The Matriarch looked at the sheer wall, then at me. "You cannot fly, Master Storm."
"No," I grinned, tapping the new scroll icon in my mind. "But I can dangle."
I aimed my wrist at a gargoyle jutting out sixty feet above.
"Thwip."
A thick, white rope of organic adhesive shot from my wrist. It hit the stone beast with a wet thwack. I tugged. It held.
"Physics," I muttered. "Don't fail me now."
I pulled. The line retracted, yanking me off the ground with a force that nearly dislocated my shoulder.
"GAAAAH!"
I didn't soar gracefully. I flailed like a drunk caught in a fishing net. I slammed into the wall, scrambled for purchase, and fired again.
"Thwip!"
Higher. Past the stained glass windows. Past the screaming gargoyles.
"Thwip!"
I crested the railing of the High Prince’s balcony. I landed in a heap, rolling to absorb the impact, my [Endurance: 10] barely keeping my bones inside my skin.
I stood up, panting.
There he was.
Prince Volpert.
He was standing near the door, peering over the edge at the battle below, eating a lemon cake. He turned, seeing me. His eyes went wide. Crumbs fell from his lips.
"You..." Volpert squeaked. "You're supposed to be dead. My uncle is down there!"
"Your uncle is busy being sad," I snarled, stepping forward. My hand itched to introduce his face to the pommel of my Weapon. "And I am busy being angry."
I lunged.
I was going to smash him. I was going to break his nose again.
WHOOSH.
A wall of green fire erupted between us.
I skidded to a halt, shielding my face as the heat seared my eyebrows.
Lydia descended from the upper archway. She wasn't wearing a dress. She was wearing the Iron-Thorn Battle Plate. Green steel that pulsed with magic. Jets of alchemical fire shot from her boots, keeping her hovering inches off the ground.
She looked like a goddess of war.
"Wilhelm," she said. Her voice was calm. Disappointed. "You persist in being a nuisance."
"I'm a weed, love," I wheezed, backing away. "Hard to kill."
She raised a gauntleted hand.
"Burn."
She fired a blast of concentrated flame.
I couldn't move fast enough. The fire hit me.
BOOM.
I flew backward, slamming into the stone railing. My [Rib-Cage Plate] absorbed the worst of it, but the heat... gods, the heat.
"Gah!" I screamed, rolling on the floor, my coat smoking. "That... that hurt!"
Lydia floated toward me. She was fast. Too fast. She drew a sword made of green crystal.
"You threaten my son," she stated. "You die."
She swung.
I didn't try to parry. [Strength 10] vs [Strength 150]? My arm would explode.
"Web!" I screamed, firing blindly at the ceiling.
The web caught a chandelier. I yanked.
I was pulled into the air just as her sword cleaved the stone where my head had been. CRACK. The balcony floor split open.
I swung over her head.
"Stand still!" Lydia commanded, spinning in the air, her boots flaring. She chased me. She was flying. I was swinging.
"I'm a spider!" I yelled hysterically. "You can't catch a spider with a sword!"
I fired another web at a pillar behind her.
"Thwip!"
I swung around the pillar, using the centrifugal force to gain speed. Lydia shot another fireball. It singed my heels.
"Cool down!" I gasped.
I aimed my hand at the floor in front of her.
"Sheet Ice!"
The balcony floor froze.
Lydia landed to pivot. Her jet-boots melted the ice instantly, creating a cloud of steam.
Blindness.
She couldn't see me through the fog.
"Volpert!" Lydia screamed. "Get inside!"
I dropped from the web, landing behind a statue. I was shaking. Bleeding. 2,600 ml. I was halfway to dead.
But Lydia was distracted by the steam.
I saw him. Volpert. He was running toward the inner sanctum doors.
But a guard blocked the path. Not to protect Volpert to protect the door from me.
A Tincti Elite.
"Out of my way!" I roared, charging.
The Tincti raised a shield. "For the Ironvine!"
I didn't have time for a duel. Lydia would clear the steam in seconds.
"I don't have time for physics!" I yelled. "I choose chemistry!"
I raised my hand.
"Thermal Shock!"
A beam of red heat hit the Tincti’s shield. It glowed orange.
"Freeze!"
The beam turned blue.
PING-SHATTER.
The shield exploded. The metal couldn't handle the stress. The Tincti screamed as shards of his own defense embedded in his arm. He staggered.
I didn't stop. I used the momentum.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
I swung the heavy cleaver.
THUD.
It hit him in the side of the helmet. He dropped like a sack of potatoes.
I stepped over the body.
Volpert was fumbling with the door handle. His hands were shaking too much to open it.
"Going somewhere, Your Highness?" I rasped.
Volpert turned around. He saw me.
Blood dripping from my nose. Smoke rising from my coat. A giant cleaver in one hand.
"Don't!" Volpert shrieked. "My mother is right there! She'll kill you!"
"She might," I said, lunging.
I grabbed him by the collar of his silk shirt. I slammed him against the door.
I put the cold, serrated edge of the Marrow-Cleaver against his throat.
"Let her come," I whispered into his ear.
The steam cleared.
Lydia floated in the air, ten feet away. Her sword was raised. Her hand was glowing with fire.
She froze.
She saw the blade at her son's neck.
"Drop it," Lydia said. Her voice was absolute zero. "Drop him, Wilhelm, or I will melt the flesh from your bones."
I pressed the blade closer to Volpert’s skin. A single drop of royal blood welled up.
"Do it," I challenged, my voice shaking with adrenaline and blood loss. "Burn me. But I guarantee my hand slips before I die."
Volpert began to wail. "Mother! Mother help me! He's going to cut me!"
Volpert’s eyes rolled back. He went limp in my grip. He peed himself.
"Pathetic," I spat.
I looked at Lydia. The Iron Lady. She lowered her sword. Her fire went out.
"You win," she whispered. "Let him go."
"Not yet," I grinned, blood coating my teeth. "We have a tournament to discuss."
I dragged the sobbing Prince toward the edge of the balcony, holding him like a shield.
The doors to the balcony didn’t open; they exploded inward.
It wasn’t magic. It was the sheer, unadulterated rage of a father who has seen his child broken.
Gutrum Falken stepped through the debris of the shattered lock. He looked like the North personified a storm of grey wool and cold iron. His axe was in his hand, and for the first time since I’d known him, he didn’t look like a noble. He looked like an executioner.
Behind him came Freyda, the walking mountain, and my Gale-Force scouts, their crossbows trained on every shadow.
And then... Astrid.
She walked in front of her father. Her left arm was encased in a heavy plaster cast, strapped to her chest. Her face was pale, waxy with pain, but her eyes...
Her eyes were two burning coals in a pile of ash.
She saw Volpert. The boy I was holding against the railing. The boy who had ordered her bones snapped like dry twigs.
She didn't scream. She didn't run. She just stared at him. It was the stare of a wolf looking at a trapped rabbit.
"You," she whispered.
Volpert whimpered in my grip. "Get them away! Mother! They’re looking at me!"
"Silence!"
The roar came from the hallway.
Brandan Stormsong stomped onto the balcony. He wasn't wearing his crown. He was wearing his war-face. His beard bristled with fury, his massive chest heaving like a bellows.
He looked at the scene. Me, bleeding and holding a cleaver to his son’s throat. Lydia, hovering in her battle armor, ready to burn the world. Gutrum, ready to chop the world in half.
"What," Brandan bellowed, his voice shaking the stone, "is happening in my house?"
"Your brother," Lydia hissed, landing gracefully on the stone, her green crystal sword still glowing, "is threatening the Heir. He broke into the Solar. He attacked the guards."
"He broke my nose!" Volpert lied, tears streaming down his face. "He tried to kill me, Father! Save me!"
Brandan looked at me. He saw the blood dripping from my chin. He saw the desperate look in my eyes.
Then he looked at Astrid.
He saw the cast. The bruises. The way she stood there, broken but unbowed.
Brandan’s face changed. The anger didn't leave, but it shifted. It curdled into something darker.
"Volpert," Brandan said. His voice was dangerously quiet.
He walked over to me. He didn't push me away. He reached out and grabbed Volpert by the tunic, effortlessly lifting the boy out of my grip.
He held his son up like a wet cat.
"Did you do this?" Brandan asked, pointing a thick finger at Astrid.
"I... I..." Volpert stammered, dangling in the air. "She was disrespectful! She touched me! I am the Prince!"
"She is a child!" Brandan roared, shaking the boy so hard his teeth rattled. "She is family! And you had her arm broken?"
"He's just a boy, Brandan!" Lydia screamed, stepping forward. "Put him down! He was asserting his authority!"
"Authority?" Brandan spun on his wife. "This isn't authority, Lydia! This is sickness! This is Hartmut's sickness!"
He looked at his son with pure disgust.
"You didn't even do it yourself, did you?" Brandan growled. "You stood there and watched. Who? Who did you send? My Ironvine guards?"
"N-no," Volpert squeaked. "Uncle Damian wouldn't let me. He said it was dishonorable."
"Then who?" Brandan shook him again. "Who broke the girl?"
"The Purifiers!" Volpert sobbed. "The Shadowgrove men! They said it was holy! They said she was a sinner because she was crippled!"
The name hung in the air like poison gas.
Shadowgrove.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "Alexander's men. The fanatics."
Brandan dropped Volpert. The boy hit the stone floor with a thud, scrambling backward toward his mother's skirts.
"Alexander," Brandan spat the name. "He brings his zealots into my home. He poisons my knights. He breaks my ward's daughter."
He turned to Gutrum.
"Gutrum. I..."
"Don't apologize," Gutrum said. His voice was flat. "Just make it right."
Brandan looked at Volpert, who was clutching Lydia’s leg, peeking out with teary, terrified eyes.
"Get up," Brandan commanded.
Volpert shook his head. "No. You'll hit me."
"I should," Brandan growled. "I should beat the cruelty out of you until you learn what pain actually feels like."
Lydia stepped in front of the boy, her sword raised. "Touch him, Brandan, and we will see who bleeds."
Brandan laughed. A bitter, hollow sound.
"I don't have to touch him, woman. He's already broken."
He stepped aside. He looked at Astrid.
"Little Wolf," Brandan said softly.
Astrid looked up at the giant King.
"He hurt you," Brandan said. "He ordered it. He enjoyed it."
Brandan pointed at his own son.
"Hit him."
The silence on the balcony was absolute.
"Brandan!" Lydia shrieked. "Are you mad? He is the Prince!"
"He is a coward!" Brandan shouted back. "And he needs to learn that when you hurt a wolf, the wolf bites back! Go on, Astrid! Hit him! Teach him the lesson I failed to teach!"
Lydia moved to intercept, but Freyda stepped in. THOOM. The giantess blocked Lydia’s path with her massive shield.
"Let the children play," Freyda rumbled.
Astrid walked forward.
She looked at Volpert. The boy was cowering, shielding his face.
"Don't!" Volpert wailed. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Don't hit me!"
Astrid stopped. She looked at her broken arm. Then at her good fist.
She wound up.
It wasn't a slap. It was a punch. A solid, calculated right hook fueled by 100% pure hatred.
CRACK.
Her small fist connected with Volpert’s jaw.
The Prince’s head snapped back. He spun and fell face-first onto the stones. He lay there, wailing, clutching his mouth.
"My tooth! My tooth is loose!"
Astrid stood over him. She was breathing hard. Her knuckles were red.
She raised her fist again. She wanted to hit him again. I could see it. She wanted to pound him into the floor until he stopped making noise.
But she stopped.
She looked at him writhing on the ground, crying over a loose tooth while she stood there with a shattered arm.
She unclenched her fist.
She spat on him.
"You're not worth the other hand," Astrid whispered.
She turned her back on him. She walked back to Gutrum, burying her face in her father's cloak.
Brandan watched his son weeping on the floor. The King looked old. Defeated.
"Get him out of my sight," Brandan said to Lydia. His voice was dead. "Take him to his room. Lock the door. If I see him before the sun rises... I might forget he's my blood."
Lydia glared at him. A look of pure venom. She scooped up the sobbing boy.
"You will regret this," Lydia hissed. "You shamed him."
"He shamed himself," Brandan turned away.
Lydia carried the boy inside, the heavy doors slamming shut behind her.
We stood on the balcony. The rain washed the blood from the stones.
"Shadowgrove," Brandan said to the night air.
He picked up his hammer from where he’d dropped it.
"He's laughing at us, Wil. He's sitting in his tower, eating his apples, laughing at how he turned my house into a circus."
Brandan looked at me. Then at Gutrum.
"I'm done with politics," the King growled. "I'm done with hiding in the castle."
He hefted the hammer.
"We are going to pay him a visit. Not as Kings. Not as diplomats."
He looked at Astrid, shivering in the cold.
"We are going as fathers. And we are going to ask him politely why his men like breaking little girls."
"And if he doesn't have a good answer?" I asked, wiping blood from my mouth.
Brandan grinned. It was the grin of the Storm.
"Then we break his tower. Brick by brick."
"Let's go," Gutrum said, his axe ready.
We marched. The Cripple, the King, the Ranger, and the Bastard. Heading straight for the lion's den.
--------------------------------------------------------Bonus Economy World Building--------------------------------------------------------
The Ledger of the Black Sea Date: Year 5456, Post-Annunaki Departure Author: Grand Duke Greigor "The Oil-Baron" Stoneshield, Proprietor of the Iron Bank Location: The Black Citadel, floating upon the Great Petroleum Deep of Oilmere
Don't touch the desk. My suit costs more than your entire bloodline. Sit down and shut up. You want to understand how the world turns? You think it’s 'Honor' like those frozen fools in Falkenberg? You think it’s 'Perfection' like the crystal-lickers in Hollowdeep?
Idiot. The world turns because grease makes it turn. And I own the grease.
Look at this map. What do you see? A grid. A cage. Every Duchy is a giant square, locked in by four walls that touch the sky. And in those walls? Gates. Massive, heavy, beautiful Gates.
You want to move a block of cheese from Milkhaven to the hungry soldiers in the Firelands? You have to pass through a Gate. And when you pass a Gate, you pay the toll. And who loans the gold to pay the toll? I do.
Let me educate you, you penniless ruffian, on the 'Great Circle of Profit.' Or as I call it: How I bought the King's underwear.
Economy starts with dirt and wood. Without this, we’re all just naked savages yelling at the moon.
- Kaledon (Stormsong): They think they are glorious 'Guardians of the Storm.' I see floating gold. Those 20-kilometer trees? That’s not nature; that’s the only timber strong enough to hold my oil-rigs together. I buy their wood cheap because they are too busy fighting tornados to negotiate, and I sell it to Vineburg for triple the price so they can build wine barrels.
- Falkenberg (Falken): They dig the iron. Hard men. Dumb men. They trade steel for food because nothing grows on their jagged rocks. I buy their steel, refine it, and sell it to Shadowgrove to make cages for their monsters. It’s poetic, really.
- Cemenvale (Brickstone): The boring ones. They make the 'Grey Mix' the concrete. They built the walls that divide us. I love them. Why? Because walls create scarcity. If you can't walk freely, you have to pay to move. Brickstone is the mortar of my monopoly.
This is where the magic happens. Literally.
- Hollowdeep (Cavendish): They have the crystals. Shiny rocks that hold light. Pretty? Yes. Useful? Only if you have my oil.
- Oilmere (Me, you fool): Look out the window. That’s not water. That’s the blood of the earth. Black, thick Petroleum. You dip a Hollowdeep crystal into my oil, and boom you have an engine. You have a heat-source. You have a magical lamp that burns for a hundred years. I control the fuel; Cavendish controls the spark. We are the only reason the lights are on.
Rich people need to feel better about being terrible. That’s where these parasites come in.
- Vineburg (Ironvine) & Cottonridge (Whitefield): Wine and Wool. The Ironvines are snakes, but everyone needs to get drunk to forget they live in a world abandoned by gods. And the Whitefields? They sell softness. I have a coat made of Whitefield wool lined with Falkenberg steel mesh. Cost me a fortune. Worth every copper.
- Milkhaven (Milkwright): Cheese and milk. Boring. But have you ever seen a hungry army? They don't fight. So, Milkhaven stays rich because nobody wants to starve.
Now we get to the fun part. The things polite society pretends don't exist.
- The Flesh Pits (Skullwarden): People call them abominations. I call them 'Labor Solutions.' Why hire a miner who needs sleep and food when I can buy a reanimated corpse-husk from Skullwarden for a one-time fee? My oil-dredgers are staffed by the dead. They don't complain about the fumes. It’s pure profit. I sold my own mother-in-law to the Pits last week. She was loud, and I needed a new velvet rug. Fair trade.
- D?mmertal (Shadowgrove) & Mushmere (Fungalhart): Alchemical poisons and hallucinogenic mushrooms. Assassins need tools. The Mistbourne buy this trash to kill people in the dark. It keeps the population controlled, which is good for housing prices.
- Saltmarch (Brineshield): Salt. You need it to keep the meat from the Flesh Pits from rotting too fast. Crucial supply chain link.
And then, there are the Bladebloods in the Moonclaw Lands. The "Kings." Hah!
Let me tell you a secret. The King has no gold. The King sits on a throne of broken swords and drinks wine I paid for, wearing silk I hold the lien on. Historical Fact: In the year 5400, King Roderick Bladeblood wanted to invade the Firelands (Ignisborne). He came to my grandfather, asking for a loan to outfit his army. My grandfather said yes at 40% interest. Roderick conquered the Firelands. He got ash and dragon bones. We got the deed to his castle. Technically, I own the Royal Bathroom. Every time the King takes a shit, he does it on my property.
You want to know power? It’s not a sword. Thirty years ago, Glassara tried to tax my oil shipments. They wanted a "Glass Tariff." Cute. I didn't declare war. I simply bought the debt of the Gatekeepers between Oilmere and Glassara and told them to close the doors for "maintenance." Three weeks. That’s all it took. Without my oil, their glass furnaces went cold. The molten glass hardened in the vats, ruining their entire industry. They begged on their knees. I bought their best glass-blowers for a copper piece each and reopened the gate.
Conclusion: Money is the only god that listens when you pray. The Divinar want honor, the Annunaki are gone, but the Gold Coin? It never leaves you... unless you're stupid.
Now, get out of my office. You’re breathing my air, and I haven't figured out how to charge you for it yet.
...Wait. Scribble this down before you go: "Entry Fee for leaving the Duke’s Presence: 5 Gold Coins."
Pay the clerk on your way out. Or I'll send you to the Flesh Pits.