The morning sun hit the Angelic Manse, turning the violet walls into a glowing bruise against the grey skyline.

  I walked out the front door, swaying slightly, arms loose at my sides. I adjusted my Ironvine Helmet, flipping the visor up so the world could see my grin.

  "Passive income, mates," I slurred slightly, channeling my inner Master of Coin. "It’s the only ship that sails itself while the captain is napping."

  "Glorious," I muttered, doing a little spin. My black Shadow-Weave Coat flared out like a cape. "Gale-Force! Fall in! Try not to look so menacing. We are investors today."

  The scouts materialized from the shadows, looking confused by my sudden change in demeanor. They followed me as I swaggered down the street to the Ironvine Emporium.

  I kicked the door open.

  "Shopkeeper!" I announced, strutting to the counter. "I have coin, I have trash, and I have a gambling addiction. Let's dance."

  The Golem clerk whirred to life. "Welcome, Master Storm."

  "First things first," I said, slapping a bag of gold on the wood. "One Noble’s Coffer. I’m feeling lucky."

  The box appeared. I flipped the latch with a flourish.

  "Two for two!" I cheered. "I am the chosen one of the random number generator!"

  I didn't hesitate. I needed to be tougher. I needed to hit harder.

  I put one point into [STRENGTH]. I put one point into [ENDURANCE].

  "Now," I said, dumping my saddlebags onto the counter. "I am purging my inventory. Everything must go."

  I laid it all out. The loot from the mercenaries. The ring I stole ages ago. My old bone mask.

  "Pleasure doing business," I smirked as the Golem swept the items away.

  "Would you like to purchase the Merchant License for 5,000 Gold?" the Golem asked. "It grants a 10% discount on "

  "Not today, rusty," I interrupted, waving a hand. "I prefer to pay full price. It makes me feel important."

  I turned to leave.

  And then I saw her.

  Standing in the heavy weapons aisle, inspecting a warhammer the size of a cow, was Freyda Skullwarden.

  She was massive. Seven feet of northern steel and muscle. Her armor was scratched, her face was stoic, and she smelled like pine trees and violence.

  My heart did a little flutter.

  "Oh," I whispered. "Hello, mountain."

  I adjusted my coat. I checked my breath. I tapped Malachia, who was floating next to me eating a candy bar.

  "Shortstack," I hissed. "Be cool. I’m going in."

  "Going in where?" Malachia asked, mouth full of chocolate. "Into battle?"

  "Into romance," I corrected. "Watch and learn."

  I sauntered over to Freyda. I leaned against a rack of spears, crossing my legs. I tried to look roguish and charming. I probably looked like a spider with a back injury.

  "Freyda," I purred, using my best Wilhelm voice. "A fine morning to be shopping for blunt instruments, is it not?"

  Freyda looked down at me. Way down.

  "It is a hammer," she rumbled. "For smashing."

  "Indeed," I nodded, making a vague hand gesture. "Smashing. A noble pursuit. You know, I couldn't help but notice... you have exceptional deltoids. Truly. The definition is... architectural."

  Freyda frowned. "My armor covers my arms."

  "I have x-ray vision," I lied smoothly. "It’s the helmet. Very advanced."

  "Hey Wilhelm!" Malachia yelled, floating up between us. "Can we go? I’m bored!"

  "Not now, Pontifex," I hissed through my teeth, smiling painfully at Freyda. "The adults are talking."

  I turned back to the giantess.

  "So, Freyda... I was thinking. After the war... if we survive the apocalypse and the cannibalism... maybe you and I could... spar?"

  I waggled my eyebrows.

  "Spar?" Freyda asked, tilting her head. "You have 11 Base Endurance. I would break your ribs."

  "I have 11 Base," I corrected, tapping my chest. "But with buffs, I’m a solid 15. I can take a hit. I enjoy a challenge. I like a woman who can bench press me."

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  "He likes that you're huge!" Malachia shouted helpfully. "He says you're a 'Beautiful Kaiju'!"

  I froze. "I did not say that."

  "You wrote it in your diary!" Malachia giggled, Flickering around Freyda’s head. "Entry 45: 'Freyda is a fortress. I want to climb the walls.'"

  Freyda stared at me. Her expression didn't change, but her hand tightened on the hammer.

  "You want to... climb me?"

  "Metaphorically!" I yelped, sweating. "It was poetic license! Malachia, go eat a battery!"

  "Do you have 10 gold?" Malachia asked, holding out a hand. "I want a soda."

  "No!"

  "Then I'm staying," she crossed her arms. "So, Freyda, did you know Wilhelm sleeps with a nightlight?"

  "It is a magical orb!" I shouted. "For reading!"

  "And he cries when he stubs his toe."

  "It hurts!" I defended.

  Freyda looked at Malachia. Then she looked at me.

  A very small, very terrifying smile touched her lips.

  "You are small," Freyda said. "And loud."

  "I am compact and charismatic," I corrected, trying to recover my swagger.

  She reached out. Her hand which was the size of a dinner plate patted me on the head. Pat. Pat.

  It felt like being petted by a hydraulic press.

  "Cute," Freyda rumbled.

  She hefted the giant hammer.

  "I will not break your ribs today, Wilhelm Storm. You are funny."

  She turned and walked away, the floor shaking with each step.

  I stood there, dazed. My helmet was crooked from the pat.

  "She called me cute," I whispered. "She thinks I'm funny."

  "She thinks you're a pet," Malachia snickered. "Like a hamster."

  I turned to the Child Pope.

  "You," I pointed a finger. "You are an agent of chaos. You ruined my smooth approach."

  "Your approach was 'I have x-ray vision'," Malachia deadpanned. "That’s not smooth. That’s a felony."

  She floated toward the door.

  "Come on, Hamster. We have a meeting with the Architects. And I need that soda."

  I adjusted my helmet. I watched Freyda leave.

  "One day," I vowed. "One day she will respect the swagger."

  I followed Malachia out of the shop, my pockets full of gold, my heart full of impossible romance, and my dignity somewhere back in the bargain bin.And There….

  The Grand Arena of the Aurean Empire was not a building. It was a geographic feature.

  It sat in the center of the Magical District like a diamond dropped in a coal chute. Built thousands of years ago, before the Eternal Choirlands, it was a colossal bowl of white marble and floating gold rings. The walls rose five hundred feet into the air, carved with statues of forgotten heroes that moved when you weren't looking.

  It was massive. It was magical.

  And right now, it was a traffic jam.

  "Gentlemen!" I announced, swaying slightly as I surveyed the crowd from the top of the entrance stairs. I adjusted my Ironvine Helmet, pushing the visor up to reveal my best roguish grin. "Behold! The sea of wallets!"

  "It’s a lot of NPCs," Malachia noted, floating next to me with a bag of popcorn. "Are the servers going to crash?"

  "Let them crash," I slurred, waving a hand. "As long as they pay the entry fee first."

  I looked down at the line. It stretched for miles. Every Noble House in the Kingdom had sent a delegation.

  There were the Northerners House Snowmere in their white furs, looking grim and pious. There were the Southerners House Redcask, already drunk on their own wine, arguing with the austere bankers of House Goldmust. There were the weird ones House Marrowkin from the Flesh Pits, wearing armor made of polished bone. And the terrifying ones House Vilethorn, smelling of swamp gas and dark magic.

  "They want blood," I said, rubbing my hands together. "They want spectacle. And for the low, low price of 100 Gold, I will sell them a seat to watch people die."

  "100 Gold?" Malachia choked on a kernel. "That’s robbery! That’s like... microtransaction hell!"

  "It’s supply and demand, love," I winked. "But we have a problem."

  I pointed to the empty ticket booth an ancient kiosk made of gold and obsidian.

  "I am the Master of Coin. I cannot be selling tickets. I need a face. A face that says 'I am better than you, so give me your money.' A face that is punchable, yet aristocratic."

  I paused. A wicked smile spread across my face.

  "I know just the guy."

  We rode back to the Angelic Manse.

  I kicked the door to the VIP Suite open.

  Inside, the air smelled of lavender perfume and expensive mistakes.

  York Bladeblood lay on a velvet chaise lounge. He was holding a goblet of wine in one hand and a grape in the other. He was surrounded by three giggling courtesans from House Softmere.

  He looked Smug. Arrogant. Completely unaware that he was useless.

  "And there I was," York bragged, tossing the grape into his mouth. "Surrounded by ten assassins! I drew my sword "

  "You drew a breath and ran away," I interrupted, marching into the room.

  York sat up, spilling wine on his silk doublet. "Master Storm! You... you interrupt the Prince! I was recounting my valor!"

  "Your valor is currently racking up a tab of 50.000 gold," I said, grabbing him by the ear.

  "Ow! Unhand me! I am of the Royal Blood!"

  "You are of the Royal Debt," I corrected. "Up you get, sunshine. You have a job."

  "A job?" York scoffed, trying to look dignified while I dragged him off the couch. "Bladebloods do not work. We conquer. We rule."

  "Today," I said, shoving him toward the door, "you conquer the ticket booth."

  Thirty minutes later, York Bladeblood was sitting inside the golden kiosk at the Arena gate. He was wearing a sash that said "OFFICIAL TREASURER".

  He looked miserable.

  "This is beneath me," York whined, adjusting his collar. "I should be in the Royal Box! I should be judging the combat!"

  "You are judging the currency," I said, leaning on the booth. "Here is the script. 'Welcome to the Grand Tournament. That will be 100 Gold. No refunds. If you die, we keep your boots.' Got it?"

  York looked at the line of terrifying nobles. A massive warrior from House Brickstone (Cemenvale) slammed a fist on the counter.

  "ONE TICKET," the Brickstone knight roared. He looked like a walking wall.

  York swallowed hard. He puffed out his chest. He channeled his inner entitled brat.

  "That will be one hundred gold," York sneered, looking down his nose at the giant. "And do try not to crumble the coins with your clumsy hands, you peasant."

  The Brickstone knight blinked. Then he grunted, intimidated by the sheer audacity. He paid.

  "I like him," Malachia whispered, watching from the roof of the booth. "He has negative charisma, but it works."

  "Next!" York shouted.

  A delegation from House Fungalhart (Mushmere) stepped up. They were covered in moss.

  "We wish entry," the Mushroom Lord wheezed, releasing a cloud of spores.

  "Ugh," York wrinkled his nose, waving a perfumed handkerchief. "You smell like a damp cellar. 100 Gold. And please, stand downwind. You are wilting my sash."

  They paid.

  "He’s a natural," I beamed. "He hates everyone, and everyone hates him. It’s perfect efficiency."

  "Wilhelm!" York hissed, leaning out of the booth. "There is a woman from House Lacerayne. She is winking at me. Do I give her a discount?"

  "If you give a discount," I whispered back, tapping the hilt of my Cinder-Cleaver, "I will sell you to House Skullwarden as a anatomy dummy."

  York paled. He turned back to the femme fatale.

  "Full price, Madam!" he barked. "And stop looking at me with those hungry eyes! I am a busy man of finance!"

  I watched the gold pile up in the reinforced chest behind him.

  "Look at it flow," I sighed happily, leaning back against the ancient stone. "The Royal Army is being funded by pure snobbery."

  "Captain," Malachia said, saluting with a half-eaten pretzel. "The line is moving. The servers are holding. We are rich."

  "Not rich, love," I corrected, watching York insult a Oilmere Baron. "We are just... liquid."

  I adjusted my coat.

  "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go make sure the Arena doesn't accidentally eat the audience. These Aurean ruins can be... temperamental."

  I walked into the massive, roaring stadium, leaving the Prince of the Firelands to act as my glorious, arrogant toll-collector.