The smell of success, Wilhelm decided, tasted suspiciously like ozone and burnt hair.

  He was sitting on a crate near the bisected carcass of the Vorex, scraping "nutrient gel" out of a gland with his boot knife. It glowed a faint, sickly blue.

  "Bottoms up," he whispered, and swallowed the glob.

  It didn't taste like food. It tasted like pure energy. Like licking a battery. A jolt ran through his spine, making his fingers twitch.

  Wilhelm gasped, the air filling his lungs without that sharp, stabbing pain of broken bone. He stood up, did a little spin, and nearly tripped over a tentacle.

  "Graceful," he muttered. "Always graceful."

  He looked at his stats. The numbers were ticking up. The dopamine hit of the Level Up was better than the rum. Almost.

  "Decisions, decisions," Wilhelm murmured, tapping his chin. He looked at Freyda, who was currently wiping green sludge off her massive sword with a rag that looked comically small in her hand.

  He remembered the tentacle. The whack. The feeling of being a ragdoll.

  He had seen it coming. He just... hadn't moved.

  "Speed," Wilhelm decided. "I need to be faster than the slap."

  Wilhelm blinked. He waited for the rush. The feeling of time slowing down.

  Nothing happened.

  "Five milliseconds," he sighed, shoulders slumping. "I can now blink... marginally faster. Tremble, ye gods. The Blur has arrived."

  "We are done here," Freyda rumbled. She sheathed the sword. It sounded like a train coupling. KLANG. "The biomass is secured."

  She pointed at the pile of gory chunks the Vorex had dropped.

  "Right," Wilhelm adjusted his coat, trying to look lordly despite the mud on his face. "To the surface! To the... ugh... paperwork."

  The ride up the cage-elevator was less terrifying, mostly because Wilhelm was high on victory calories.

  When the gears ground to a halt at the surface level the entry to the lower district the gates rattled open.

  And there he was.

  Gutrum Falken.

  The Duke looked like he hadn't slept in a week. He was leaning on his axe, watching the Grotesque workers hauling rubble. When he saw Wilhelm, his face that hard, northern stone cracked into relief.

  "Wilhelm!"

  Gutrum stepped forward, his heavy boots splashing in a puddle. He looked ready to hug the boy, or shake him. "You went into the Undercroft? Alone? Are you mad?"

  "Tactically adventurous!" Wilhelm corrected, stepping out of the cage with a flourish. "And not alone. I brought the cavalry."

  He gestured grandly behind him.

  Freyda stepped out.

  She had to turn sideways to fit through the gate. She straightened up to her full seven-foot height, the shadows clinging to her scratched armor.

  Gutrum stopped.

  The warmth vanished from his face instantly. It was replaced by something cold. Something sharp.

  His eyes locked onto her breastplate. The sigil. The grinning skull vomiting worms.

  "Skullwarden," Gutrum spat. The word sounded like a curse.

  He didn't draw his axe, but his grip tightened until his knuckles were white. He stepped between Wilhelm and the giantess, shielding his ward.

  "What is this thing doing here, Wilhelm?" Gutrum’s voice was low, dangerous. "Why is a torturer walking freely?"

  Wilhelm froze. The air suddenly felt very thin.

  "Ah," Wilhelm waved his hands, stepping into the line of fire. "Gutrum. Father. Chill. This is Ser Freyda. She’s... she’s cool. She throws people. It’s very helpful."

  "They skin children," Gutrum said, not looking at Wilhelm, staring up at Freyda. "In the Pits. I have seen their work, Wilhelm. They take people apart to see how they scream. It is not a House. It is a disease."

  Freyda didn't move. She didn't reach for her sword. She didn't defend herself.

  She just stood there. A mountain of steel.

  "I know what we are, Lord Falken," she said. Her voice was flat. No anger. Just... exhaustion. A deep, hollow weariness.

  "Then why are you not in the Pits?" Gutrum challenged. "Did you run out of victims?"

  Wilhelm saw Freyda’s hand twitch. Just a micro-movement near her belt. Not aggression. Shame.

  "Hey!" Wilhelm snapped, losing the smile. He stepped right up to Gutrum, putting a hand on the Duke’s massive chestplate. "Enough. She saved my life down there. She took a hit that would have turned me into paste. She’s under Baldur’s orders. And mine."

  Gutrum looked down at Wilhelm. He saw the desperation in the boy's eyes. The need to believe that people could be more than their last name.

  "She is a Skullwarden," Gutrum repeated, softer now, but still hard. "The apple does not fall far from the poisoned tree."

  "She hates the tree!" Wilhelm argued, flailing an arm towards Freyda. "She hates it! Look at her! Does she look like she’s having fun? She looks like she wants to punch the sun!"

  Freyda looked away. She stared at a leaking pipe on the wall.

  "The Duke is right," she rumbled. "My blood is... unclean."

  "Oh, stop it," Wilhelm groaned, rubbing his temples. "Both of you. The brooding. It’s too much. I’m getting a headache."

  He turned to the Grotesque workers who were watching the drama.

  "You! Yes, you with the third ear! Come here!"

  Wilhelm pulled the blueprint from his pocket.

  "We have the biomass," Wilhelm announced, holding up the slimy chunk of Vorex meat. "And we have the gold. Vasco’s dirty, blood-soaked gold. Let’s build something that isn't a weapon for once."

  A rumble shook the floor. Not a monster this time. Magic. Construction magic.

  In the alcove behind them, the Grotesque began to work, melding the biomass with the stone, planting the spores. Green light pulsed.

  "One farm," Wilhelm whispered, watching the first grey mushrooms sprout instantly, accelerated by the Enmagic. "Five hundred thousand calories a day."

  He looked at the ledger in his mind.

  "Only two thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine to go," Wilhelm let out a hysterical little giggle. "Easy. Piece of cake."

  He turned back to Gutrum and Freyda. The tension was still there, thick as the fog. Gutrum was watching Freyda like a hawk watches a viper. Freyda was watching the floor.

  "We need to go up," Wilhelm said, stepping between them again, clapping his hands. "To the surface. I need to explain to a city why they're eating grey sludge for dinner."

  He looked at Freyda. He saw the way she hunched her shoulders, trying to make herself smaller under Gutrum’s glare.

  Wilhelm winked at her. It was a weak wink. A tired wink.

  "Come on, Tower," he said softly. "I'll let you carry the heavy stuff. You like heavy stuff."

  They left the heavy, suffocating silence of the lower chambers behind, the rhythmic thud of Gutrum’s boots on the metal stairs sounding like a slow beating drum.

  The ascent was a climb out of the shadows and into a realm where the air itself seemed to hum with a strange, vibrant energy.

  As they pushed through the final iron hatch and stepped onto the upper gantry, the sheer, impossible scale of the cavern hit them a "Sense of Beauty" that even Wilhelm couldn’t quite mask with a joke.

  It was a cathedral of desperation, a vast sea of ghostly bioluminescence stretching out into the dark. The light didn't shine; it pulsed, a rhythmic, sickly sweet glow that turned the mist into a swirling dance of silver and ash.

  Wilhelm stood at the railing, the wind from the massive ventilation shafts tugging at his coat, looking out over his kingdom of slime.

  It wasn't a palace, and it certainly wasn't a treasure fleet, but in the dim, shimmering light, the vastness of it all felt... grand. Almost beautiful, in a terrifying, profitable sort of way.

  The mushrooms were ugly.

  Let’s be honest. They looked like grey brains that had been left in a bucket of rainwater for a week. They smelled like wet socks and salvation.

  Wilhelm leaned over the iron railing of the upper gantry, staring down into the cavernous repurposed cistern. Below, hundreds of Grotesque workers were moving in a rhythmic, slimy ballet, harvesting the first rapid-growth batch.

  "Beautiful," Wilhelm sighed, wiping a smudge of dirt from his nose. "It’s hideous. I want to frame a picture of it."

  Gutrum Falken stood beside him, his arms crossed. He didn't look at the mushrooms. He looked at the workers. "They are fed?"

  "First batch goes to the labor force," Wilhelm nodded. "Second batch to the orphanages. Third batch... well, we boil it into paste and pretend it's gourmet for the nobility."

  Freyda loomed behind them, a silent shadow. She was eating a raw mushroom. Just popped it in her mouth. Crunch.

  "It tastes like dirt," she stated.

  "Nutritious dirt," Wilhelm corrected. "High fiber. Builds character."

  For a moment, it was peaceful. The hum of the Enmagic grow-lights, the squelch of the harvest, the feeling that maybe just maybe they weren't going to die of starvation next Tuesday.

  Then the door at the far end of the gantry banged open.

  It wasn't a tactical entry. It was an announcement.

  "Mother, it smells like a privy in here. Why did we come? My boots are getting dusty."

  The voice was high. Whiny. It sounded like a violin being played with a cheese grater.

  Wilhelm stiffened. His headache, which had receded, came back with a vengeance.

  "The Prince," Wilhelm whispered. "Joy."

  Lydia Ironvine walked in first. She was immaculate. In a city of soot and blood, she wore a gown of deep crimson velvet, gold thread catching the light. She didn't walk; she glided. Her face was a mask of cold, serene power.

  And holding her hand... was Volpert.

  Volpert Ironvine-Stormsong. Brandan’s son.

  He was eleven years old. He had Brandan’s height tall for his age but none of the muscle. He was willow-thin, with Lydia’s golden hair and a face that was almost too pretty. Like a porcelain doll that someone had left out in the sun too long.

  He wore a miniature suit of ceremonial armor. Gold-plated. Useless. And on his hip, a small, intricate crossbow.

  "Look at them, Mother," Volpert sneered, pointing down at the Grotesque workers. "They look like slugs. Can I shoot one? Just to see if they pop?"

  Lydia smiled. It was a terrifyingly gentle smile. She smoothed his hair.

  "Not today, my sweet Hero" she purred. "We are here to inspect the... provisions. Your father is busy being King. We must ensure the cattle are fed."

  They walked up to the railing.

  Wilhelm bowed. A sloppy, half-hearted thing. "Lady Lydia. Little Lord. Welcome to the salad bar."

  Volpert didn't look at Wilhelm. He looked at Freyda.

  He crinkled his nose.

  "You," Volpert said. He pointed a gloved finger at the seven-foot juggernaut. "You're the Skullwarden bitch."

  Gutrum’s axe shifted on his back. A tiny noise. Clink.

  Freyda didn't blink. She chewed her mushroom.

  "I am Ser Freyda," she rumbled.

  "You're ugly," Volpert announced. He turned to his mother, looking for validation. "Isn't she, Mother? She looks like a troll. Why is she allowed in the castle? Father said we killed the monsters."

  "She is useful, darling," Lydia said, staring coldly at Freyda. "Like a guard dog. You don't have to like the dog, you just have to let it bite your enemies."

  Volpert grinned. A cruel, wet little grin.

  He drew his crossbow.

  It was loaded. A sharp little bolt with red fletching.

  "Dance, dog," Volpert giggled.

  He aimed at Freyda’s face.

  Wilhelm’s heart stopped.

  "Whoa!" Wilhelm stepped forward, hands up. "Hey! Easy with the hardware, kid! That’s a legendary tank you’re pointing at. She breaks people for a living."

  Volpert swung the crossbow toward Wilhelm. His eyes pale blue, watery, empty of anything resembling empathy narrowed.

  "Don't tell me what to do," Volpert hissed. "I'm the Prince. I'm the Heir. I can shoot who I want."

  He looked at the harvest below.

  "This food is disgusting," Volpert declared. "It's grey. I don't want grey food. I want lemon cakes. Mother, tell them to grow lemon cakes."

  "We... we can't grow cakes, My Lord," Wilhelm tried to explain, keeping his eye on the crossbow. "Biology doesn't work like that. We need biomass and "

  "Boring!" Volpert screamed.

  He pulled the trigger.

  Thwip.

  The bolt flew over the railing.

  It didn't hit a mushroom.

  It hit a Grotesque worker below. A hunchbacked man carrying a crate. The bolt took him in the shoulder.

  The worker screamed and dropped the crate. Mushrooms spilled everywhere into the muck.

  "Bullseye!" Volpert laughed. He clapped his hands, jumping up and down. "Did you see that? He squealed! Do it again! Reload me, Mother!"

  He shoved the crossbow at Lydia.

  Lydia took it. She began to span the mechanism, her movements graceful, efficient.

  Gutrum stepped forward. His shadow fell over the boy.

  "That man," Gutrum said, his voice like grinding stones, "is working to feed your city, boy. You just wounded a servant of the realm."

  Volpert looked up at Gutrum. He didn't look scared. He looked insulted.

  "He's a mutant," Volpert sneered. "He's dirt. And you..." He looked at Gutrum's worn cloak. "You smell like a horse. Mother, make the horse-man go away. He's ruining my view."

  Lydia handed the loaded crossbow back to her son.

  "Lord Falken," Lydia said, her voice icy. "Do not speak to the Crown Prince in that tone. He is practicing his aim. A King must know how to strike."

  "At defenseless laborers?" Gutrum growled.

  "At whatever he chooses," Lydia snapped.

  Volpert raised the crossbow again. He aimed at the worker who was writhing on the ground.

  "I'm going to hit his head this time," Volpert whispered, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration.

  Wilhelm looked at Freyda.

  Her hand was on her sword hilt. Her knuckles were white.

  If she moved, she would kill the boy. If she killed the boy, Lydia would burn the city.

  Wilhelm moved.

  He didn't draw a weapon. He stumbled.

  He did a fantastic, flailing, drunken stumble right into Volpert.

  "Whoops!" Wilhelm yelled.

  He body-checked the Prince. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to knock him off balance.

  Thwip.

  The crossbow fired. The bolt went wild, hitting the ceiling.

  Volpert stumbled back, tripping on his own cape. He landed on his butt in the dust.

  "My armor!" Volpert shrieked. He scrambled up, face red, eyes tearing up instantly. "He pushed me! Mother! The Bastard pushed me!"

  "I slipped!" Wilhelm gasped, holding his hands up, looking terrified. "The floor! So slippery! It's the humidity! Terrible design flaw!"

  Lydia’s eyes flashed. For a second, Wilhelm thought she was going to order his execution.

  But she looked at Gutrum. Then at Freyda. She did the math.

  She grabbed Volpert by the shoulder.

  "Up," she commanded.

  "He touched me!" Volpert wailed, pointing a shaking finger at Wilhelm. "I want his hands cut off! Now! Do it, Mother! Cut them off!"

  "We are leaving," Lydia said. She glared at Wilhelm. "You are clumsy, Master of Coin. See that it doesn't happen again. Accidents can be... fatal."

  She dragged the protesting, screaming Prince toward the door.

  "I want lemon cakes!" Volpert’s voice echoed as they left. "And I want the dog-woman's head! I want it on my wall!"

  SLAM.

  The door closed.

  Silence returned to the gantry.

  Wilhelm let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for a year. He leaned against the railing, his knees actually shaking.

  "Well," Wilhelm said, pulling a flask from his pocket (it was empty, but the habit was comforting). "That’s the future of the Kingdom. Charming lad. Very... spirited."

  Gutrum spat on the floor.

  "He is a rot," Gutrum said darkly. "Brandan doesn't see it. He thinks the boy is just 'strong-willed'. But that..." He looked at the door. "Cruelty without strength."

  Freyda looked at the spot where the bolt had hit the ceiling.

  "I could have caught the bolt," she said.

  "I know," Wilhelm sighed. "But you can't catch stupid, Tower. Stupid is sticky."

  He looked down at the wounded worker being helped by others.

  "I need a drink," Wilhelm muttered. "A big one. Before I realize that I just saved a city so that... thing... can rule it."

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