The march to the Shadowgrove Tower was less of a military advance and more of a family pilgrimage through hell. But even hell has rest stops, apparently.

  We stopped at the Garden of Weeping Willows, a patch of ancient, magic-infused greenery halfway between the Palace and the Enemy. It was supposed to be a ruin.

  Instead, it looked like a high-end picnic.

  Bastian Stormsong our velvet-clad brother had sent runners ahead. Because of course he had. While we were bleeding and breaking bones, Bastian had arranged for tents. Silk tents. With cushions.

  "You cannot kill a man on an empty stomach," Bastian announced, sweeping into the clearing with a tray of crystal goblets. "It’s gauche. And it ruins the digestion."

  I limped toward the fire, my leg screaming its usual song of agony.

  "Bastian," I grunted, collapsing onto a pile of embroidered pillows that cost more than my life. "We are going to war. Not a wine tasting."

  "Why choose?" Bastian smiled, handing me a plate. "War is just diplomacy with louder noises. Eat, Bastard. You look like a dried fig."

  I looked at the plate.

  It wasn't mushroom paste. It was a Kaledon Truffle-Pork Pie. Heavy. Greasy. Smelling of rich earth and expensive spices. Beside it, a block of Sun-Cheese and a cluster of Sugared Grapes.

  I didn't argue. My body was a hollow shell screaming for fuel.

  I ate.

  The grey veil lifted from my eyes. The throbbing in my back dulled to a distant hum. I took a deep breath, tasting the night air instead of my own copper blood.

  "Better?" Bastian asked, refilling my wine.

  "Marginally," I sighed. "I might even live to see dessert."

  I looked around the fire.

  It was a strange tableau. A painting of power and broken things.

  Brandan sat on a log, his massive frame hunched over. He wasn't raging. He was tired. He held a cup of wine in two hands, staring into the flames.

  Baldur sat opposite him. Rigid. Spine straight. He wasn't drinking. He was polishing his sword with a rhythmic shhhk-shhhk. He looked like a statue of Duty that someone had forgotten to dust.

  And Gutrum... the Honor of our little tragedy. He sat on the ground, his axe by his side. Astrid was asleep, her head in his lap, her casted arm resting awkwardly on her chest. Gutrum was stroking her hair. His hand a hand that could sever heads was so gentle it barely disturbed the strands.

  Gerald and Mary sat back-to-back near the edge of the light, the Ranger and the Wolf, watching the dark so the rest of us didn't have to.

  "Do you remember," Brandan’s voice rumbled, breaking the silence, "the Summer of the Blue Comet?"

  Baldur stopped polishing. He looked up. "Cycle 402. We were children."

  "We stole Father’s boat," Brandan chuckled. A low, warm sound. "Me, you, and Gutrum. We were going to sail to the edge of the world."

  "We sank in the pond," Gutrum murmured, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "We didn't even make it past the ducks."

  "The ducks were aggressive!" Brandan roared, laughing. "Strategic geniuses! They flanked us!"

  Even Baldur cracked. The corner of his mouth twitched. "You tried to hammer a duck, Brandan. You fell overboard. I had to calculate the displacement of your armor to fish you out."

  "And you saved me," Brandan said softly. He looked across the fire at the Grey One. "You always pull me out of the water, Baldur. Even when I jump in on purpose."

  Baldur looked down at his sword. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. The tension between them the King and the Shadow softened. Just for a moment.

  Bastian glided over, placing a hand on Baldur’s rigid shoulder.

  "And I," Bastian purred, "was the one who told Father you were 'studying in the library'. I lied for you. Beautifully."

  "You charged us five coppers for the alibi," Baldur grunted.

  "Services must be compensated, brother," Bastian winked. He looked at the three of them. The Warrior, the Judge, and the flower. "We were a good team. Dysfunctional. Loud. But good."

  I watched them from my pile of pillows. The Stormsong brothers. They hated each other. They loved each other. It was a messy, tangled knot of blood and history.

  Then I looked at the Falkens.

  Freyda Skullwarden my personal mountain was sitting next to Astrid. She wasn't sleeping. She was carving something. A piece of wood.

  "What is that?" I asked quietly.

  Freyda held it up. It was a crude, blocky wolf.

  "For the girl," Freyda rumbled. "When she wakes. She needs a toy that doesn't break."

  I felt a lump in my throat.

  "You're a softie, Tower," I whispered. "Don't let the skull on your armor hear you."

  Freyda just grunted and went back to carving.

  Gerald turned from the darkness. He walked into the light, sheathing his sword. He looked at Brandan.

  "We are walking into a trap, you know," Gerald said. His voice was gravel and truth. "Alexander knows we are coming. He is waiting."

  "Let him wait," Brandan said, crushing his empty cup. "I'm bringing a hammer to a duel."

  "We aren't fighting a duel," Mary spoke up from the shadows. She stepped forward, the firelight catching the frost on her eyelashes. "We are fighting a legend. He has a million Spirit Power. He has a tower full of fanatics."

  She looked at us. All of us.

  "We can't beat him with strength. We have to beat him with..." She struggled for the word.

  "With this," I said.

  I stood up. I swayed, but I stood.

  I gestured to the fire. To Gutrum holding his daughter. To Brandan sharing wine with Baldur. To Bastian smiling without a scheme behind it.

  "He fights for perfection," I said. "He fights for his stats. His legacy."

  I limped over to the fire and poured a splash of wine into the flames. They hissed and flared.

  "We fight for the mess," I said. "We fight because Volpert broke a little girl's arm. We fight because we're hungry. We fight because we're the leftovers, and nobody expects the leftovers to bite back."

  Brandan stood up. He loomed over the fire, a bear in the night.

  "To the Mess," Brandan toasted.

  "To the Mess," Gutrum agreed.

  "To the Mess," Baldur sighed, standing up.

  "To the Mess," Bastian smiled.

  Even Gerald raised a hand.

  I looked at them. My family. My catastrophe.

  They were flawed. They were doomed.

  And I loved them so much it hurt my teeth.

  "Right," I said, clapping my hands together. "Moment over. Emotions repressed. Let's go punch a god in the face."

  We gathered our weapons. Gutrum gently woke Astrid. She didn't cry this time. She just gripped her new wooden wolf with her good hand and stared north toward the tower.

  We marched out of the garden, leaving the silk tents behind.

  The Shadowgrove Tower loomed ahead. It was a sleek, black needle of obsidian, pulsed with purple Enmagic. It looked impenetrable.

  But as I walked beside Freyda, listening to the heavy thud of boots and the clinking of armor, I realized something.

  Alexander had a million Spirit Power.

  But he didn't have a brother who would lie for him. He didn't have a giant who carved him toys. He didn't have a pack.

  He’s alone, I thought, touching the bone mask on my face. And that makes him weak.

  But ...We didn't reach the Shadowgrove Tower. We were stopped by the screaming.

  It wasn't a battle scream. It wasn't the roar of a soldier charging into death. It was the high, thin, rhythmic shrieking of a man who has been asked a question he doesn't want to answer, and is being persuaded with sharp implements.

  The sound came from the Ruins of the Old Mint, a crumbling stone structure that sat in the shadow of the tower like a bad memory.

  "That sounds... personal," I muttered, my hand drifting to my Weapon. "And professional."

  Brandan frowned. "It sounds like torture."

  "It sounds like Monday in the lower districts," Bastian corrected, smoothing his velvet sleeve.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Gutrum didn't speak. He tilted his head. He knew the voice.

  "Move," Gutrum commanded.

  We crept through the shattered archway of the Mint. The roof was gone, letting the pale light of the false moon filter down onto the scene below.

  It was a tableau of nightmares.

  In the center of the room, tied to a heavy iron chair, was a young man. He was dirty, sobbing, and missing several fingernails.

  York Bladeblood.

  He looked like a ruined prince. He had the Beautiful features of the royal line, but right now,broken, weeping, terrified of his own shadow.

  "Please!" York begged, straining against the ropes. "I don't have it! My army... they took it! They betrayed me!"

  "Everyone betrays everyone," a voice rasped. "It’s the national sport. Now, about the gold..."

  The speaker stepped into the light.

  Konstantin Shadowgrove.

  If Alexander was the Golden Son, the perfection of the line... Konstantin was the wreckage left behind.

  He leaned heavily on a crutch made of black iron. His left leg was gone not at the knee, but at the hip. Just empty space where a limb should be. He moved with a jerky, painful lurch. Thump. Drag. Thump.

  But it was the face that held you.

  He wore a mask. Solid silver. No features. No mouth, no nose. Just two narrow slits for eyes that glittered with a cold, dead intelligence. It was beautiful and horrific. A mirror that reflected your own fear back at you.

  Konstantin adjusted his grip on a pair of pliers. He looked at the weeping York like a butcher inspecting a cut of meat that had gone off.

  "You borrowed fifty thousand gold from Duke Silas," Konstantin said. His voice was muffled slightly by the mask, giving it a hollow, metallic quality. "To buy an army. To fight for the King. A noble endeavor. Truly. It brings a tear to my eye. Or it would, if I had tear ducts left."

  He thumped closer.

  "But you lost the army, York. And you lost the gold. And now... my father is very, very disappointed."

  "I'll pay!" York shrieked. "I'm a Bladeblood! My cousin is the Queen of the Firelands! She'll pay!"

  "Queens are notoriously bad at settling debts," Konstantin sighed. He tapped the pliers against his own silver cheek. Tink. Tink. "And I am notoriously impatient. My leg hurts, York. The phantom toes are itching. And when I itch... I like to make other people scratch."

  He reached for York’s hand.

  "One finger per thousand gold. We have a lot of accounting to do."

  "NO!" York wailed. "GUTRUM!MY LORD! HELP ME!"

  Gutrum stepped out of the shadows.

  "Enough, Konstantin."

  The Duke’s voice was granite. He walked into the ruin, his axe in hand. Gerald and Mary flanked him.

  Konstantin froze. He turned slowly, the crutch grinding on the stone. Scrape.

  The silver mask tilted.

  "Lord Falken," Konstantin rasped. "And the little Falkens. How... nostalgic. I haven't seen this many northerners since the last time we burned a village."

  "He is my ward," Gutrum said, pointing at York. "He grew up in Falkenberg. He is under my protection."

  "He is under debt," Konstantin corrected. "He stole from my House. Theft is a crime. Punishment is... mandatory."

  Brandan stepped forward. The King looked at York a Bladeblood, a relative of the man who killed his wife.

  "Let him bleed," Brandan grunted. "He's a Bladeblood. They all deserve to scream."

  "Brandan!" Gutrum snapped. "He is a boy! He tried to raise an army for you! He wanted to fight for the Storm!"

  York looked up, snot running down his face. "I did! I swear! I wanted to help! But the mercenaries... they took the gold and ran! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

  Konstantin laughed. It was a dry, hacking sound behind the silver.

  "Incompetence is not a defense, little thief," Konstantin said. "It is just another reason to remove you from the gene pool."

  He raised the pliers again.

  "Wilhelm," Gerald whispered to me. "Do something. That man... he is death."

  I stepped forward. I adjusted my coat. I tapped my Monocle.

  "Konstantin!" I chirped, swaying slightly as I walked into the light. "Lovely mask. Very shiny. Do you polish it yourself, or do you have a squire for that?"

  The silver face turned to me.

  "The Bastard," Konstantin drawled. "I heard you were Master of Coin now. Tell me... do you pay your debts?"

  "Always," I lied. "Usually with other people's money. But listen, Konny can I call you Konny? No? Okay. The kid is broke. Torturing him won't make gold appear. It just makes a mess. And I hear you hate messes."

  "I hate walking," Konstantin corrected. He shifted his weight, wincing as his one leg trembled. "Every step is an argument with gravity that I am losing. Torture... torture is just a way to pass the time while I wait for my leg to stop hurting. Surprise: It never stops."

  He limped toward me. Thump. Drag.

  "You want the boy?" Konstantin asked.

  "We want the boy," Gutrum said.

  Konstantin looked at York. Then at Gutrum. Then at Brandan.

  "Duke Silas wants his gold," Konstantin said. "Fifty thousand. Plus interest. Plus a 'nuisance fee' for making me stand up."

  He pointed the pliers at me.

  "You pay it, Master of Coin. You pay it right now. And I give you the thief."

  I checked my ledger.

  I didn't have it.

  "I... I can offer you a payment plan?" I suggested weakly. "Very competitive rates."

  Konstantin stared at me through the slits.

  "No gold," he whispered. "Then I take the flesh."

  He turned back to York. He grabbed the boy's pinky finger.

  "Say goodbye to the piano lessons, York."

  "WAIT!"

  Astrid stepped forward.

  She walked past Gutrum. Past me. She walked right up to the man in the silver mask.

  She looked at his missing leg. She looked at the crutch.

  "You hurt," Astrid said.

  Konstantin paused. He looked down at the one-armed girl.

  "Observation is a skill, little cripple. Yes. I hurt. Existence is pain. What of it?"

  "I hurt too," Astrid said. She held up her casted arm. "And my shoulder."

  She looked him in the eye.

  "You aren't doing this because of the money," Astrid whispered. "You're doing it because you're angry. You're angry that you're broken and he's whole."

  The silver mask went still. The air in the room grew freezing cold.

  "Careful," Konstantin hissed. "I snap necks for less."

  "Take him," Astrid said, pointing at York. "Take him to your tower. Put him in a cell. But don't cut him."

  "Why?" Konstantin asked. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't carve him like a turkey."

  Astrid grinned. It was the feral, dangerous grin of the Wolf.

  "Because if you cut him... you're just a torturer. A man with pliers and a grudge."

  She stepped closer.

  "But if you hold him... if you ransom him... you're a player. You're smart. You're Konstantin Shadowgrove."

  She tapped her own chest.

  "Alexander is the Warrior. You're the Mind. Don't be a butcher. Be a Kingmaker."

  Konstantin stared at her. For a long, terrifying minute, the only sound was York's whimpering.

  Then, Konstantin chuckled.

  He dropped the pliers. Clatter.

  "Kingmaker," he mused. "I like that. It has a nice ring to it."

  He grabbed York by the collar and slashed the ropes with a hidden dagger. York fell to the floor, sobbing.

  "Get up, thief," Konstantin barked. "You belong to the Master of Coin now. His debt is your debt."

  He looked at me.

  "Fifty thousand, Storm. You owe House Shadowgrove fifty thousand gold. I will come to collect. And if you don't have it..."

  He tapped his crutch on my boot.

  "...I will take your leg. I need a spare."

  He turned and began the slow, painful limp out of the ruins. Thump. Drag.

  "A pleasure meeting the circus," Konstantin called back. "Do try not to die before I bankrupt you."

  And then he was gone, leaving us with a sobbing York Bladeblood and a debt that could sink a kingdom.

  "He's delightful," I exhaled, wiping sweat from my brow. "Really. A ray of sunshine."

  Gutrum picked up York. The boy clung to him, weeping.

  "Thank you," Gutrum whispered to Astrid.

  Astrid shrugged. "He looked like he needed a break. Besides..."

  She looked at the retreating figure of Konstantin.

  "I think I like him. He understands the Hate."

  "Great," I groaned. "Another psychopath for the family album. Let's go. Alexander is waiting, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to be even more expensive."

  —--------------------------------Bonus Monster WorldBuilding--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  The Book That Breaths Subject: The Things That Watch Us Reader: Evera Skullwarden (Age 8) Location: Under the Bed, The Nursery of Sighs, Flesh Pits Citadel

  (The text is scrawled in shaky handwriting. There are tear stains on the parchment. The narrator speaks in a whisper.)

  Shh. You have to be quiet.

  Father is downstairs in the Stitching Room. I can hear the saws buzzing. He is making a new brother for me. He says the new one will have four arms and no mouth, so he won't scream like the last one.

  I stole this book from Father’s library. The cover is warm. It has a mole on the spine that looks just like the one my Nanny had before she… before she went to the basement. The book tells me about the monsters. Not the ones Father makes the wild ones. The ones that hide in the dark places of the world.

  If you are reading this, check under your chair. Check the corners of the ceiling. They like corners.

  Father says we should not fear the Pits. He says flesh is just clay. But he lies.

  Down in the sewers, where the blood drains after the surgeries, live the Unfinished. They are the parts that didn't work. Arms with no bodies. Faces with no skulls.

  The book says they are lonely. They slither through the pipes, wet and squelching. Sometimes, at night, I hear a tapping on my toilet drain. Tap, tap, tap. It’s a finger. Just a finger, looking for a hand to hold.

  The Rule: If you hear wet slapping sounds in the hallway, close your eyes. If they see you looking at them, they get jealous of your skin. They try to wear it.

  The King lives in a land of broken swords. The book says the war never really stopped there; the metal just got hungry.

  There are things called Shard-Mimics. They look like piles of rusty armor or broken blades on the battlefield. Soldiers think it is just scrap metal. But when they walk past… the metal clicks.

  They don't have meat inside. They are just jagged iron held together by hate and old blood. They scramble like spiders made of knives. They don't eat you. They just want to cut. They cut you until you fit into the armor they are wearing.

  The Horror: Sometimes, you see a knight standing perfectly still in the mist. You wave at him. He waves back. But then his arm falls off, and you see there are no bones inside only more rusty gears grinding together.

  I hate this picture. The drawing is moving.

  In the dark valleys where the Shadowgroves do their alchemy, the plants are wrong. There is a flower called the Weeping Violet. It smells like your mother’s perfume.

  If you smell it, you fall asleep. And while you sleep, the spores go into your nose. You don't die. You just… change. You wake up, and you can’t move. Your feet have turned into roots. Your fingers turn into leaves.

  The book says the gardens in D?mmertal are full of statues that look like people. They aren't statues. They are visitors who smelled the flowers. They are still alive inside the bark. They scream, but no sound comes out only pollen.

  The Stormsongs live in the big trees. They are brave. But even they don't look up when the clouds turn yellow.

  High up, where the air is thin, float the Whispering Kites. They are flat, like sheets of paper, and transparent like jelly. You can't see them against the sky. They drift on the wind, trailing long, sticky threads that are almost invisible.

  When a thread touches you, you don't feel pain. You just feel… numb. You start to float. They reel you up. Up, up, up into the clouds. The Stormsongs say that sometimes, during a quiet night, you can hear the muffled voices of people who were caught years ago, still being digested slowly inside the jelly-stomachs of the Kites, twenty kilometers in the air.

  (A loud thud echoes from the floor above. The sound of a heavy door opening.)

  Oh no.

  The sawing stopped. Father is coming up the stairs. He’s dragging something wet.

  I have to put the book back. If he finds me awake, he’ll say I have "too many eyes" again and try to fix me.

  Please, if you are real… don't come to the Flesh Pits. The monsters here don't hide under the bed. They tuck you in.