The door didn’t bang open this time. It just... clicked.

  And then there was a blur.

  A small, white-and-gold blur that moved way too fast for a human

  "Shiny Pants!"

  Wilhelm flinched, hand going to his empty flask, but the blur had already stopped. Or, paused. Vibrating.

  Pontifex Malachia stood on a crate of mushrooms. She wasn't wearing the ridiculous ceremonial robes anymore. She was back in her cupcake dress, but she had tied the frills up with leather straps, and she had charcoal or war paint? smeared under her eyes.

  She looked like a sugar-addicted raccoon.

  "I found a trainer!" she announced, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Ser Hestor. The guy with the melted face? He says if I swing a sword ten thousand times, my arms will stop looking like noodles. I’m at forty-two. Only nine thousand nine hundred and fifty-eight to go!"

  She punched the air. Shadowboxing.

  "And guess what? The Snake accepted!" She grinned, a gap-toothed, terrifying expression. "Alexander. The 2v1. Me and the Oaf versus the Pretty Boy. Brandan is throwing a fit, says he wants to 'solo the boss', but I told him to shut up or I'd excommunicate his beard."

  Wilhelm blinked, his brain still stuck in the previous scene with Volpert. "He... he accepted? Both of you?"

  "Yup!" Malachia hopped off the crate. "He thinks he's so cool. 'I shall dismantle you both,' he said. 'Like toys,' he said." She made a mocking face. "We're gonna kick his shins in, Wilhelm. We're gonna "

  The air changed.

  It didn't get colder. It got heavier.

  The smell of mushrooms and ozone vanished. Replaced by something old. Something dusty. Like the inside of a book that binds curses.

  Heavy footsteps. Thud. Thud. Measured. Inevitable.

  Malachia stopped bouncing. She froze.

  He wasn't running this time. He wasn't screaming "ANU!".

  He was calm.

  He wore his long, tattered vestments, the pages of the Mispaht ha elohim pinned to his skin with silver hooks. His glasses reflected the green light of the mushroom farm, making his eyes look like empty voids. He held a book in one hand. And a scourge a whip with nine tails, tipped with silver barbs in the other.

  "Uncle?" Malachia whispered. She looked small suddenly. "We... we were just talking strategy."

  Desmus didn't look at her. He didn't look at Freyda, who had placed a hand on her sword. He didn't look at Gutrum.

  He looked at Wilhelm.

  And he smiled.

  It wasn't a cruel smile. It was worse. It was beatific. Gentle. The smile of a doctor telling you that amputating your leg is going to be wonderful for your health.

  "The week has turned," Desmus said softly. His voice was like dry leaves skittering on stone. "The hourglass sands have fallen."

  Wilhelm felt his blood turn to ice slush.

  He knew that look. He knew that book.

  He instinctively stepped back, his hip bumping against the railing.

  "Your Grace," Wilhelm managed, his voice sounding thin, stretched. "We’re... we’re in the middle of a crisis. The food. The economy. I really don't have time for... theology."

  "Sin does not wait for the economy, Seth," Desmus stepped closer. The silver barbs of the scourge clicked against his leg. Click-clack.

  "You are a Bastard," Desmus stated. Not an insult. A biological fact in his world. "Born of lust. Born outside the Light. The darkness is in your marrow, boy. It accumulates. Like silt in a river."

  He adjusted his glasses.

  "If we do not drain it... you will drown."

  Gutrum Falken stepped forward. He moved like a wall, blocking Desmus’s path to Wilhelm.

  "Leave him be, Priest," Gutrum growled. "He has saved this city twice today. He is a hero."

  "He is unclean," Desmus replied, unbothered. He looked up at Gutrum with mild pity. "Heroism is an act. Blood is destiny. The Law of the Annunki Verse is clear. 'That which is born in shadow must be scourged by silver, lest the shadow eat the soul.'"

  Desmus looked past Gutrum, locking eyes with Wilhelm.

  "It is Tuesday, Wilhelm. It is time for the Cleansing."

  Wilhelm’s hand trembled. He hid it behind his back.

  He remembered the last Tuesday. And the one before. The cellar. The hooks. Desmus chanting while he... while he "helped".

  "Uncle, no!" Malachia shouted. She stomped her boot. "I forbid it! I am the Pontifex! I say he's clean! He's... he's shiny! Look at his pants!"

  "You are the Voice," Desmus said reverently, bowing his head slightly to her. "But you are young. You do not see the spiritual parasites wriggling in his aura. I do."

  He raised the scourge.

  "I do this for him, My Flower. If I do not flay the sin from his back, he will go to the Void. Do you want his soul to rot?"

  "I want him to not bleed!" Malachia screamed.

  Gutrum reached for his purse. He ripped it off his belt. Heavy. Full of gold.

  "Money," Gutrum barked. He threw the sack at Desmus’s feet. It burst open. Gold coins spilled into the muck. "Take it. For the Church. For the poor. Whatever. Just... buy the exemption. There is always an exemption."

  Desmus looked at the gold. He kicked a coin away with his sandal.

  "You cannot buy purity, Duke Falken," Desmus said, his voice dropping an octave. "Would you offer gold to a cancer to stop it from killing? Pain is the currency of salvation. There is no exchange rate."

  Behind Desmus, in the shadows, five Holy Knights appeared. Silent. Faceless helms. They weren't attacking. They were just... witnessing. Ensuring the ritual happened.

  Freyda drew her sword. SHING.

  "I will cut you in half," she rumbled. "Old man."

  Desmus looked at her. He laughed. A wheezing, delighted sound.

  "Yes! Strike me! Make me a martyr! And then watch as the entire Order of Annunaki burns this heretical city Kynoboros to ash before the sun sets!"

  He spread his arms.

  "Do it, Skullwarden! Send me to Anu!"

  Freyda hesitated. She looked at Wilhelm.

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  Wilhelm looked at the knights. At Malachia, who was hyperventilating, looking like she was about to cry or explode. At Gutrum, whose hand was shaking on his axe.

  If they fought... civil war. The Angels would turn on the Stormsongs. Helga would win. The city would starve.

  All because he didn't want to get hit.

  Wilhelm closed his eyes. He took a breath. It smelled of mushrooms and fear.

  "Stop," Wilhelm whispered.

  "Wilhelm, no," Gutrum pleaded. "We can... we can hide you."

  "He'll find me," Wilhelm said. He opened his eyes. He forced the mask back on. The crooked grin.But it was thin. Like paper over a gaping wound.

  "It's just... maintenance, Gutrum," Wilhelm lied, his voice cracking. "Like... changing the oil. Or... brushing your teeth. Very aggressive brushing."

  He stepped around Gutrum.

  He walked up to Desmus.

  Wilhelm was trembling. He couldn't stop it. His body remembered the silver barbs even if his brain tried to joke about it.

  "Is it the... the rack today?" Wilhelm asked softly.

  Desmus smiled. He reached out and touched Wilhelm’s cheek. His hand was rough, calloused, but his touch was tender.

  "No, my son. Just the lash today. The sin is... mild. We will be done before vespers."

  "Okay," Wilhelm whispered. "Okay."

  "NO!" Malachia ran forward. She grabbed Wilhelm’s hand. Her tiny fingers dug into his palm. "Don't go with him, Shiny Pants! I order you! I'm the Pope! Listen to me!"

  Wilhelm looked down at her. Her violet eyes were wide, wet with tears.

  He squeezed her hand. Then he gently peeled her fingers off.

  "You have a duel to train for, Shortstack," Wilhelm said. "Focus on that. Punch Alexander in the nose for me."

  "Wilhelm..."

  "Go," Wilhelm said.

  He turned to Desmus. "Lead the way, Your Grace. Let's get the... purification over with."

  Desmus nodded, satisfied. He placed a hand on Wilhelm’s shoulder right over the stitched wound from the arrow and guided him toward the dark corridor.

  "You are brave, Seth," Desmus murmured. "God loves those who bleed."

  They walked into the dark.

  Gutrum stood there, surrounded by gold coins he couldn't use.

  Freyda sheathed her sword, the sound loud and angry in the silence.

  And Malachia...

  Malachia stood in the center of the gantry, vibrating. Not with Wrongling energy this time.

  She kicked a crate of mushrooms. It shattered.

  "I hate this place," she screamed, her voice echoing off the cold stone walls, small and broken. "I hate this stupid, holy, broken place!"

  She fell to her knees in the dirt, sobbing.

  And nobody moved. Because there was nothing to fight. It was just the law. And the law was eating Wilhelm alive.

  The walk wasn't long. It just felt long.

  Like walking underwater. Or through molasses made of shame.

  Desmus held Wilhelm’s shoulder. His grip was firm, almost fatherly, if your father was a lunatic who believed bleeding was a form of hugging. They walked through the Lower Ward, past the hovels of the Clayborn, past the staring eyes of the people Wilhelm had just saved from starvation.

  The Holy Knights flanked them. Silver armor. Faceless helms. They marched in step. Clank. Clank. Clank.

  "Behold," Desmus announced to a group of muddy laborers who were trying to scrape moss off a wall for dinner. "Behold the vessel of impurity."

  The laborers looked up. They didn't jeer. They didn't throw rocks. They just looked... tired. And confused.

  "This man," Desmus preached, his voice echoing off the damp stone, "walks among you as a lord. But his blood? His blood is a lie. Born of a broken vow. Born of a night where lust choked the light."

  Wilhelm kept his eyes on the ground. He counted the cobblestones. One, two, cracked, three, missing...

  "He did not choose his sin!" Desmus shouted, stopping in the center of the Granary Plaza. "But he carries it! Like a tumor! And we, in our mercy, must cut it out!"

  Wilhelm sighed. A small, trembling exhale.

  "Can we skip the biography?" he whispered. "I know who my mother was. She was nice. She smelled like lavender."

  "Silence," Desmus said gently.

  He pushed Wilhelm forward. There was no post. No rack. Just the fountain in the center of the square. A dry, cracked fountain with a statue of a weeping angel.

  "Kneel, Seth."

  Wilhelm knelt. The stone was cold. It soaked through his pants instantly.

  He grabbed the edge of the fountain. His knuckles were white.

  He looked up.

  Directly ahead, looming over the plaza, was the Great Granary. The massive, windowless warehouse where they kept the reserves. The 31 billion calories. The only thing standing between the city and hell.

  It looked solid. Safe. A dark monolith against the grey sky.

  At least we have that, Wilhelm thought. At least I did that right.

  "For the cleansing of the blood," Desmus intoned behind him. The leather of the scourge creaked as he uncoiled it.

  "One."

  CRACK.

  The pain wasn't immediate. It was a delay. A second of nothing, and then a line of liquid fire erupted across his back. It cut through the faux-dragon coat like it was paper.

  Wilhelm gasped. His back arched involuntarily.

  "Two."

  CRACK.

  "Gah!" Wilhelm bit his lip. He tasted iron.

  "For the sin of the Father," Desmus chanted.

  "Three."

  CRACK.

  Wilhelm rested his forehead against the cold stone of the fountain. He didn't scream. He wouldn't give Desmus the satisfaction.

  But the tears came anyway. Hot, stupid, angry tears mixing with the rain.

  It wasn't the pain. He could handle pain. He’d been stabbed, burned, and thrown off roofs.

  It was the why.

  Why am I here? he thought, his vision blurring. Brandan is King. Baldur is General. And I’m just... the stain. The mistake. I fixed the economy. I hired the giantess. I found the food. And I'm still just the bastard kneeling in the mud.

  "Four."

  CRACK.

  The skin broke. He felt the warm slide of blood running down his spine.

  "Why couldn't I be normal?" Wilhelm whispered to the wet stone. "Why couldn't I be a baker? Or a shoe salesman? Why do I have to be this?"

  "Five."

  CRACK.

  "For the sin of the Mother."

  Wilhelm closed his eyes. He squeezed them shut until stars exploded behind his lids. He tried to think of a joke. A quip. Something about BDSM or bad massages.

  But nothing came. Just the hollow, crushing weight of being unloved by the universe.

  "Six."

  CRACK.

  Desmus was finding a rhythm now. The swing. The bite. The pull.

  Wilhelm was drifting. The blood loss, the exhaustion, the stress...

  "Seven."

  ...silence.

  The blow didn't come.

  Wilhelm waited. He flinched, anticipating the bite.

  Nothing.

  The chanting had stopped.

  The Clayborn weren't watching him anymore.

  Desmus wasn't breathing down his neck.

  Wilhelm opened his eyes.

  The light had changed.

  The gloom of the plaza was gone. Replaced by a flickering, angry orange glow. It danced on the water in the puddles. It reflected off the silver armor of the Holy Knights.

  Wilhelm lifted his head. It felt heavy.

  He looked at the Granary.

  "Oh," Wilhelm whispered. A broken, tiny sound.

  It wasn't a building anymore. It was a chimney.

  Black smoke, thick and oily, was pouring out of the ventilation slats. And then WHOOM the roof collapsed inward.

  A pillar of fire shot into the sky. It wasn't normal fire. It was green. Alchemical fire. Unstoppable.

  The smell hit him a second later.

  It wasn't the smell of roast pork.

  It was the smell of burning grain. Burning flour. Burning hope.

  "The food," Wilhelm croaked. He tried to stand up, but his legs failed him. He slipped in his own blood. "The... the food..."

  Desmus dropped the scourge. It splashed in the mud.

  The Archbishop stared at the inferno, his mouth open, his glasses reflecting the end of the world. Even he the madman knew what this meant.

  Then came the thundering of hooves.

  Brandan Stormsong rode into the plaza. He was on a massive warhorse, armored in black steel. He looked like in his prime a bull of a man, furious and terrifying.

  He pulled the horse up so hard it reared, screaming.

  "WATER!" Brandan roared. His voice cracked. "GET WATER! SAVE IT! SAVE THE GRAIN!"

  But nobody moved.

  Because you can't save ash.

  The fire was roaring, eating the stone, eating the timber, eating the future.

  Baldur arrived a second later. He wasn't riding. He was limping. He walked out of the smoke, his burnt face illuminated by the flames.

  He stood next to Wilhelm. He didn't look at his brother on the ground. He didn't look at the whip.

  He looked at the fire.

  He watched the Granary crumble.

  Baldur’s face didn't move. He didn't scream like Brandan. He didn't cry.

  He just... ground his teeth. Grind. Grind. Until Wilhelm thought the enamel would shatter.

  "It's gone," Baldur said. His voice was dead. "All of it."

  Brandan slid off his horse. He ran toward the fire. He swung his hammer at the burning doors, smashing them open, ignoring the heat that singed his beard.

  "NO!" Brandan howled, swinging the hammer again and again at the flames, fighting the fire like it was an enemy he could kill. "GIVE IT BACK! I AM THE KING! GIVE IT BACK!"

  He fell to his knees in the sparks, sobbing. A giant, broken bear.

  Wilhelm lay in the mud, the blood drying on his back. He watched the sparks fly up into the dark sky, joining the fake stars.

  The whipping was over.

  The hunger had begun.

  "Well," Wilhelm whispered, closing his eyes as the heat washed over him. "That solves the menu problem."