shield?" She grinned. "Bold. I like it. Very villainous."

  "I wasn't actually going to do it," Wilhelm muttered, looking at his boots. "I can't even kill a spider. I usually just cup them and put them outside. But... my family. They're dying in there, Clara. Right now."

  He pointed toward the glowing white dome of the Cathedral in the distance. The sky above it was flashing with Enmagic explosions.

  "Brandan... he's an idiot. A big, lovable, murderous idiot. He killed King Hartmut. Smashed him. Paste. And now the Church wants his head. And Baldur... Baldur is probably trying to out-stubborn a Fire beam right now."

  Wilhelm ran a hand through his soaked hair.

  "I need the Archbishop to pardon Brandan. To say, 'Hey, killing Kings is fine actually, here's a crown, have a nice day.' And you... you're the only thing the old man cares about. So... yeah. I was gonna kidnap you."

  Clara stared at him. She chewed on her lip.

  "You need a pardon," she mused. "And a legit-i-mization. Big word. Boring word."

  "Essential word," Wilhelm countered. "Without it, we're just rebels. Rebels get hanged. Kings get statues."

  "Who's fighting?" Clara asked suddenly. Her voice dropped. The playful bounce was gone. "Besides your brothers. Who is leading the defense?"

  "Everyone," Wilhelm waved a hand vaguely. "The Angels. The Tincti. And... well, that preening peacock, Ser Alexander Shadowgrove. The Violet Eye. He's running the show."

  The change was instant.

  Clara stopped moving.

  It was like the air around her froze. The playful, sugar energy vanished, replaced by something cold. Something old.

  Her hands balled into fists at her sides. Her knuckles turned white. Her violet eyes usually so bright and mocking darkened until they looked like bruises.

  "Alexander," she whispered. The name sounded like she was spitting broken glass.

  "Yeah, him," Wilhelm nodded, not noticing the shift at first. "Guy loves apples. Throws them at rats. Annoying perfectionist. Hair is too nice."

  "He killed my father," Clara said.

  Wilhelm stopped swaying. He looked down.

  "Oh," he said softly. "Ah."

  "He didn't just kill him," Clara continued, staring at a puddle, her voice shaking with a rage that was way too big for her small body. "He erased him. He made it look like an accident. A magic failure. But I saw. I was six, but I saw the purple smoke. I saw him smile."

  She looked up at Wilhelm. There were no tears. Just pure, unadulterated hate.

  "Uncle Desmus knows. But he won't do anything. 'Alexander is the Sword of the Church', he says. 'We need him', he says." She kicked a stone so hard it sparked against the wall. "If I was the Archbishop... I would have Alexander skinned. I would put his head on a spike and feed his eyes to the crows."

  She took a deep breath. Shaky. Fragile.

  "But I can't," she whispered. "He's Level 1000. Or whatever. He's a god. And I'm just... the niece."

  Wilhelm watched her. He saw the crack in the armor. The lonely, angry kid hiding inside the loud, bratty Wrongling.

  He stepped closer. He didn't pat her head. He didn't offer a hug. He just bowed. A sweeping, ridiculous, theatrical bow, hand over his heart.

  "Well then, My Lady Wrongling ," Wilhelm said, flashing a grin that was only half fake. "It seems we have a common enemy. I want him humiliated. You want him dead. I think that's a beautiful foundation for a friendship."

  Clara looked at him. The darkness receded a little, pushed back by the absurdity of the man in the wet coat bowing in the mud.

  "You want the pardon?" she asked sharply.

  "Desperately."

  "And you want your brother to be King?"

  "Preferably. He has the hammer for it."

  "Fine." Clara stomped her boot. Splash. "Then let's go. I'll get you your pardon."

  "You will?" Wilhelm blinked. "Just like that? You're going to ask nicely?"

  Clara let out a short, terrifying laugh.

  "Ask? No, Shiny Pants. Uncle Desmus doesn't listen to asking. But he listens to me." She tapped her chest. "I'm the heir. The secret heir. If I walk onto that battlefield and tell him to stop, he stops. Or I hold my breath until I pass out. I'm really good at that."

  She grabbed Wilhelm’s coat sleeve again and started dragging him toward the fires.

  "Come on! Let's go ruin Alexander's night! And if you let me die, I will haunt you forever. I'll be a really annoying ghost. I'll hide your keys and make your socks wet."

  Wilhelm stumbled after her, struggling to regain his balance.

  "Deal," Wilhelm muttered, breaking into a run to keep up with her little legs. "Wet socks I can handle. Alexander Shadowgrove? That's a different problem."

  They ran into the smoke, the Bastard and the Wrongling, heading straight for the meat grinder.