The door groaned open. It sounded tired. Everything in this city sounded tired.

  Brandan Stormsong didn’t fit through doors properly. He just sort of... occupied the space until the door realized it was in the way. He still wore his armor, the black steel dented from the battle, still smelled of smoke and old rage.

  Gutrum Falken walked in behind him. Silent. Grey. The North wind in a cloak.

  Wilhelm froze, his hand still resting on the map of the Firelands, the stolen mushroom paste burning a hole in the wall behind him.

  "I wasn't stealing," Wilhelm blurted out. "It was... inventory management. Advanced logistics. Very technical."

  Brandan ignored him. He walked to the desk, grabbed a pitcher of wine (miraculously full), and drank straight from the rim. Red liquid spilled into his beard, looking too much like blood.

  "You're not going anywhere, Wil," Brandan rumbled, wiping his mouth with a gauntlet. "The Firelands? Dragon eggs? That's a boy's fantasy. We are men. We stay. We rule."

  He slammed the pitcher down.

  "We took the damn chair. Now we sit in it. Even if it cuts our ass."

  Wilhelm sighed, sinking into his own chair. "Brandan. The chair is on fire. The kitchen is on fire. The chef is a lunatic who skins people. Staying isn't ruling, it's roasting."

  "We swore," Brandan said. He looked at Gutrum. "Remember, Gutrum Remember the weirwood... no, wrong gods. Remember the Oak of Kaledon? The pact?"

  Gutrum nodded slowly. He walked to the window, looking out at the smog-choked city. "I remember. We were young. Stupid."

  "We were in love," Brandan whispered.

  The room went quiet. The kind of quiet that feels heavy, like a wool blanket soaked in water.

  Brandan walked over to the painting of King Theodoric. He didn't look at the king. He looked at the dust on the frame.

  "She hated this place," Brandan murmured. "Lisa. She told me once, in the gardens... before Hartmut found us. She said the Moonclaw smelled like ambition and dead flowers."

  He traced a finger along the frame.

  "She was supposed to be Queen," Gutrum said, his back to them. His voice was tight. Strained. "Mother... she arranged it. The alliance. The Bladebloods and the Falkens. It was perfect. On paper."

  "Hartmut was a monster," Brandan growled. His hand clenched into a fist. "He treated her like... like furniture. Like something you own."

  Wilhelm watched his brother. The big man was shaking.

  "I shouldn't have spoken to her," Brandan said. His voice broke. A cracks in the mountain. "That day in the solar. I should have just walked past. I was a barbarian. A loud, drunk barbarian. She was... soft. She liked poetry. Why did she like me, Gutrum? Why?"

  "Because you listened," Gutrum said softly. He turned around. His eyes were wet. "Hartmut talked at her. You talked to her. You made her laugh. I hadn't seen her laugh in years."

  Brandan closed his eyes.

  "We were going to run," he whispered. "That night. I had the horses. I had the boat. We were going to the Republik. Just Brandan and Lisa. No crowns. No wars."

  He laughed. A bitter, jagged sound.

  "But I was too slow. Or too loud. Hartmut found the letters. And then..."

  Brandan touched his neck. As if he could feel a phantom noose.

  "He didn't kill me," Brandan choked out. "That would have been mercy. He made me watch. From the gallery. While they..."

  He couldn't finish. The air in the room felt suffocating.

  "She looked at me," Brandan whispered. tears leaking into his beard. "Right at the end. She didn't look scared. She looked... sad. For me."

  He slammed his fist into the wall. CRACK. Plaster dusted down.

  "It's my fault, Gutrum. It's all my fault. If I hadn't... if I hadn't loved her... she'd be alive. She'd be miserable, but she'd be alive. I killed her with my heart."

  Gutrum walked over. He placed a hand on Brandan’s armored shoulder.

  "We killed her," Gutrum corrected. "My family sold her. Your family... tried to steal her. We are all guilty, Brandan. The sins of the fathers... and the lovers."

  Brandan looked at Wilhelm.

  "That's why I wear this," Brandan said, touching the jagged iron crown. "This ugly, heavy thing. It's not a prize, Wil. It's a penance. I sit on his throne. I wear his crown. I carry his kingdom. Because I deserve the weight. I deserve every ounce of it."

  He looked broken. Not the Warrior King. Just a man crushed by a ghost.

  "I can't run, Wil," Brandan pleaded. "If I run... then she died for nothing. If I build something... if I make this hellhole into a home... maybe she'll forgive me."

  Wilhelm felt his own eyes burn. He looked away, focusing on his boots.

  "Guilty."

  Brandan tasted the word. It was bitter. Like bile. He looked at Wilhelm. The Bastard stood near the door, fidgeting with a coat button that was hanging by a thread. He looked small. Not just physically. Small in spirit. Like he was waiting for someone to yell at him.

  "You think it's just a game, don't you, Wil?" Brandan asked softly.

  Wilhelm flinched. He stopped fidgeting. "What?"

  "The gold. The tricks. The jokes." Brandan gestured at the room, at the stolen food hidden in the walls, at the map of the Firelands. "You think if you move enough pieces, if you juggle enough lies... nobody has to die."

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  "It's working, isn't it?" Wilhelm shot back, voice defensive, brittle. "We're alive. We have mushrooms. We have a plan."

  "We have ghosts," Brandan corrected. He walked over to the window. The glass was cracked. A spiderweb fracture right in the center.

  "I see her," Brandan whispered. "Every time I close my eyes. Lisa. Not... not the beautiful part. Not the laughing part. I see the end."

  He touched the glass. "The way her head... tilted. Like she was asking a question. 'Why?'"

  Brandan turned to Gutrum. "Why did we let them do it, Gutrum? We were strong. We were young. We had swords. Why did we let old men in robes and crowns tell us who to love?"

  Gutrum sighed. He leaned against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor, his cloak pooling around him. He looked like a statue that had been knocked over.

  "Because we were good sons," Gutrum said. "We obeyed. We thought honor meant obedience. We thought... if we followed the rules, the world would be fair."

  He laughed. A dry, rasping sound. "The world isn't fair, Brandan. It's just hungry."

  Brandan nodded. He walked over and sat next to Gutrum. Two giants, sitting on the dusty floor of a stolen castle.

  "I'm not a good son anymore," Brandan rumbled. "I smashed the King. I smashed the rules. And now..." He looked at his hands. "Now I have to be a bad father. To Volpert."

  Wilhelm stepped forward. "The kid is... well, he's a piece of work, Brandan. But he's eleven. He can learn."

  "He's poisoned," Brandan said. "Lydia... she poured ambition into his ear like venom. He looks at me and he doesn't see a father. He sees a throne warmer. He sees a stepping stone."

  Brandan looked up at Wilhelm. His eyes were red-rimmed, exhausted. "If I die, Wil... if Alexander kills me... Volpert becomes King. And Lydia becomes the state."

  He grabbed Wilhelm’s wrist. His grip was bruising. "Don't let that happen. Promise me."

  "I'm not going to let you die," Wilhelm said, trying to pull away, but Brandan held on.

  "Promise me!" Brandan roared. "If I fall... you don't let the boy rule. You burn the chair. You burn the city. But you don't let Lydia win. You don't let her turn my son into another Hartmut."

  Wilhelm stared at him. At the desperation. At the sheer, raw panic in the eyes of a man who could wrestle a bear but couldn't fight his own family.

  "I promise," Wilhelm whispered.

  Brandan let go. He slumped back against the wall. "Good." He closed his eyes. "I'm tired, Gutrum. I'm so tired."

  Gutrum rested his head against the wall. "Me too, old friend. Me too."

  Wilhelm watched them. The King and the Duke. The heroes of the story. They looked like two boys who had played too long in the rain and just wanted to go home.

  "We need to go," Wilhelm said quietly. "The Firelands won't wait. And the dragons... well, they aren't going to steal their own eggs."

  Brandan opened one eye. "Dragons," he grunted. "Big lizards. Fire breath. Scales." He smirked. A ghost of the old Brandan. "Sounds easier than talking to my wife."

  He stood up. The armor clanked. He offered a hand to Gutrum and pulled him up. "Let's go," Brandan said. He picked up his hammer. "Let's go do something stupid. Lisa would have liked that."

  He walked to the door. He paused. He looked back at the empty pitcher of wine. "Wilhelm?"

  "Yeah?"

  "If we find a dragon..." Brandan grinned. It was a sad grin, but it was there. "...I get to name it."

  "Deal," Wilhelm said. "But if it eats you, I'm naming it 'Indigestion'."

  Brandan laughed. A real laugh. It echoed in the hallway, chasing away the ghosts for a second. "Deal."

  They walked out. Into the smog. Into the war. Leaving the dead flowers behind.

  The office of the Master of Coin wasn't built for sleepovers. It was built for ledgers and lonely alcoholics.

  But that night, it was a camp.

  Wilhelm dragged the velvet cushions from the visitor chairs onto the floor. Astrid claimed the rug near the fireplace, curling up like a cat with her wooden sword clutched to her chest. Gerald took the window seat, looking out at the burning city like he expected the smoke to answer him. And Mary... Mary sat in the corner, sharpening a dagger that was already sharp enough to cut air.

  "Cozy," Wilhelm muttered, throwing his coat over a pile of tax reports to make a pillow. "Just like the old days in Kaledon. Remember? The hayloft?"

  "The hayloft smelled better," Mary said. She didn't look up. "This place smells like money and lies."

  "Money has no smell," Wilhelm corrected, lying down and staring at the vaulted ceiling. "Lies smell like lavender. Ask Lydia."

  Astrid rolled over. Her one arm was tucked under her head.

  "Did he cry?" she asked suddenly. "The King?"

  "Astrid," Gerald warned from the window.

  "No, I want to know," she insisted, her voice small in the big room. "Everyone says he's a monster. The King-Slayer. But... he looked sad. Like Father."

  Wilhelm sighed. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small, dried piece of the mushroom paste, and tossed it to her. She caught it deftly with her left hand.

  "He cried," Wilhelm said. "Monsters don't cry over burnt grain.Only men do. Men who know they have to feed five hundred thousand mouths with... well, with that."

  Astrid nibbled the paste. She grimaced. "It tastes like feet."

  "It's vintage feet," Wilhelm yawned.

  Silence settled over the room. Not the awkward silence of the council chamber. The comfortable, heavy silence of people who share blood and scars.

  "Do you think we'll die?" Mary asked.

  She stopped sharpening. The shhhk-shhhk sound ceased.

  "Statistically?" Wilhelm murmured. "Yes. The odds are... appalling. We have no food. We have dragons to the South. We have a lunatic priest who likes whips to the West. And inside the walls? We have..."

  "Ourselves," Gerald finished. He turned from the window.He looked so much like the statues of the old kings, it hurt.

  "That's not enough," Mary whispered. She hugged her knees. "We're the broken ones, remember? The Bastard. The Cripple. The... the Ranger who ran away."

  Gerald flinched. Just a tiny tightening of his jaw.

  "I didn't run," Gerald said softly. "I patrolled. There is a difference."

  "You left," Mary accused, her voice cracking. "When Mother died. You left us with Father. And Father... he turned into stone."

  Gerald walked over to her. He knelt down. He didn't touch her Mary didn't like being touched but he stayed close.

  "I couldn't watch him fade, Mary. I thought... if I went to the Perimeter... if I fought the real monsters... maybe the ones in the house wouldn't seem so big."

  He looked at his hands. Calloused. Scarred.

  "I was wrong. The monsters follow you. They live in your boots."

  Astrid sat up. She pointed her wooden sword at Gerald.

  "You're back now," she said fiercely. "So you stay. You don't get to be mysterious and tragic in the woods anymore. You stay and you fight the dragons. With one arm if you have to."

  She looked at her empty sleeve.

  "Or no arms. I'll bite them. I have good teeth."

  Wilhelm laughed. A soft, wheezing chuckle.

  "You're terrifying, Astrid. Remind me never to owe you money."

  "You owe me five coppers from the card game last winter," she shot back instantly.

  "Details," Wilhelm waved a hand.

  He looked at them. His cousins. His pack.

  They were a mess. Gerald was carrying the weight of the world on shoulders that were too tired. Mary was drowning in a darkness she refused to name. Astrid was trying to punch the gods with a phantom limb.

  And him? He was just a thief with a calculator and a bleeding back.

  "We're not broken," Wilhelm said. The words surprised him. They hung in the air, fragile.

  He sat up. He looked at each of them.

  "We're... customized. Like armor that's been hammered to fit a weird shape. Sure, we have dents. We have missing pieces." He nodded at Astrid. "Some more than others. But that just means we fit together better. The shiny knights? The perfect ones like Alexander? They shatter when you hit them. Us?"

  He tapped his chest, wincing as he touched a bruise.

  "We bend. We dent. But we don't break. Not really."

  Mary looked at him. Her dark eyes were wet.

  "You're full of shit, Wilhelm," she whispered. But she smiled. A tiny, fleeting thing.

  "Professional requirement," Wilhelm grinned. "Now go to sleep. Tomorrow we have to figure out how to steal eggs from flying flamethrowers without getting turned into barbecue. I need my beauty rest."

  "You need a new face," Astrid mumbled, curling back up.

  "Goodnight, monster," Wilhelm said.

  "Goodnight, rat," she replied.

  Gerald went back to the window, but he sat on the floor this time, leaning his head against the glass. Mary put the dagger away.

  Wilhelm lay back down. The floor was hard. His back burned from the whipping. His stomach growled.

  But as he listened to the breathing of his family the slow rhythm of sleep taking them one by one he felt something strange.

  He felt safe.

  For the first time in this cursed city, surrounded by fire and enemies... he felt safe.

  "Wolves die alone," he whispered to the ceiling shadows. "But we aren't wolves. We're mutts. And mutts survive everything."

  He closed his eyes. And for once, he didn't dream of the whip. He dreamed of omelets. Really big omelets.