The Small Council Chamber didn't have walls. It had the abyss.

  Located in the absolute zenith of the Citadel’s highest spire, the room was a sphere of Void-Glass suspended in the air. Above us, the Concrete Sky cracked open, revealing the static-filled void and the silent, terrifying White Fleet of the Anunnaki. Below us, the city sprawled like a map of misery.

  But the table... the table was the masterpiece.

  It wasn't wood or stone. It was a suspended pool of Alchemical Mercury. Liquid silver, held in a perfect circle by a magnetic field. When you touched it, ripples of information spread out maps, numbers, troop movements forming in 3D relief from the liquid metal.

  I limped to my seat. The [Shadow-Weave Coat] felt light, but the weight of the coming conversation was heavy enough to crush a giant.

  "Sit," King Brandan growled.

  He sat at the head of the Mercury Table. His crown was crooked. He was drinking from a tankard that looked like a bucket. He didn't look at the Annunaki ships hovering above us. He looked at his wife.

  Lydia Ironvine sat opposite him. She was immaculate in green silk, but her eyes were red-rimmed. She held a glass of water like she wanted to crush it.

  Baldur (Hand of the King) sat to the right, rigid as a gargoyle, grinding his teeth.

  Bastian (Master of Diplomacy) was checking his reflection in the mercury, looking unbothered.

  Fenris (Master of Flesh) was arranging a row of colorful pills on the table edge.

  Vasco (Master ofLiabilities) was smiling at nothing.

  Gutrum (Master of Laws) looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.

  And Malachia... the Pontifex was floating cross-legged above the center of the table, Flickering in and out of reality like a bad hologram.

  "The agenda is Death," Brandan announced, slamming his tankard down. The mercury rippled, forming jagged spikes. "Let's begin."

  I tapped the table. The liquid silver swirled, forming numbers.

  "Agenda Item One," I said, my voice dry. "We are broke. Technically, we have 16,800 Gold. That buys us... about three days of not-starving."

  "The Tournament," Bastian interjected smoothly. He trailed a finger through the mercury, and the liquid formed a miniature arena. "It is the solution. The entry fees alone will cover the deficit."

  "It is a circus," Baldur snapped. "We are besieged by Gods and traitors, and you want to host a joust?"

  "People need distraction, brother," Bastian purred. "If they are watching knights bleed for sport, they aren't looking up at the..." He pointed a manicured finger at the colossal white ships in the sky. "...the Doom Fleet."

  "We need the gold," I admitted, looking at the ledger forming in the metal. "Fenris charges a fortune for medical supplies. The Gale-Force needs pay. The Tournament happens. We tax the betting slips. 15% off the top."

  "Fine," Brandan grunted. "But if the fights are boring, I’m executing the organizers."

  "Moving on," Gutrum said, his voice heavy. He touched the mercury map. It shifted, showing the borders.

  Red liquid bled into the silver map.

  "Helga Bladeblood," Lydia said. Her voice was ice. "She has declared the Firelands independent. She has the dragons."

  "And the North," Gutrum added, looking at the map with pain in his eyes. "Ragnar Snowhorn has joined her. The Varingers are marching south."

  "We are surrounded," Baldur stated. "Fire to the South. Ice to the North. And the Anunnaki above."

  "We need to strike," Brandan roared. "We march South! We kill the dragons!"

  "With what army?" Fenris scoffed. He popped a blue pill. "We have fifty thousand Angels who are currently drunk on Wilhelm's wine. We have zero siege engines. If you march on dragons, you are just delivering a 'Meals on Wheels' service to the lizards."

  "We need leverage," Vasco Vane whispered. He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming.

  The mercury formed a face. York Bladeblood.

  "He is Helga's brother," Vasco said. "He is in our dungeon. We send her a finger. Then another. Until she backs off."

  "No," Gutrum slammed his hand on the table. The mercury splashed. "He is a boy! He is my ward! We do not mutilate children!"

  "We are fighting for survival, Lord Falken!" Vasco hissed. "Honor is a luxury we cannot afford! Helga loves him. It is her weakness."

  "If you touch him," Gutrum growled, hand on his axe, "you answer to me."

  "Enough!" Brandan shouted. "Keep the boy intact. For now. But tell Helga... tell her if a single dragon crosses the river, I will send her brother back to her via catapult."

  The table went quiet. The strobe light from the sky flashed. Day. Night. Day.

  "Now," Brandan said. His voice dropped. It became dangerous. "The real issue."

  The mercury swirled. It formed a crown.

  "I want him out," Brandan said. He didn't look at Lydia. "Volpert. He is not fit."

  Lydia went still. "He is your son."

  "He is a sadist," Brandan spat. "He tortured the Falken girl. He broke her arm for sport. He hides behind guards. He has no honor. He has no strength."

  Brandan looked at me.

  "Wilhelm saw his stats. [Glass Soul]. He cannot feel fear without dying. He cannot rule, Lydia. He will break the kingdom just to see what the pieces look like."

  "He is a child!" Lydia screamed, standing up. "He can be taught!"

  "He is eleven!" Brandan roared, standing up to meet her. "At eleven, I was hunting boars! At eleven, he is hunting cripples!"

  Brandan pointed a finger at Gutrum.

  "Look at him! Look at the father of the girl your son broke! Do you think Gutrum will ever kneel to Volpert? Do you think the North will follow a boy who tortures their kin?"

  "I will make them kneel," Lydia hissed, her eyes burning with green fire. "I will burn every house that defies him."

  "Then you will rule a pile of ash!" Brandan slammed his fist onto the mercury table. Liquid silver sprayed across the room.

  "I am filing the request," Brandan declared. "To the System. To disinherit Volpert Ironvine-Stormsong."

  "You cannot," Lydia whispered. She looked terrified. Not for herself. For the boy. "If he is disinherited... he loses the Royal Protection. The System will treat him as a commoner."

  "Good," Brandan said. "Maybe then he will learn what it means to be afraid."

  "Who?" Bastian asked softly, watching the drama like a play. "If not Volpert... who is the Heir?"

  Brandan looked at the table.

  "Princess Vera," he said. "My daughter. She is in the Ironvine cloisters. Bring her here."

  "Vera is weak," Lydia spat. "She reads books. She prays."

  "Better a reader than a monster," Brandan said.

  He sat back down. He looked exhausted.

  "It is decided. Volpert is out. Vera is in."

  Lydia stood there. Trembling. She looked at Brandan with a hatred so pure it felt like heat.

  "You will regret this," she whispered. "You just signed your own death warrant, husband."

  She turned and swept out of the room.

  As the heavy doors slammed shut, the Mercury Table rippled violently, the liquid silver briefly forming the shape of a skull before settling back into a map.

  Even the liquid metal was afraid of her.

  The silence returned. The Annunaki ships hummed above us.

  "Well," Fenris broke the tension, crunching a pill. "That went well. Domestic bliss achieved."

  "We aren't done," Malachia said.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The Child Pope floated down to the center of the mercury table. Her Flickering was getting worse. Her eyes were solid white static.

  "That was the mortal stuff," Malachia said. Her voice sounded like two voices overlapping. "Now... we talk about the Menu."

  She pointed at the ceiling. At the fleet.

  "Phase Two," she whispered. "The Harvest."

  I looked at the table. The mercury turned black.

  "Gentlemen," I said, leaning forward and adjusting my monocle. "If you thought the family drama was bad... wait until you hear what God wants for dinner."

  I placed the scroll of the Anunnaki Demands on the table.

  "Item Six," I read aloud. "Cannibalism and Genocide."

  Brandan choked on his wine. Baldur stopped grinding his teeth. Gutrum looked like he had been shot.

  "Welcome to the Small Council," I said, forcing a grin that felt like a wound. "Where the problems are infinite, and the moral compass is spinning."

  "That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard," the King grunted.

  He waved a massive hand, dismissing the apocalypse like it was a fly.

  "The Gods want us to eat each other? Let them wait. They are eternal. My patience is not."

  He leaned forward, the wood of his chair groaning under the shift in weight.

  "Put the menu away, Wilhelm. We can discuss the theology of lunatics later. Right now, there is a dragon queen marching on my borders. I can't fight her with... whatever that is."

  The mercury table rippled, reflecting the static of the open sky above.

  "An army," Brandan repeated, his voice echoing in the Void-Glass sphere. He leaned back, the wooden chair creaking under his bulk. "You want me to fight dragons to the South and Frost-Varingers to the North, and I have... what? A handful of mercenaries and some drunk Angels?"

  "The Gale-Force is elite," I interjected, rubbing my aching hip. "Expensive, but elite."

  "They are scouts!" Brandan slammed his tankard down. "I need a wall, Wilhelm! I need the Royal Guard. Five thousand men. Heavy plate. Shields that don't break when a dragon sneezes."

  He pointed a thick finger at me.

  "Build it, Master of Coin. I don't care how. Hire them. Forge them. Resurrect them. Just get me swords."

  I looked at my mental ledger.

  "I can buy you... maybe sixty men?" I offered weakly. "If they bring their own boots. And agree to be paid in gratitude."

  "Find the gold," Baldur commanded, his face a mask of burnt stoicism. "The survival of the state requires it."

  "I can't just find a quarter of a million gold, Baldur!" I snapped. "Unless I rob the Iron Bank or sell the city to the highest bidder."

  "Or," Malachia whispered, "you check the new Quest Board."

  The Pontifex floated to the center of the table. She wasn't Flickering anymore. She was solid. Too solid. She looked like a porcelain doll that had seen the end of the world.

  "Phase Two," she said. Her voice didn't sound like a child's. It sounded like a transmission. "The Economy of Sin."

  She touched the mercury. The liquid silver turned black. Pitch black.

  "Item One," Malachia read from the scroll of light. "The Loosh Requirement."

  "Loosh?" Vasco Vane perked up, ever the opportunist. "Sounds... exportable."

  "It is suffering," Malachia said dullly. "Negative emotional energy. Enlil says the Barrier the one keeping the bigger dragons out runs on it. It’s running low."

  She looked at the table.

  Gutrum Falken stood up. His chair fell over.

  "No," Gutrum said. His voice was low, trembling with rage. "We do not torture our own workers. We do not torture anyone for... batteries."

  "It is necessary," Baldur said quietly. He was grinding his teeth so hard I thought they would crack. "If the Barrier falls... the Ancient Dragons come. Everyone dies. The needs of the many..."

  "Do not quote math to me, Baldur!" Gutrum roared. "It is evil!"

  "Item Two," Malachia continued, ignoring the outburst.

  She looked at the Highborns. At Bastian. At Brandan. At me.

  "Mechanic: [CONSUME]."

  The mercury formed a shape. A small shape. A baby. A Grotesque infant.

  "The Gods have unlocked a new dietary option," Malachia whispered, tears leaking from her eyes. "If a Highborn consumes the flesh of a Grotesque newborn..."

  The room went dead silent. The only sound was the humming of the Annunaki ships above.

  50,000 SP.

  I did the math instantly. It was a sickness, but I did it. I was 109,000 SP. One... meal... would push me to nearly 159,000. I would be a Titan. Volpert... his [Glass Soul]... it could be cured. Fenris’s limp... cured.

  "It cures everything," Bastian whispered. He looked horrified, but his eyes were calculating. "Cancer. Rot. The Wasting Sickness."

  "It is cannibalism," Gutrum spat. "It is eating babies for power."

  "It’s efficiency," Vasco Vane murmured, looking at the stats. "Do you know what the nobles will pay for this? A cure for death? We could tax the... consumption."

  "I will kill the first man who suggests it," Brandan growled. But his hand shook on his tankard. He was thinking of Volpert. I knew he was.

  "Item Three," Malachia said. She looked at Fenris.

  Dr. Fenris Vulpine was ignoring the drama. He was popping pills, looking bored. "Torture, cannibalism... standard divine operating procedure. Is there a point to this melodrama?"

  "Server Cleanup," Malachia read.

  She looked at the fox.

  "Enlil has designated the Beastkin species as... Redundant Code."

  Fenris froze. The pill stopped halfway to his mouth.

  "Redundant?" Fenris asked. His voice was very quiet.

  "Waste of server space," Malachia recited. "Inefficient mana conductors. The Gods have ordered a... liquidation."

  Fenris dropped the pill. It bounced on the glass floor. Click. Click.

  "Liquidation," Fenris whispered. His ears flattened against his skull. "They want to wipe us out? Because we are... buggy code?"

  "They want the space," Malachia said softly.

  "I sit on this Council!" Fenris snarled, standing up. He leaned over the table, baring his teeth. "I am the Master of Flesh! I saved your daughter's arm, Gutrum! I cured your poison, Wilhelm! And now you sit there and discuss my extinction?"

  "We didn't write the list, Fox," Vasco said smoothly. "We are just... processing the data."

  "Processing!" Fenris laughed. It was a bark of pure panic. "My people are in those villages! The farmers! The healers!"

  Suddenly, the sky screamed.

  THRUUUUUUUUUUM.

  The white ships above the city flashed. A beam of red light shot down from the flagship, hitting the center of the Council Table.

  A hologram appeared. A massive, floating window.

  But it wasn't just for us.

  Through the Void-Glass walls, we could see it appearing in the sky outside. A projection miles wide.

  Every citizen in Moonclaw saw it. Every Angel. Every beggar.

  A map appeared. A glowing red dot in the forests to the East.

  Fenris went pale. His fur seemed to stand on end. He dropped his cane.

  "Foxglade," he whispered. "No. No, no, no."

  He looked at me. His blue eyes were wide, pleading. The arrogance was gone. The sarcasm was gone.

  "Wilhelm," Fenris choked out. "Liora. My wife. She's there. And Ember. My daughter. She's six."

  He grabbed my coat. He shook me.

  "They are in Foxglade! It’s my home!"

  I stared at him. The cynical doctor. The man who didn't care about anything. He was shaking apart.

  Then, the Reward flashed on the screen.

  The number hung in the air.

  300,000 Gold.

  It was everything. It was the Royal Guard. It was the Tournament. It was food for a year. It was the survival of the Kingdom.

  All for the price of one village of "redundant code."

  The Council went silent.

  Brandan looked at the gold. Baldur looked at the gold. Vasco looked at the gold.

  Fenris looked at me.

  "Wilhelm," Fenris whispered. "Please. You're the Master of Coin. You decide where the money comes from."

  He fell to his knees. The proud fox knelt on the glass floor.

  "Don't sell them," he begged. "Don't sell my family for an army."

  I looked at the number. 300,000.

  I looked at Fenris.

  I looked at the Annunaki ships waiting for a show.

  "The math," I whispered, my voice sounding like it belonged to a stranger. "The math is hateful."

  I closed my eyes.

  If I say no... we have no army. Helga invades. Everyone dies. If I say yes... I buy the Kingdom with the blood of a six-year-old girl.

  "Wilhelm!" Fenris screamed. "LOOK AT ME!"

  I opened my eyes.

  "I see you, Fenris," I said softly.

  I looked at the King.

  "Brandan. We need the army."

  Fenris let out a sound that wasn't human. It was the sound of a heart ripping in half.

  "But," I continued, my voice hardening. "We don't need the Gods' money."

  I turned to the window. To the giant projection in the sky.

  "We are the Moonclaw," I said. "We are the broken. We don't eat our friends."

  "Wilhelm," Vasco warned. "300,000 Gold. Think about the leverage."

  "I am thinking about the leverage," I snapped. "And if we take that gold... we belong to them. We become their pets."

  I looked at Fenris. I offered him a hand.

  "Get up, Doctor. We aren't going to burn Foxglade."

  Fenris looked at my hand. He took it. His grip was crushing.

  "Then what are we going to do?" Baldur asked. "The Quest is public. Every mercenary, every desperate peasant in the city sees that reward. They are already marching. 300,000 Gold makes people do terrible things."

  I looked at the map. The red dot of Foxglade.

  "Then we have to get there first," I said.

  I tapped my Monocle.

  "We are going to save your family, Fenris," I said. "And then... we're going to figure out how to pay for this war without selling our souls."

  I turned to the King.

  "Brandan. Get the hammer. We have a Quest to fail."