The fire was green.

  That was the first thing. Wood burns orange. Grain burns yellow. Green? Green is alchemy. Green is spite.

  Wilhelm stood a little too close to the heat, his coat tails flapping in the thermal updraft. He watched thirty-one billion calories turn into smoke. It was mesmerizing, really. In a "end of the world" sort of way.

  "It’s gone," Brandan whispered.

  The King was sitting on a piece of rubble. He wasn't raging anymore. The Brandan Stomsong-fury had burned out, leaving just a tired, broken man in a crown that didn't fit. He held his hammer loosely, the head resting in the mud.

  "I should have just taken the head," Brandan mumbled, staring at the flames. "Hartmut’s head. And gone back to Kaledon. We have boars in Kaledon. We have wine. I understand boars. I don't understand... this."

  He gestured vaguely at the burning city. "I'm a King of Ash, Wil. A King of cinders."

  "Ash is just carbon," Wilhelm offered, swaying slightly, taking a swig from a flask that was tragically empty. "Very good for the soil. Eventually."

  "Silence," Baldur hissed.

  The Grey One stood next to them. He wasn't looking at the fire with regret. He was looking at it with hatred. His jaw muscle jumped. Clench. Release. Clench. The sound of his teeth grinding was audible over the roar of the flames.

  "The math," Baldur said. His voice was flat. "Wilhelm. The math."

  Wilhelm sighed. He rubbed his temples.

  "The math is hateful, brother. The math is a bitch."

  He held up a finger.

  "We have one mushroom farm. My pride and joy. It makes 500,000 calories a day. Assuming the mutants don't eat it first."

  He held up a second finger.

  "We have fifty thousand Angels. Soldiers. Knights. Plus us. Plus the court. To keep an Angel fighting? Three thousand calories. Minimum. They run hot."

  "Total," Baldur demanded.

  "One hundred and fifty million," Wilhelm said. "Per day. Just for the army. Just to keep the swords lifted."

  He dropped his hand.

  "We have half a million coming in. We need one hundred and fifty million. That’s... well... that's a deficit of ninety-nine point something percent. And that’s ignoring the four hundred thousand Clayborn who are currently eating moss."

  Brandan put his head in his hands.

  Wilhelm stepped closer to Baldur. He lowered his voice.

  "We have to make a choice, mate. A hard one." Wilhelm looked around, checking for listening ears. "We feed the Angels. We feed the core. The rest? The Clayborn? The city?"

  He shrugged, a jerky, uncomfortable motion.

  "We cut them loose. We hoard the mushrooms. We survive. They... forage."

  Baldur turned slowly. His burnt face looked like a mask of judgment.

  "You suggest we let the people starve to feed ourselves?"

  "I suggest we don't all die," Wilhelm snapped, the swagger slipping. "If the army starves, Helga walks in here and butchers everyone. If the Clayborn starve... well, it’s tragic, but we hold the walls. It’s the lifeboat dilemma, Baldur. The boat is full. You start pulling people in, we all sink. Savvy?"

  "No," Baldur said.

  "Baldur, be reasonable "

  "NO." Baldur’s voice was iron. "We ration. Everyone eats. The General eats the same as the private. The private eats the same as the beggar. If the portion is one crumb, then we all eat one crumb."

  "Then we all die!" Wilhelm threw his hands up. "That’s noble suicide! That’s just... math with a halo!"

  "It is justice," Baldur ground out. "I will not rule a graveyard."

  "You already do!" Wilhelm shouted back.

  Brandan groaned. "Stop. Please. Just... stop."

  Wilhelm turned away, disgusted. Baldur. He was dealing with Baldur. The man would starve himself to death out of principle and call it a victory.

  He looked back at the fire. The green flames were licking the sky.

  And that’s when he saw them.

  Shadows.

  Not the flickering shadows of the fire. Moving shadows. Three figures, cloaked in grey, darting away from the rear of the granary. Moving against the flow of the bucket brigade.

  Assassins.

  "Oi!" Wilhelm yelled.

  He didn't think. He ran.

  He launched himself over a pile of burning timber, boots skidding on the wet stones.

  "Stop! You there!"

  The figures looked back. Masks. Faceless.

  They sprinted. They were fast.

  Wilhelm pushed his legs. Come on. Speed. Neural Speed.

  He saw them vault a wall. He saw the handhold. He told his body to grab it.

  His body lagged.

  245 milliseconds.

  By the time his hand reached for the brick, they were gone. He clawed at empty air, stumbled, and slammed chest-first into the wall.

  "Dammit!" Wilhelm screamed, kicking the stone. "Too slow! Always too bloody slow!"

  He slumped against the alley wall, panting.

  It wasn't an accident.

  The fire. The green flames. It was a hit. A decapitation strike on the city's stomach.

  "Inside job," Wilhelm whispered. "Someone let them in. Someone told them where the vents were."

  He looked back at the plaza. Baldur was organizing a bucket line. Brandan was weeping.

  They were dead men walking.

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  Wilhelm pushed himself off the wall. He looked at his hands. Shaking.

  "Baldur won't save us," Wilhelm muttered. "He's too good. He'll share the last loaf of bread and we'll all be skeletons by Friday."

  A dark thought crossed his mind. A Criminal thought.

  If the captain steers the ship into the rocks... the quartermaster needs to secure a lifeboat.

  Wilhelm didn't go back to his brothers.

  He turned left. Down the alley. Toward the lower cisterns. Toward the only food left in the world.

  The Fungal Farm was quiet. The Grotesque were sleeping in piles, exhausted.

  Wilhelm crept along the gantry. The air smelled of wet earth and salvation.

  He reached the storage crate. The First Harvest.

  He looked around. No one. Just the hum of the Enmagic lights.

  "I'm sorry, Baldur," Wilhelm whispered. "But one of us has to be the villain."

  He opened his inventory.

  Wilhelm grabbed handfuls of the grey, rubbery stuff. He shoved it into his pockets, into his secret coat lining, into his Inventory slots.

  It felt slimy. It felt like betrayal.

  "For Brandan," he muttered, shoving a chunk into a pouch. "Because he's huge and he'll die first."

  "For Baldur," another chunk. "Because he's an idiot who won't eat."

  "For Malchia," a small chunk. "Because she's a growing monster."

  "And for me," he took a bite of raw fungus, grimacing. "Because I like living."

  He closed the crate. He wiped his hands on his coat.

  He felt dirty. He felt smart.

  "Wilhelm?"

  He spun around. Hand on his rapier.

  Gutrum Falken stood in the doorway.

  The Duke looked ancient. The firelight from outside cast long, dancing shadows on his face. Behind him stood Ser Freyda, filling the corridor like a thunderhead.

  They saw him. They saw the crate. They saw the bulge in his pockets.

  Wilhelm froze.

  Then he swayed. He flashed the grin. The broken, desperate grin.

  "Inventory check!" Wilhelm chirped, voice cracking. "Just... quality control! Making sure the mold isn't... too moldy! Can't have the King eating bad fung "

  "The Granary is gone," Gutrum said. He didn't ask about the pockets. He looked too tired to care about petty theft. "I saw the fire."

  "It’s gone," Wilhelm dropped the act. He slumped against the railing. "All of it. We're at zero, Gutrum."

  Freyda stepped forward. Clank.

  "Sabotage?" she asked.

  "Assassins," Wilhelm nodded. "I saw them running. Three of them. Fast. Too fast for me." He tapped his chest. "My reaction time... it's garbage. They slipped right through my fingers."

  Gutrum leaned on his axe. "Bladebloods?"

  "Maybe," Wilhelm said. He narrowed his eyes. "Or someone closer. Someone who knew the patrol routes. Someone who knew exactly which vent would collapse the roof."

  He looked at the empty crate.

  "We have a rat, Gutrum. A big one. And while Baldur is playing saint and Brandan is playing mourner... the rat is probably opening the back door for Helga."

  Wilhelm pushed off the railing. He patted his pockets, feeling the squishy reassurance of the stolen food.

  "We need to find them," Wilhelm whispered. "Before they burn the mushrooms too."

  Freyda rested her hand on her sword.

  "I like hunting rats," she rumbled.

  "Good," Wilhelm said, walking past them, his boots squelching in the gloom. "Because this city is full of them. And I’m getting hungry."

  The secret compartment behind the painting of King Theodoric the Gouty was surprisingly spacious.

  Wilhelm shoved the last packet of compressed fungal nutrient-sludge into the hole. His hands were sticky. The stuff smelled like wet dog and copper.

  "It's not stealing," Wilhelm whispered, mostly to himself, wiping his hands on his trousers. "It's... strategic reallocation. Asset protection. If I starve, who balances the books? Nobody. Chaos. Cats living with dogs."

  He slid the painting back. It clicked.

  He turned around.

  Ser Freyda was standing there.

  She hadn't moved. She hadn't blinked. She took up half the room, a silent, scratched-metal mountain of judgment.

  "You are a coward," she stated.

  Her voice didn't have heat in it. It was just a fact. Like saying water is wet or fire burns.

  "I am a survivor," Wilhelm corrected, swaying over to his desk and collapsing into the chair. He felt sick. The 30,000 calories sat in the wall like a lead weight. "There's a difference, Tower. Dead heroes get statues. Live cowards get to eat dinner."

  Freyda looked at the painting. Then at him.

  "You feed yourself while the city burns."

  "I feed the engine!" Wilhelm snapped, pointing a shaking finger at his own chest. "This brain? It runs on sugar and fear. If it shuts down, everyone dies. I'm... I'm essential infrastructure."

  Freyda grunted. A sound of pure, unfiltered disgust. She turned her back on him, walking toward the door.

  "You are a rat," she rumbled. "And rats eat first."

  Before Wilhelm could come up with a witty retort involving sinking ships, the door opened.

  It wasn't a servant. It wasn't Desmus.

  It was the Falkenberg. Or at least, the closest thing this wretched city had to it.

  Three people walked in. The Falken brood.

  Wilhelm froze. He tried to hide his sticky hands behind his back.

  "Cousin," the first man said.

  Gerald Falken.

  He didn't walk; he strode. He looked like he had just stepped out of a legend and was mildly annoyed about it. He was tall, lean, with hair the color of dark oak and eyes that looked like they had seen too many winters. He wore a simple grey cloak, travel-stained, and a sword that had no jewels, just a grip worn smooth by use.

  He was Honor. He was the Ranger King. He was everything Wilhelm wasn't.

  "Gerald," Wilhelm squeaked. He cleared his throat. "Gerald! You... you're back from the Perimeter. You look... heroic. Dust suits you. Truly."

  Gerald didn't smile. He just looked at the room, his gaze lingering on the painting of Theodoric. Did he know? Can Rangers smell stolen mushrooms?

  "The fire," Gerald said softly. His voice was gravel and honey. "We saw the smoke from the ridge. Father said you were here."

  Behind him stood a shadow.

  Mary Berg.

  She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, staring at the floor. She wore black. Only black. Her hair was a curly, dark mess pulled back in a severe knot. She had Gutrum’s face, but none of the warmth.

  The Bastard. Just like Wilhelm.

  But where Wilhelm wore his bastardy like a colorful coat, Mary wore hers like a funeral shroud. She looked up. Her eyes were dark, brooding, full of a silent, heavy anger at the world.

  "You smell like mold, Wilhelm," Mary muttered.

  "It's the cologne of the season, Mary," Wilhelm shot back. "Musk of Desperation. Very chic."

  She didn't laugh. She never laughed. She just brooded. She was the snow that never melted.

  "And..." Wilhelm looked at the third figure.

  Astrid.

  She was small. Tiny, really. she was sixteen. A wiry, fierce thing with hair chopped short with a knife.

  She was moving constantly. Shifting weight. Bouncing.

  She was holding a wooden practice sword.

  In her left hand.

  Her right sleeve... was pinned to her tunic.

  Empty.

  Just... gone. Shoulder down.

  Astrid wasn't looking at Wilhelm. She was staring at Freyda.

  Most people looked at Freyda with fear. Astrid looked at her with hunger. Pure, jealous hunger.

  "You're big," Astrid said. Her voice was sharp, biting.

  Freyda looked down. "I am."

  "You have a sword," Astrid pointed with her wooden stick. "A real one. Ironvine steel."

  "I do."

  "Fight me," Astrid snapped.

  The room went silent.

  Gerald sighed, a long, weary sound. "Astrid. Not now."

  "She's a tank!" Astrid shouted, spinning around, her empty sleeve flapping pitifully. "Look at her! She's slow! I'm fast! I can take her!"

  She lunged at Freyda. A quick, watery thrust with the wooden sword.

  Freyda didn't even draw. She just... tilted.

  Astrid missed. She stumbled, her balance off because of the missing arm. She fell into Freyda’s leg. Thump.

  It was like running into a wall.

  Astrid scrambled back, face red, eyes burning with tears she refused to shed.

  "I missed because the floor is uneven!" Astrid yelled, pointing the stick at Freyda’s chestplate. "I have the spirit! I have the moves! The System is wrong! It says I have 0 SP but I don't! I feel it!"

  She hit her own chest with her one hand.

  "I am a knight! I am!"

  Freyda looked down at the girl. At the pinned sleeve.

  For the first time, Freyda’s face changed. The snarl didn't leave, but her eyes... they softened. Just a fraction.

  "You have footwork," Freyda rumbled. "But you have no weight. You are a leaf trying to break a stone."

  "I'll get a metal arm!" Astrid hissed. "I'll ask the Technomancers! I'll be better than you!"

  Mary Berg stepped forward from the shadows. She put a hand on Astrid’s good shoulder.

  "Enough, little Falcon," Mary said. Her voice was low, sullen. "We aren't knights. We're the leftovers. The broken and the bastards."

  She looked at Wilhelm.

  "Isn't that right, Cousin?"

  Wilhelm felt a lump in his throat. He looked at Gerald, the King who wasn't a King. At Mary, the shadow who wanted a wall to guard. At Astrid, the warrior without a weapon.

  And then he thought about the 30,000 calories of sludge hidden in the wall.

  "We're survivors," Wilhelm whispered, the lie tasting like ash. "Just... survivors."

  Gerald walked to the desk. He placed his hands on the mahogany. He looked at Wilhelm with those piercing, noble eyes.

  "Father is holding the line at the Granary," Gerald said. "Baldur is rationing dust. We need a plan, Wilhelm. Not tricks. A plan."

  Wilhelm looked at the Falkens. His family. The only people who didn't look at him with disgust except maybe Mary, but that was her default setting.

  "A plan," Wilhelm repeated. He swayed. "Right. Plan. Step one: Don't die. Step two..."

  He looked at Freyda. Then at Astrid.

  "...Step two: We hunt. But not here."

  He grabbed a map from the desk.

  "The Firelands," Wilhelm pointed to the red zone. "Helga has dragons. Dragons are made of meat. Lots of meat."

  Gerald frowned. "You want to hunt dragons? With a starving army?"

  "I want to steal their eggs," Wilhelm grinned. It was a manic, terrified grin. "Omelets, Gerald. The biggest omelets in history."

  Astrid’s eyes lit up. "Dragon fighting?"

  "Stealing," Wilhelm corrected. "Fighting is for people with two arms and zero brain cells. We are going to be... creative."

  He felt the weight of the stolen food in the wall behind him.

  I am a rat, he thought. But even rats can bite the cat.