The heavy oak doors were closing. We were leaving. We had survived the lion’s den.

  "Wait."

  The voice was small. Fragile. Like glass stepping on stone.

  Astrid Falken stopped. She pulled her good arm free from Gutrum’s grip. She turned back toward the golden room, toward the man sitting on the throne of swords and ego.

  "Astrid, no," Gutrum whispered, reaching for her. "Don't."

  She ignored him. She walked back into the sanctum. Her cast was heavy against her chest, her face pale and bruised, but her eyes were locked on Alexander Shadowgrove.

  She didn't look at him with hatred anymore. She looked at him with... hunger. With the desperate, starving adoration of a moth flying toward a supernova.

  Alexander stopped eating his apple. He watched her approach. He didn't draw his weapon. He just sat there, radiant and terrifying.

  Astrid stopped at the foot of the dais. She looked up.

  "You killed them," she whispered. "Your own men. Because they were weak. Because they broke the rules."

  "I killed them because they destroyed my Image," Alexander corrected boredly. "There is a difference."

  "I want to be like you," Astrid blurted out. The words rushed out of her, a confession she had been holding back for years. "I want to be strong. I want to have 1.6 Million Spirit Power. I want to make people afraid just by walking into a room."

  She took a step closer, her eyes shining with tears and hope.

  "Wilhelm says I’m a Flaw," she said, pointing a trembling finger at me. "He says I don't need two arms. He says I can be a ghost. A scorpion. He says I can beat you if I try hard enough."

  She looked at him, pleading.

  "Is it true? If I train... if I grind... if I bleed every day... can I be you?"

  The silence that followed was suffocating.

  I closed my eyes. Don't do it, Alex. For once in your life, just lie. Be kind.

  Alexander stood up. He walked down the steps. He towered over the little, broken girl.

  He looked at her. Really looked at her. His violet eyes glowed with [True Sight]. He scanned her body, her soul, her missing limb.

  Then, he smiled.

  It wasn't a cruel smile. It was worse. It was a pitying smile. It was the smile a doctor gives a patient when there is nothing left to do but administer the morphine.

  "No," Alexander said gently.

  Astrid blinked. "No? But... if I work hard..."

  "Hard work is a myth told by the mediocre to make themselves feel better," Alexander said. His voice was soft, factual, like he was reading a weather report. "Look at you, child. Look at your biology."

  He pointed a finger at her empty sleeve.

  "The Spirit Circuits of the body require symmetry. Mana flows in a loop. Heart to right hand, right hand to left hand, left hand to heart. It is a closed system."

  He leaned down, his face inches from hers.

  "You have no left hand, Astrid. The circuit is broken. You leak."

  "I... I can fix it!" she stammered, backing away. "I can get a metal arm! Fenris said..."

  "A metal arm is a crutch," Alexander cut her off. "It conducts kinetic energy, not spiritual essence. Your soul... it bleeds out into the aether every time you try to gather power."

  He stood up straight, looking down at her with cold, mathematical certainty.

  "Your cap is 5,000 Spirit Power. Maybe 6,000 if you kill yourself trying. That is the biological limit of a broken vessel. You will never be a Knight. You will never be a Legend. You will never be me."

  He pointed at the ceiling, at the vast, unreachable sky.

  "I am the Sun. You are a candle with a wet wick. If you try to burn as bright as me... you will simply melt."

  Astrid stood there. Frozen. The light in her eyes didn't just fade; it died. It was extinguished.

  She turned to us. To Gutrum. To me.

  "You lied," she whispered. Her voice broke. "Wilhelm... you said I was infinite. You said I was a Flaw."

  I couldn't speak. My throat was full of ash. I had lied. I had lied to keep her moving. To keep her from shattering.

  "They lied to you because they are weak," Alexander said, twisting the knife. "They filled your head with fairy tales about 'heart' and 'willpower' because they couldn't bear to tell you the truth. That you are a genetic dead end."

  He looked at Gutrum.

  "Cruel, isn't it, Lord Falken? To let a bird with one wing believe it can fly? It just falls harder."

  Astrid let out a scream.

  It wasn't a battle cry. It was the sound of a heart breaking in real-time.

  "SHUT UP!"

  She lunged.

  She didn't have a weapon. She threw herself at him. Her one good fist raised, aiming for his perfect face. She put everything she had into it. Her rage. Her grief. Her hope.

  Thump.

  Her fist hit his breastplate.

  It didn't even scratch the gold. It made a dull, pathetic sound. Like meat hitting a wall.

  Alexander didn't flinch. He didn't block. He didn't blink. He just let her hit him.

  She hit him again. And again. Sobbing. Screaming. Beating her small fist against the invincible armor of a god.

  "Fight me!" she wailed. "Fight me! Don't just stand there!"

  Alexander looked down at her. He didn't push her away. He just... waited.

  Eventually, her strength gave out. She slumped against him, sliding down his golden greaves until she was a weeping heap on the floor.

  Alexander looked at me.

  He smiled.

  "See?" he said softly. "No threat. No potential. Just... noise."

  He stepped back, stepping out of her reach as if she were a puddle he didn't want to step in.

  "Take her away," Alexander said, turning his back on us. "She’s cluttering my floor."

  Gutrum ran forward. He scooped Astrid up. She was limp. Broken in a way that bones can't fix.

  "You're a monster," Gerald spat at Alexander.

  Alexander picked up a new apple. He polished it on his sleeve.

  "I am a mirror," Alexander replied without looking back. "I just showed you what you didn't want to see."

  We left the tower.

  He hadn't raised a sword. He hadn't cast a spell.

  But he had killed us all the same.

  He had killed the Wolf.

  And as I limped into the rain, listening to Astrid’s silent, shaking sobs, I realized that Fenris was wrong. The deadliest poison wasn't alchemy.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  It was the truth.

  The walk back to the Citadel was a silent funeral procession for a dream that hadn't even died yet it had just been diagnosed as terminal.

  We reached the crossroads at the Plaza of Weeping Saints. The rain was coming down harder now, washing the gold dust of Alexander's domain off our boots.

  Astrid stopped.

  She didn't look at us. She looked at the dark alleyway leading to the Lower Districts. To the places where people disappeared.

  "Astrid," Gutrum stepped forward, his hand reaching out. "Come home. We will... we will figure this out."

  Astrid shook her head. A sharp, violent motion.

  "You lied," she whispered. "Everyone lied."

  She turned and ran. Not a sprint she was too broken for that but a shambling, desperate run into the dark.

  "Astrid!" Gutrum roared. He ran after her. Gerald and Mary followed, shadows chasing a shadow, leaving the rest of us standing in the mud.

  "Family," Brandan grunted, watching them go. He took a swig from a flask that Bastian had magically produced. "It’s messy."

  "It’s inefficient," Baldur muttered, stiff as a board.

  "It’s dramatic," Bastian corrected, smoothing his velvet. "And drama sells tickets. Come along, brothers. We have a house to inspect."

  We walked to the Angelic Manse.

  My hip was screaming.Every step sent a jolt up my spine that rattled my teeth. But when I looked up, the pain faded just a fraction.

  The Manse was... profitable.

  Even in the rain, I could see the lights. I could hear the music. The Noble families were moving in.

  I tapped my Monocle.

  "Two hundred gold," I whispered, licking my lips. "While I was getting verbally abused by a golden god, I made money. I love passive income."

  I limped up to the front door. The Cinder-Cleaver burned hot against my back.

  "It’s not enough," I muttered. "Alexander has millions. I have pocket change. We need to scale up."

  I looked at the building interface floating in my vision.

  "One thousand," I breathed. "That’s a tier 3 spell every day. That’s a new army every week."

  "Do it," Brandan said, looking at the glowing menu only I could see. "Make it bigger. I want a balcony I can shout from."

  "Wilhelm," Baldur warned. "The treasury..."

  "Must flow," I interrupted.

  I drew the Cinder-Cleaver. The runes glowed orange.

  "Construction via percussion," I grinned.

  I swung the massive, burning blade.

  CLANG.

  I hit the foundation stone.

  The ground shook. Magic gold and blue erupted from the earth. The Manse began to grow. New wings sprouted from the sides. A tower spiraled up into the smog. The wood polished itself. The windows expanded into massive sheets of Void-Glass.

  "Black," I said instantly. "Obsidian. Intimidating. Gothic. Like my soul."

  "VIOLET!" a voice shrieked.

  Pontifex Malachia floated up next to me. She looked terrible eyes red from crying, dress torn but she pointed her scepter at the building with divine authority.

  "I want it Violet! Like grape soda! And Alexander's eyes! I want to mock him with his own color!"

  "Shortstack, no," I argued. "We are a serious political faction. We cannot live in a giant grape."

  "I AM THE POPE!" she screamed. Her ring flared. "I OUTRANK YOU! VIOLET OR EXCOMMUNICATION!"

  I sighed. I looked at Brandan. He shrugged. "She has the hat, Wil."

  "Fine," I groaned. "Violet. Tacky, garish, headache-inducing Violet."

  The magic shifted. The amber wood turned a deep, rich purple. The lights turned lavender. The whole building glowed like a radioactive plum in the night.

  "It’s hideous," I said, admiring it. "It’s absolutely awful. I love it."

  We walked inside.

  If the outside was a grape, the inside was a dream. Purple velvet drapes, amethyst chandeliers, floors made of polished dark wood that smelled of lavender and money.

  And people.

  Dozens of minor nobles were lounging on the sofas, drinking our wine, paying our taxes.

  And in the corner...

  Vasco Vane.

  He was leaning against a pillar, wearing a purple doublet that matched the walls perfectly. He looked like he came with the furniture. Beside him stood York Bladeblood, holding a tray of drinks, looking broken and terrified.

  "Master Storm," Vasco nodded, raising a glass. "Bold color choice. Very... assertive."

  "It was a religious mandate," I grumbled, limping toward the stairs. "I need sleep. If anyone wakes me up, I will charge them a fee."

  I climbed.

  I found the Master Bedroom on the third floor.

  It was ridiculous. The bed was the size of a barge. The sheets were silk. The ceiling was enchanted to look like a galaxy of purple stars.

  "Finally," I whispered.

  I didn't undress. I just fell face-first onto the mattress. It was like landing on a cloud.

  "Sleep," I murmured. "Sweet, unconscious oblivion."

  "He lied."

  I groaned. I rolled over.

  Malachia was floating above the bed, sitting cross-legged in the air. She was eating a stick of butter. Just straight butter.

  "Go to sleep, Shortstack," I mumbled, closing my eyes. "Alexander didn't lie. He's just... an asshole. There's a difference."

  "He did!" Malachia insisted, crumbs of butter falling onto my face. "I saw him! I saw the Purple Mist! It came from his hands! It choked my dad!"

  "Trauma creates false memories," I quoted Fenris, wishing I had a pill. "Or maybe it was just wine. Your dad liked wine."

  "It wasn't wine!" she screamed. Tears welled up in her eyes again. "I know what I saw! He's a murderer! And I'm going to prove it! I'm going to "

  She stopped.

  She made a sound. Ghhkk.

  I opened my eyes.

  Malachia wasn't floating anymore. She dropped.

  Thump.

  She hit the mattress next to me.

  Her hands clawed at her chest. Her face usually pale turned bright red, then grey. Her eyes bulged.

  "Malachia?" I sat up, panic spiking through the exhaustion. "Hey. Breathe. Did you choke on the butter?"

  She shook her head. She gasped. A horrible, wet rattle.

  "Heart..." she wheezed. "Burning..."

  She arched her back. Her veins the blue veins in her neck turned black. Not poison black. Void black.

  "System!" I yelled. "Scan! What is happening?"

  "No," I whispered.

  She grabbed my hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong. Then it went slack.

  Her eyes rolled back. She went still.

  "NO!" I roared. "BRANDAN! FENRIS! HELP!"

  I started CPR. I pressed on her small chest. One, two, three, breathe.

  Nothing. She was gone.

  "Don't," a voice said from the shadows.

  I spun around, hand on my Wepon.

  Vasco Vane stepped out of the violet gloom. He held a glass of wine. He looked calm. Too calm.

  "She's gone, Wilhelm," Vasco said softly. "Stop breaking her ribs."

  "She's dying!" I screamed, pumping her chest again. "Get the fox! Get a potion!"

  "She isn't dying," Vasco corrected, taking a sip. "She is answering."

  He walked over to the bed. He looked down at the dead child Pope.

  "This is how they talk, Wilhelm. The Anunnaki. Anu. Enlil. The big ones."

  Vasco swirled his wine.

  "They don't send letters. They don't send angels. They stop your heart. They drag your soul up to the Concrete Sky for a little... chat. And then, if they like what you say, they shove you back down."

  He looked at me with those cold, counting eyes.

  "She is in the Grey Room now. Receiving orders."

  "Orders?" I stopped pumping. My hands were shaking. "What kind of orders?"

  Vasco smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a man who knows the cost of everything.

  "Usually?" Vasco whispered. "They ask for a Crusade. They ask for blood. A lot of it."

  He pointed at the dead girl.

  "When she wakes up... if she wakes up... she won't be the Wrongling anymore. She will be the Herald."

  Vasco leaned in.

  "Pray she doesn't wake up hungry, Wilhelm. Gods have terrible appetites."

  I looked at Malachia. She looked peaceful. Dead, but peaceful.

  I sat back on my heels, the silence of the violet room pressing in on me.

  "Great," I whispered. "Just great. The King is depressed, the Wolf is crippled, and the Pope is having a performance review with God."

  I grabbed Vasco’s wine glass and downed it in one gulp.

  "Wake me up when the apocalypse starts," I said, lying down next to the corpse. "Or when breakfast is ready. Whichever comes first."