The Ice Golem was just a pile of slush now.

  Wilhelm sat on a chunk of its head, panting, trying to ignore the way his left arm throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He held the Cryo-Core a blue, humming heart in his good hand. It felt cold. Like holding a piece of winter.

  "We survived," Astrid whispered.

  She was sitting on the floor, leaning against Freyda’s leg like it was a tree trunk. Her wooden sword was splintered. Her face was smeared with dirt and frozen zombie gunk.

  "We killed a Golem," she said, louder this time. She looked at her one arm. She clenched her fist. "I hit it. It didn't break, but I hit it."

  Freyda looked down. She reached out a massive, gauntleted hand and... patted Astrid on the head. It was awkward. Like a bear trying to pet a kitten.

  "You have teeth, little wolf," Freyda rumbled. "Teeth are good."

  Astrid beamed. It was a terrifying, feral smile.

  Gerald was wiping zombie ichor off his sword with a piece of Volpert’s abandoned cloak (the Prince had fled minutes ago, leaving his dignity and his outerwear behind).

  "We need to move," Gerald said, ever the Ranger. "The noise... it might attract more. Or worse."

  "Let's loot first," Wilhelm groaned, sliding off the ice block. "Daddy needs a new pair of... everything."

  He walked over to one of the zombies he’d fried. The one with the melted head.

  He knelt down.

  [ LOOTING... ]

  He pulled a small, glass vial from the zombie's belt pouch. It wasn't shattered. Miracle.

  The liquid inside was grey. Thick. It didn't slosh. It moved like sludge.

  "Nasty," Wilhelm grinned. "I like it. I'm going to put this on Alexander's door handle."

  He pocketed it.

  Then he opened his System Menu. The Level Up was pulsing.

  He looked at his new loot. The Cryo-Core. The zombie juice.

  "I need something mean," Wilhelm muttered. "Something that hurts people who wear expensive armor."

  He scrolled through the Archive.

  Fire? Boring. Ice? He was shivering enough.

  But... combined?

  "Oh yes," Wilhelm whispered. "That's the stuff. Goodbye, plate mail. Hello, shrapnel."

  [ SKILL UNLOCKED. ]

  He closed the menu. He felt a little stronger. A little less... fragile.

  He looked up.

  His family was waiting.

  Gerald, leaning on his sword, watching the shadows. Mary, silent as ever, collecting arrows from the corpses. Astrid, practically vibrating with adrenaline. And Freyda, the mountain who had adopted them all.

  They were a mess. Dirty, bloody, broken.

  But they were his mess.

  "Hey," Wilhelm said softly.

  They looked at him.

  "We did good," he said. He didn't use the pirate voice. He didn't use the sarcasm. He just spoke. "We went into the dark. We fought the nightmare. And we're all walking out."

  He held up the Cryo-Core. It cast a blue light over their faces.

  "We have the cure," Wilhelm said. "We can save the King."

  Mary walked over. She touched the crystal. Her fingers were cold.

  "Do you think it matters?" she asked quietly. "The fire... the hunger... maybe we're just prolonging the inevitable."

  Wilhelm put a hand on her shoulder. He squeezed.

  "Maybe," he admitted. "But we're going to prolong it really, really loudly. We're going to make so much noise that even the gods have to wake up and complain."

  Gerald sheathed his sword. He walked over and put an arm around Mary. Then he grabbed Astrid by the back of her tunic and pulled her into the huddle.

  Freyda stood outside the circle, watching.

  "Tower," Wilhelm called out. "Get in here. You're part of the furniture now."

  Freyda hesitated. Then she took a step. She wrapped her massive arms around all four of them. It wasn't a hug. It was a containment field.

  "You are squishy," she rumbled. "I will keep you from popping."

  Wilhelm laughed. It hurt his ribs, but he laughed anyway.

  "Let's go home," he said. "I have a fox to annoy. And a city to feed."

  They walked back to the elevator.

  Limping. Bleeding. Starving.

  But walking.

  Together.

  The walk back to the surface wasn't a parade. It was a gauntlet run through a tunnel of angry eyes.

  The Clayborn were out.

  They weren't working. They were standing. Clots of grey-skinned, hollow-cheeked people blocking the streets, leaning against the soot-stained walls of the tenements. They looked like statues made of resentment.

  "Food!" someone shouted from the back. It wasn't a question. It was a bark.

  "Where is the grain?"

  "My kids are eating drywall!"

  Wilhelm stumbled a little, catching himself on Freyda’s elbow. He flashed his teeth. A dazzling, terrified smile.

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  "Citizens!" Wilhelm spread his arms, swaying like a palm tree in a hurricane. "Friends! Compatriots! People who definitely need a breath mint! I hear you! I hear your stomachs! The rumbling is... frankly, impressive. Like a drum circle!"

  A tomato flew.

  It wasn't a fresh tomato. It was a rotten, black slime-ball of a vegetable.

  Wilhelm dodged. Woosh.

  "Missed!" he chirped, wagging a finger. "Your aim is as poor as your patience! Now, listen the grain situation is... experiencing a minor technical difficulty. A hiccup! A logistical shimmy! We have top men working on it. Top. Men."

  "Liar!" a woman screamed. She held up a skinny baby. "You burnt it! We saw the smoke!"

  The crowd surged forward. Just a step. But a thousand people taking one step is a sound that vibrates in your bones.

  Wilhelm’s smile faltered. His hand drifted to his rapier, which felt like a toothpick against a tidal wave.

  Okay. This is it. Torn apart by an angry mob. Not the heroic exit I planned.

  Then the earth shook.

  BOOM.

  Brandan Stormsong slammed the butt of his warhammer into the cobblestones. Sparks flew.

  The King stepped forward. He didn't look like a monarch. He looked like a bar brawler who had accidentally put on a crown. His beard was matted with wine and soot. His armor was dented.

  He glared at the mob.

  "Enough!" Brandan roared. His voice rolled over them like thunder. "You think screaming fills your belly? You think throwing rot at my brother grows wheat?"

  The crowd shrank back. Fear. Pure, primal fear of the Alpha predator.

  "We are hungry too!" Brandan bellowed, slapping his own armored stomach. "I haven't had a roast boar in days! Days! Do you hear me whining? No! I am sharpening my hammer because the enemy is at the gates!"

  He pointed the hammer at the woman with the baby.

  "Go home. Sharpen a stick. If you want to eat, you fight. If you want to whine... do it quietly. I have a headache."

  It was terrible diplomacy. It was brutal.

  It worked.

  The mob muttered, shuffled, and backed down. They didn't love him. They were terrified of him.

  Wilhelm let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Subtle," he whispered to Brandan. "Very... nuanced. You really captured the 'shut up or I'll smash you' vibe."

  Brandan grunted. "They respect noise, Wil. Be louder."

  "OAF!"

  The scream came from above.

  A tiny figure dropped from a gargoyle, landing perfectly on Brandan’s massive shoulder.

  Pontifex Malachia.

  She was eating a stick of... something. It looked like crystallized sugar and spite.

  "You're loud," Malachia complained, kicking her heels against Brandan’s chestplate. "I could hear you from the spire. Blah blah blah, roast boar, blah blah."

  Brandan didn't shake her off. He grinned. A real, Brandan Stormsong grin.

  "Tiny Pope," Brandan laughed. "Did you save me a bite?"

  "Get your own," she snapped, but she broke off a piece of the candy and shoved it into his mouth. "Did you die? Wilhelm said you were gonna die."

  "Not yet," Brandan chewed loudly. "We found the ice thing. Wilhelm fell down a lot. It was majestic."

  Astrid pushed her way through the group. She looked at Malachia perched on the King’s shoulder.

  "You have charcoal on your face," Astrid noted.

  "War paint," Malachia corrected. She looked down at Astrid’s empty sleeve. Then at the wooden sword. "Did you hit anything?"

  "I headbutted the Prince," Astrid said. She said it casually. Like she was talking about the weather.

  Brandan choked on the candy. "You what?"

  "He was being a prick," Astrid shrugged. "So I broke his nose."

  Silence.

  Wilhelm covered his eyes. Here it comes. Execution.

  Brandan looked at Astrid. He looked at the one-armed, ferocious little girl who stood there defying a King.

  Brandan threw his head back and howled with laughter.

  "HA! You broke his nose? Volpert's nose?" He slapped his knee, nearly dislodging Malachia. "Good! The boy needs character! A crooked nose builds character! Did he cry?"

  "Like a baby," Astrid smirked.

  "Excellent!" Brandan beamed. "Malachia, did you hear that? The cripple hits harder than my son!"

  "Everyone hits harder than your son," Malachia giggled. "My teddy bear hits harder."

  "I like her," Brandan declared, pointing a sausage-finger at Astrid. "You. Little Wolf. You stick with me. When we fight the Snake, you can bite his ankles."

  "I'll stab his knees," Astrid promised.

  "Even better!"

  The three of them the broken King, the Wrongling Child-Pope, and the one-armed Falken-girl walked forward together, laughing about violence and broken noses. They looked like a nightmare version of a family portrait.

  Wilhelm hung back, walking beside Freyda.

  He watched them. The laughter was loud, manic. It was the laughter of people standing on the edge of a cliff, daring the wind to push them.

  "Look at them," Wilhelm murmured, shaking his head. "The lunatic fringe. They're going to get us all killed."

  Freyda looked at the trio. Her face remained stone, but her eyes weren't cold.

  "They are a pack," she rumbled. "A pack is strong."

  "A pack needs food, Tower," Wilhelm patted the Cryo-Core in his pocket. It was freezing his hip, numbing the pain of the whip marks. "And right now, the only thing on the menu is an angry alchemist and a mystery poison."

  He looked at the angry faces of the Clayborn still watching from the shadows.

  "Keep your hand on your sword," Wilhelm whispered. "Brandan scared them for now. But hunger doesn't sleep. And neither do rats."

  He adjusted his hat which he didn't have, but the motion made him feel better and swayed after the King.

  "Wait up!" Wilhelm called out. "If we're discussing breaking Volpert's other bones, I have suggestions! I vote for the shin! Very painful! Very educational!"

  "Shin breaking is a delicate art," Brandan roared back, the laughter echoing off the damp walls. "We'll put it on the curriculum!"

  The group marched on toward the Citadel a noisy, chaotic, terrifyingly lovable juggernaut. But Wilhelm slowed his pace. The adrenaline from the riot was fading, replaced by that familiar, itching sensation at the base of his skull. The feeling that while the King was shouting, the shadows were still whispering.

  He looked at Freyda. She caught his eye, her face unreadable as stone.

  "Go," she rumbled, barely moving her lips. "I will watch the Oaf. And the Wolf."

  "Just... a quick detour," Wilhelm murmured, tapping his nose and stepping back into the gloom. "Strategic reconnaissance. Definitely not looking for a bottle of something that burns. I'll catch up before the victory wine is corked."

  He let them pass. He watched the "Lunatic Fringe" disappear into the fog, their laughter fading into the distance. Then, he turned left. Into the labyrinth of the Low Districts. The Cryo-Core was freezing his hip, but his mind was on the city's pulse. He needed to know what the underworld was doing while the sun was down.

  He hadn't walked two blocks before a splash of color in the greyscale misery caught his eye.

  Wilhelm wasn't supposed to be here.

  He was supposed to be with the King, playing happy families and planning a revolution against poison. But when he saw the flash of purple velvet slipping into an alleyway known for stabbings and cheap gin, his curiosity got the better of him.

  Vasco Vane. The Master of Liabilities.

  Why was the richest, most cowardly man in the city tiptoeing through the mud?

  Wilhelm pressed himself against the wet brick wall, peeking around the corner. The rain was heavy here, drumming on the trash cans like impatient fingers.

  It wasn't a meeting. It was an execution.

  Or it was about to be.

  A Purifier one of Desmus’s lesser thugs, smelling of unwashed wool and self-righteousness had cornered something behind a dumpster.

  A Reptiloide.

  A lizard-kid. Maybe five years old. Green scales, yellow eyes the size of saucers, shivering so hard its tail was making a thwack-thwack sound against a rusty bucket.

  The Purifier held a silver skinning knife. He was smiling.

  "Anu demands the husk," the priest muttered, testing the edge on his thumb. "Shed the skin, save the soul. Don't worry, little demon. You'll stop screaming eventually."

  Wilhelm’s hand went to his rapier. He calculated the distance.

  Too far. Too slow. By the time I get there, the kid is a handbag.

  But then, a shadow moved.

  Not a fast shadow. A lazy, elegant shadow.

  Vasco Vane stepped into the light. He was holding a silk umbrella over his head to protect his perfectly coiffed hair. He looked at the scene like he was inspecting a smudge on a wine glass.

  "Excuse me, Father," Vasco drawled. "But you're blocking my light."

  The priest spun around, knife raised. "Walk away, sinner. This is Church business."

  "Actually," Vasco sighed, reaching into his robe and pulling out a scroll that looked suspiciously like a laundry list, "it's Bank business. And Bank business trumps Church business on Tuesdays. Or is it Wednesdays? I lose track."

  He tapped the scroll with a manicured fingernail.

  "Section 4, Paragraph 12 of the Property Act. 'Unbaptized Biomass' is classified as 'Moveable Assets'. The father of this... creature... owed me five hundred gold. He died last week. Very tragically. Fell onto a sword. Twice."

  Vasco stepped closer. His velvet shoes squelched in the mud, but he didn't flinch.

  "The debt transfers to the kin. Which means, Father, that thing shivering behind the trash can isn't a demon. It's my collateral."

  The priest laughed. A wet, ugly sound. "It's an abomination! It belongs to the fire!"

  "It belongs to the ledger!" Vasco snapped. His voice lost the drawl. It became sharp. Dangerous. "If you damage it, you damage the Bank's property. That is theft, Father. Theft is a sin."

  He leaned in, his face inches from the priest's.

  "Do you want to explain to the All-Father why you destroyed a holy financial asset because you wanted to play with your knife? The Hell of Accountants is very, very tedious. Lots of paperwork. No breaks."

  The priest hesitated. He looked at the knife. Then at Vasco’s cold, dead eyes. Then at the scroll.

  Superstition battled greed. Greed won.

  Vasco reached into his pocket and tossed a heavy pouch into the mud. Splat.

  "Acquisition fee. Plus interest. Now go away. You smell like wet dog."

  The priest grabbed the gold. He spat at the lizard-kid, muttered a curse, and ran.

  Wilhelm watched, holding his breath.

  Vasco just bought a monster, he thought. What’s he going to do? Sell it to the circus? Use it for parts?

  The alley was silent, except for the rain.

  Vasco stood there. He looked at his shoes. Ruined. He looked at his hem. Muddy.

  Then he looked at the Reptiloide.

  The kid hissed. It bared tiny, needle-teeth. It expected the knife.

  Vasco didn't pull a knife.

  He dropped the umbrella.

  It rolled away into a puddle. The silk ruined.

  Vasco knelt. Right in the muck. His knees sank into the filth.

  "I know," Vasco whispered. His voice was different. The oil was gone. It sounded... cracked. "I know."

  He opened his coat. The heavy, fur-lined velvet that probably cost more than the entire street.

  "Come here," he said softly.

  The kid trembled. It clicked its claws against the stone.

  "They say you're cold-blooded," Vasco murmured, looking the monster in the eye. "That you have no soul. That you're just... scales and hunger."

  He reached out a hand. Not to grab. To invite.

  "They call me a snake too, little one. They say I have ice in my veins. They say I'd sell my mother for a copper."

  The Reptiloide hesitated. It sniffed the air. It smelled the warmth radiating from the man.

  It lunged.

  Not to bite. To hide.

  It buried itself in Vasco’s chest, clinging to his silk shirt with muddy claws. It buried its face in his neck, shivering violently.

  Vasco wrapped the coat around it. He hugged the slimy, scaly bundle tight, rocking back and forth on his knees in the rain.

  "Let them pray," Vasco whispered into the kid’s ear, his eyes closed. "Let them sing their hymns to the light. We monsters... we have to keep each other warm. Because nobody else will."

  Wilhelm stared from the shadows.

  He saw Vasco Vane, the man who sold poison to widows, the man who would bankrupt an orphanage for a profit margin... holding a monster like it was his own child.

  Wilhelm felt something tight in his chest loosen.

  He's not a villain, Wilhelm realized. He's just lonely. And cold.

  Wilhelm stepped back, letting the shadows swallow him. He wouldn't interrupt. He wouldn't make a joke.

  Some moments were too expensive for words.

  He turned and walked away, leaving the two snakes to find warmth in the mud.