Wilhelm left the Sanctum of Flesh, his head swimming with chemical formulas and the lingering scent of dead knight. He needed fresh air. Or at least, air that tasted less like formaldehyde and more like… well, anything else.

  He walked toward the Shard Throne.

  He heard them before he saw them.

  The shouting wasn't the usual battlefield roar. It was specific. It was the sound of a family dinner going horribly, violently wrong.

  "IT IS MY RIGHT!"

  That was Baldur. The Grey One. His voice sounded like a chainsaw hitting a nail. Grinding. Furious.

  "IT IS A PIECE OF DIRT, BALDUR! SIT DOWN!"

  That was Brandan. The King. Sounding tired and drunk and loud.

  Wilhelm rounded the corner, swaying past two terrified guards who were pretending to be invisible. He pushed open the heavy obsidian doors.

  The Throne Room was a cavern of shadows. The Shard Throne loomed in the dark, a jagged monstrosity. Brandan was slumped on it, looking like a bear trapped in a fancy chair, clutching a goblet of wine like a lifeline.

  Baldur stood at the foot of the dais. He was vibrating. Literally vibrating with rage. His burnt face was a mask of red fury, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword so hard the leather creaked.

  And facing him?

  Standing in the center of the room, looking like a peacock that had wandered into a coal mine?

  Bastian Stormsong.

  The Fourth Brother.

  "Oh," Wilhelm whispered, stopping dead in his tracks. He leaned against a pillar, hidden by the gloom. "Oh, this is going to be good. Or fatal. Probably both."

  Bastian didn't look like a Stormsong. He didn't look like a man who shared blood with the Bear or the Wall.

  He was... beautiful.

  He wore a doublet of emerald silk Kaledon green embroidered with golden vines that shimmered in the torchlight. It was cut low, scandalously low, showing a chest that was smooth, hairless, and oiled. He wore trousers that were tailored tight enough to be illegal in three duchies.

  But it was the face.

  Lips that were naturally full but... was that rouge? Yes. A subtle stain of berry red. And his eyes... lined with kohl. Heavy, dark makeup that made his green eyes pop like gemstones.

  He didn't have a weapon. He held a single, white rose. He was twirling it.

  "You stole it," Baldur hissed. He took a step forward. Clank. "While we bled. While we marched on the capital. You sat in Kaledon. My seat. My birthright."

  Bastian smiled.

  It wasn't a smirk. It wasn't a grin. It was a Feminine smile. Soft. Sympathetic. Terrifyingly warm.

  "Stole is such a harsh word, sweet brother," Bastian purred. His voice was silk over steel. "I prefer... curated. I preserved it."

  He took a step toward Baldur. He didn't flinch at the burnt, scarred face. He didn't flinch at the sword.

  "Look at you," Bastian whispered, reaching out.

  Baldur recoiled. "Do not touch me, Sister."

  The insult hung in the air. Sister. The name the soldiers used when they thought nobody was listening. Because of the perfumes. Because of the boys he kept in his retinue. Because he didn't smash things with hammers.

  Bastian didn't get angry. His smile just got... sadder. Like he was pitying a wounded dog.

  "Sister," Bastian mused. He tapped the rose against his chin. "You always use that word like a knife, Baldur. But knives get dull."

  He walked around Baldur. Circling him. Like a dancer. Or a shark in velvet.

  "You were busy," Bastian said, addressing the room, addressing the King on the throne. "Brandan was playing Conqueror. You were playing Martyr. Kaledon was empty. The crop yields were down. The trade routes were stagnant."

  He stopped. He struck a pose, hand on his hip, head tilted.

  "I fixed it."

  "You usurped it!" Baldur roared. He drew his sword. SHING. "I am the Duke of Kaledon! By the laws of succession! By the blood of our father!"

  "And I am the one the people love," Bastian shot back. Fast. Sharp. The softness vanished for a microsecond.

  He turned to Brandan.

  "Tell him, Your Grace. Tell the Grey One."

  Brandan groaned. He rubbed his face. "Bastian... the grain shipments. Did you bring them?"

  "Five hundred wagons," Bastian said smoothly. "Wheat. Barley. Wine. And..." He winked at Brandan. "...lemon cakes for the little Prince."

  Brandan looked at Baldur.

  "He brought food, Baldur. The city is starving."

  "He bought his title with bread!" Baldur screamed, pointing his sword at Bastian’s chest. The tip hovered inches from the silk. "It is bribery! It is treason! The law says "

  Bastian stepped into the sword point.

  The steel touched the silk. It pricked the skin. A tiny spot of blood bloomed on the emerald fabric.

  Bastian didn't blink. He looked Baldur dead in the eye.

  "The law," Bastian whispered, raising a hand and gently, ever so gently, pushing the blade aside with one manicured finger. "The law is a story old men tell to keep young men in line."

  He stepped closer. He touched Baldur’s unburnt cheek.

  "You are a Creature, Baldur," Bastian said softly. "Inside and out. You are iron. Iron rusts. Iron breaks."

  He leaned in, his lips brushing Baldur’s ear.

  "I am a flower. I bend in the wind. And while you were burning your face off for a chair made of glass... I doubled the treasury of Kaledon. I threw festivals. I made them love the name Stormsong again."

  Bastian pulled back. He looked at the King.

  "I am the Duke of Kaledon, Brandan. Not because of birth. But because if you remove me... the grain stops. The wine stops. And the people realize that their new King is just a drunk with a hammer."

  Brandan stared at him.

  Baldur stared at him. He was shaking. He wanted to kill him. He wanted to execute him for the sheer audacity. But he couldn't. Because of the math.

  Bastian smoothed his doublet. He flicked the spot of blood away.

  "Now," Bastian beamed, clapping his hands. "I need a bath. The road was dusty, and I smell like a peasant. Do we have rosewater? Or is this entire castle composed of soot and testosterone?"

  He turned to leave.

  He saw Wilhelm in the shadows.

  Bastian stopped. His eyes scanned Wilhelm’s muddy coat, the rapier, the exhaustion.

  "Wilhelm!" Bastian chirped. "The Bastard! My favorite project!"

  He glided over, smelling of expensive oils and power. He grabbed Wilhelm’s face, squishing his cheeks.

  "You look terrible, darling. Truly. Like a wet rat that fell into a goblin's armpit."

  Wilhelm blinked, his hands fluttering uselessly. "I... uh... tactical grime? It's the latest fashion?"

  "We'll get you a tailor," Bastian decided, releasing him. "And a bath. And maybe some eyeliner. You have good eyes, Wilhelm. You should accentuate them."

  He patted Wilhelm’s cheek. Pat. Pat.

  "Welcome home, Bastard. Try not to die. I brought gifts, but funeral shrouds are so... last season."

  Bastian swept out of the room, his hips swaying, the white rose twirling in his fingers, leaving three brothers standing in the dark.

  One furious.

  One defeated.

  One confused.

  Wilhelm looked at Baldur, who was currently staring at his sword like he wanted to eat it.

  "Well," Wilhelm swayed, pointing a thumb at the door. "That... that is a dangerous man. He wears silk like armor. And I think... I think he just conquered us without drawing a weapon."

  Baldur sheathed his sword. SLAM.

  "He is a snake," Baldur ground out.

  "No," Wilhelm corrected, watching the empty doorway. "Snakes bite. Bastian? Bastian strangles you with velvet. And makes you thank him for the hug."

  The encounter with Bastian left a taste in Wilhelm’s mouth that was sweeter than the wine but heavier than the lead. Velvet strangulation, he’d called it.

  Wilhelm watched the "Sister" sashay down the corridor, the white rose spinning like a hypnotic coin. Bastian turned a corner near the Gallery of Silent Screams.

  "Curious," Wilhelm murmured, swaying slightly as he adjusted his coat. "Very curious. A man who moves without sound, smells like a garden, and appears out of thin air with five hundred wagons of grain? If it walks like a lizard and hisses like a lizard..."

  He pushed off the pillar.

  "Time for a little stalking. Tactically."

  Wilhelm crept forward. His Boots of Arestro were silent, but his knees clicked. He rounded the corner just in time to see the tail of Bastian’s emerald coat vanish through a heavy iron door marked with the Skullwarden Sigil.

  But that wasn't what stopped Wilhelm's heart.

  Behind Bastian, hugging the shadows of the floorboards, was a shape. Small. Green. Limping.

  A Reptiloide.

  Not the child Vasco had saved. This one was older, scarred, clutching a wound on its side that leaked black, tar-like blood. It scurried after Bastian like a loyal dog.

  "Aha," Wilhelm whispered, pointing a shaky finger at the empty air. "The smoking gun. Or rather, the bleeding reptile."

  He scurried forward, intent on slipping through the door before it closed.

  CLANG.

  A gauntlet the size of a ham blocked his path.

  Wilhelm halted, his nose inches from a chest-plate that looked... wrong. It wasn't standard steel. It was crafted from interlocking white ribs human ribs, enlarged and fused with iron curving around the wearer’s torso like an external skeleton.

  He looked up. And up.

  The helmet was a Hollow-Eye Mask. No visor. Just a smooth, bone-white faceplate with two deep, black pits for eyes.

  "Halt," Laroma rasped. His voice sounded like dry bones grinding together. "This gate is for the Blood-Sworn. The True Nobility."

  He looked down at Wilhelm.

  "No Bastards."

  Wilhelm flashed his teeth. "Ah, Ser Bones! Lovely outfit. Very... anatomical. Listen, I’m just following my brother. The pretty one? Smells like roses? He dropped his... pocket square. Very important. State security issue."

  "Bastian Stormsong is Highborn," Laroma rumbled, not moving an inch. "You are dirt. Dirt stays in the hall."

  Wilhelm’s eyes darted to the door. The Reptiloide was gone. He was losing the lead.

  "Right," Wilhelm sighed, hand drifting to his rapier. "Classism. My favorite hurdle. Look, mate, I really need to go through there. There is a lizard. A literal lizard. Probably plotting to eat the drapes."

  "Leave," Laroma commanded. He raised a weapon that looked like a butcher’s cleaver welded to a mace handle. The Marrow-Cleaver. "Or I will add your ribs to my coat."

  Wilhelm looked at the Cleaver. He looked at his own spindly limbs.

  "Well," Wilhelm shrugged, stepping back. "If you insist on being difficult..."

  He didn't draw his sword. He snapped his fingers.

  "Wind Gust!"

  A blast of compressed air shot from Wilhelm’s palm. It wasn't meant to hurt. It was meant to unbalance.

  Laroma didn't budge. He planted his feet. The wind rushed over his rib-armor, rattling the bones, but the Knight stood firm.

  "Magic," Laroma sneered. "Coward's weapon."

  He swung the Cleaver.

  It wasn't a clumsy swing. It was fast. Terrifyingly fast for a man wearing a skeleton.

  Wilhelm yelped and ducked. The blade whistled over his hair, taking a lock of it.

  "Too close!" Wilhelm shrieked. He scrambled backward, boots skidding on the stone.

  Laroma raised his free hand. He knew the same spells.

  "Lightning Bolt!"

  A jagged arc of blue electricity shot from Laroma’s fingers.

  Wilhelm couldn't dodge it. The corridor was too narrow.

  "Oh, bugger," Wilhelm gasped.

  He did the only thing he could. He jumped.

  "UP!"

  The cost hit him like a punch to the gut. Oof.

  Wilhelm launched into the air, stepping on nothingness. The lightning bolt crackled harmlessly beneath his boots, scorching the stone where he had been standing a millisecond ago.

  He was hovering. Three meters up. Looking down at the white bone mask.

  "Missed me, you rattling tin can!" Wilhelm taunted, though his vision swam slightly from the blood loss.

  Laroma looked up. The black eye pits seemed to widen.

  "Gravity always wins, Bastard," Laroma growled.

  The Knight pointed his hand up.

  "Wind Gust!"

  The blast hit Wilhelm in mid-air. He had no leverage. He was a leaf in a hurricane.

  "Woooaaaaah!"

  Wilhelm flew backward. He slammed into the stone ceiling of the corridor. CRACK.

  He fell. Hard. Landing in a heap on the floor.

  "Ow," Wilhelm wheezed, rolling onto his side. "That... was rude."

  Laroma was charging. The Marrow-Cleaver raised high. He intended to split Wilhelm like firewood.

  Wilhelm looked at the charging tank. He looked at the floor.

  "Physics," Wilhelm gasped. "Friction is a myth."

  "Sheet Ice!"

  The floor between them instantly glazed over. A perfect mirror of frost.

  Laroma saw it. He tried to stop. But momentum is a harsh mistress. His heavy steel boots hit the ice.

  He didn't fall. He slid. Like a hockey puck made of murder.

  "Fireball!" Laroma roared as he slid past Wilhelm, trying to salvage the attack.

  The explosion detonated against the wall next to Wilhelm.

  BOOM.

  Wilhelm curled into a ball. The heat washed over him. His coat began to smoke.

  "Hot! Hot hot hot!" Wilhelm rolled away, patting out the flames on his sleeve.

  Laroma had crashed into the far wall. He turned around, dented but furious. The rib-armor was scorched but intact.

  Wilhelm stood up. He was swaying for real now. 3,300 ml. He was entering the danger zone.

  "Okay," Wilhelm panted, reaching into his pocket. "Time out. Snack break."

  He shoved a Royal Lemon Cake into his mouth.

  "Right," Wilhelm grinned, crumbs on his lip. "You like armor, Ser Bones? You like being a turtle? Let's see how you handle a little temperature fluctuation."

  Laroma charged again. He was careful on the ice this time, stepping heavy, crunching through the frost.

  Wilhelm waited. He raised his left hand.

  "Thermal Shock."

  A beam of concentrated red heat shot from Wilhelm’s index finger, hitting Laroma’s chest plate. The white bone-ribs glowed orange instantly.

  Laroma roared in pain as the heat transferred through the padding.

  "Burn!" Wilhelm yelled.

  Then, he snapped his fingers.

  "Freeze!"

  The red beam turned blue. Absolute zero cold slammed into the superheated bone-metal.

  CRACK-PING!

  Physics took over. Rapid expansion followed by rapid contraction. The structural integrity of the rib-armor failed.

  The chest plate shattered. Shards of bone and steel exploded outward. Laroma staggered back, his chest exposed, his defense ruined.

  "My armor!" Laroma screamed, clutching his chest. "You broke the sacred ribs!"

  "I'm the Master of Coin!" Wilhelm yelled, drawing his rapier. "I'm devaluing your assets!"

  He lunged.

  Laroma swung the Cleaver blindly. A massive, desperate haymaker.

  Wilhelm saw it coming. His Neural Speed (245ms) was slow, but Laroma was hurt and unbalanced.

  Wilhelm dropped to his knees. The cleaver smashed into the pillar behind him, getting stuck in the stone.

  Wilhelm was inside the guard.

  He pulled the Vial of Rigor Mortis from his belt.

  "Open wide!"

  He smashed the vial against the exposed under-layer of Laroma’s gambeson.

  The grey liquid splashed onto the knight's neck and chest.

  Laroma froze. Literally. mid-scream. His jaw locked open. His arm, trying to pull the cleaver free, turned as stiff as a statue. His eyes widened in the mask, frantic, but his body was a stone.

  "Statue," Wilhelm whispered, standing up and dusting off his knees. "Much better. Very decorative."

  He placed the tip of his rapier against the eye-slit of the mask.

  "Bastards," Wilhelm said softly, looking into the panicked black pits, "learn to fight dirty. Knights just learn to polish their ribs."

  He thrust.

  Schluct.

  Wilhelm slumped against the wall, sliding down until he hit the floor. He panted, wiping sweat and soot from his forehead.

  "That..." he wheezed, "was entirely too much exercise."

  He looked at the corpse.

  "Now. Let's see what you're wearing, darling."

  Wilhelm kicked the Cleaver. It didn't move.

  "Right. That's for Freyda," he muttered.

  He stripped the mask off the dead man. He put it on. The world turned grey and sharp. He could see in the dark.

  "Spooky," Wilhelm grinned beneath the bone mask. "I look like death's accountant."

  Wilhelm stood up, checking his blood.

  He looked at the door Laroma had guarded.

  "Ready or not, lizard," Wilhelm whispered, his voice booming slightly inside the mask. "Here comes the boogeyman."

  He pushed the door open.