The adrenaline from the fight with Ser Laroma was fading, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache in Wilhelm’s lower back where the Archbishop’s whip had done its work.

  He adjusted the bone mask on his face, feeling ridiculous and terrifying all at once, and stepped over the knight's frozen corpse.

  "Right," Wilhelm whispered, his breath fogging in the cold air of the corridor. "Follow the lizard. Find the snake. Don't get eaten."

  He moved deeper into the royal wing. The carpet here was thicker, muffling his Boots of Arestro. The air smelled less like mildew and more like... lavender? And something sharp. Like vinegar boiling on a stove.

  He reached a heavy oak door. It was ajar. Just a sliver.

  A beam of warm, golden light cut across the dark hallway dust.

  Wilhelm paused. He knew this room. The Prince’s Solar. Volpert’s room.

  Bastian went the other way, Wilhelm thought. I should keep moving.

  But the smell stopped him. That sharp, chemical tang. It tickled the back of his throat. It reminded him of Fenris’s lab, but... sweeter.

  Curiosity the trait that would eventually get him killed took the wheel. Wilhelm pushed the door open with the tip of his rapier. Silent.

  He expected guards. He expected the Reptiloid assassin.

  He didn't expect this.

  The room was opulent, drowning in silks and toys that cost more than a village. In the center, a massive four-poster bed.

  Volpert lay there.

  The boy looked small. The bandage on his nose courtesy of Astrid’s forehead was stark white against his bruising face. He was asleep, twitching slightly, his mouth open.

  And sitting beside him, in a high-backed chair, was Lydia Ironvine.

  She wasn't wearing her armor of courtly disdain. She was wearing a simple nightgown, her golden hair loose. She looked... older. The lines around her eyes were deep trenches of exhaustion.

  Wilhelm watched, holding his breath.

  Lydia held a small crystal vial. It glowed with a faint, sickly green luminescence.

  She didn't wake the boy. She didn't feed it to him.

  She pulled up her own sleeve.

  Her arm was a mess. Not cuts. Burns. Chemical burns. Patches of red, angry skin, some blistering, some scarred over from weeks of abuse.

  She tilted the vial. A single drop fell onto her wrist.

  Hiss.

  Smoke rose.

  Lydia didn't scream. She didn't even flinch. She just closed her eyes, her jaw clenching so hard Wilhelm could see the muscle jump in her cheek. She breathed through the pain. In. Out. Mastering the agony.

  "Mithridatism," Wilhelm breathed, the word slipping out before he could stop it. "Building immunity. You're testing the dosage."

  Lydia’s eyes snapped open.

  She didn't jump. She didn't call for guards. She just turned her head slowly, looking at the door. At the man in the bone mask and the dirty coat.

  "Wilhelm," she said. Her voice was flat. Dead. "You have a habit of being where you aren't wanted."

  Wilhelm stepped into the room, pulling off the bone mask. He felt exposed without it, but wearing a skull while talking to a mother seemed... gauche.

  "And you have a habit of poisoning yourself," Wilhelm countered, swaying slightly as he gestured to her arm. "That’s the Widow’s Kiss, isn't it? Modified. The same stuff that turned Ser Hestor into a grape."

  "Hestor was weak," Lydia said, capping the vial. She pulled her sleeve down, hiding the burns. "He died so I could find the threshold. The lethal limit."

  "For him?" Wilhelm pointed at the sleeping boy.

  "For him," she nodded. "If they poison the King's cup... Volpert drinks next. I need him to survive what killed the knight."

  Wilhelm let out a short, incredulous laugh. He walked closer, leaning against the bedpost.

  "You're insane. You know that? You're actually mad. You're burning your own skin off to protect... that?"

  He gestured at Volpert. The boy mumbled something in his sleep, a whimper that sounded like "Kill ..Kill them Kill them....."

  "He's a monster, Lydia," Wilhelm hissed, keeping his voice low. "I saw him in the Undercroft. He laughed at the workers. He tried to shoot a man for fun. He called Astrid a cripple. You didn't just raise a brat. You raised a sociopath."

  Wilhelm leaned in, his eyes hard.

  "You created him. You broke Brandan’s heart to mold this cruel little thing. Why? For power? For the throne?"

  Lydia looked at him.

  She looked at the sleeping boy.

  Then she laughed.

  It wasn't her usual court laugh. It was brittle. Like glass stepping on stone. It sounded like something breaking.

  "Power," she whispered. She shook her head. Tears actual tears welled up in her cold blue eyes. "You think I did this for power?"

  She reached out and touched Volpert’s hand. Gently. So gently it made Wilhelm’s chest ache.

  "System," she commanded softly. "Share Status. Target: Volpert. Recipient: Wilhelm Storm."

  A blue window flickered into existence in front of Wilhelm’s eyes.

  Wilhelm blinked. He expected to see high stats. Arrogance. Maybe a "Spoiled Brat" trait.

  Instead, he saw red text.

  Wilhelm read it twice. The math stared back at him. Cold. Unforgiving.

  "Glass Soul," Wilhelm whispered. He looked at the sleeping boy. Suddenly, the arrogance, the cruelty... it looked different. It looked like armor.

  "He isn't cruel because he is evil, Wilhelm," Lydia said, her voice trembling. "He is cruel because he is terrified. And terror... terror kills him. Literally."

  She stood up, walking over to Wilhelm. She held out her burnt arm.

  "I tried to teach him kindness," she confessed, tears streaming down her face now, ruining her perfect composure. "When he was four. He saw a dead bird. He cried. He got scared. His heart... it stopped, Wilhelm. He turned blue. I had to use a potion to bring him back."

  She looked back at the boy.

  "The System doesn't allow him to be human. If he feels empathy, he feels vulnerability. If he feels vulnerability, he feels fear. And then he dies."

  She turned her fierce gaze on Wilhelm.

  "So I taught him to be a god."

  She stepped closer, poking Wilhelm in the chest with a finger that shook.

  "I taught him that he is better than everyone. That people are toys. That he can't be hurt. Because if he believes he is a god... he isn't afraid. And if he isn't afraid... he lives."

  Wilhelm stared at her.

  He looked at Volpert. The boy shifted, a sneer forming on his sleeping face.

  "Burn them..." Volpert mumbled. "I want to see them pop..."

  It wasn't hate anymore. It was disgust. And pity.

  Volpert was a hollow shell. A balloon inflated with poison gas, because if it deflated, it would wither.

  "You sacrificed his soul," Wilhelm whispered. "To save his body."

  "I sacrificed my soul," Lydia corrected. She wiped her eyes, smearing the tears. "I let Brandan hate me. I let the city call me a bitch. I let you think I am a monster. Because I need Volpert to look at me and see strength. If he sees me weak... he gets scared."

  She held up her hands. They were trembling violently.

  "I am his shield, Wilhelm. A shield made of lies and poison. Is it a good trade? A monster for a son? Or a dead boy in a small grave?"

  She waited for an answer.

  Wilhelm didn't have one.

  He looked at the "Master of Coin" title in his mind. He understood numbers. He understood debt.

  This was a debt that could never be paid.

  "It's..." Wilhelm swallowed. The lump in his throat tasted like ash. "It's the worst deal I've ever seen, Lydia."

  "It's the only one I had," she whispered.

  She took a deep breath. She smoothed her nightgown. She pulled her sleeve down over the burns. The mask slammed back into place. The Iron Lady returned.

  "If you tell anyone," Lydia said, her voice dropping to that familiar, icy threat. "If you tell Brandan... if you tell Volpert... I will peel you, Wilhelm. One inch at a time."

  She walked back to the chair. She sat down, picking up the poison vial again.

  "He must believe he is strong," she said, staring at the green liquid. "He must believe he is cruel. If you break his delusion... you kill him."

  Wilhelm backed away toward the door.

  He looked at the woman and the boy. The Architect and the Monster.

  "I won't tell him," Wilhelm said softly.

  He put his hand on the doorknob.

  "But Lydia?"

  She didn't look up. "Yes?"

  "He's still a monster," Wilhelm said. "Glass or not. He's going to hurt people. And one day... someone is going to hit him back. Someone who doesn't know the rules."

  "I know," Lydia whispered. She uncorked the vial. "That's why I'm awake."

  Wilhelm slipped out of the room.

  He closed the door.

  He leaned against the wall in the dark hallway, sliding down until he hit the floor. He pulled the bone mask onto his lap and stared at the empty eye sockets.

  "Gods," Wilhelm muttered to the silence. "This family is cursed."

  He stood up. He felt heavier.

  He had gone looking for a reptile. He had found a tragedy.

  "Right," Wilhelm said, putting the mask back on. "Back to the easy stuff. Killing assassins. That, I can handle."

  He turned and walked into the dark, leaving the mother to her poison.

  The walk from the Prince’s Solar to the Market District felt like walking between two different worlds. Behind him, a mother was poisoning herself to keep a glass soul intact. Ahead of him... the cold, hard arithmetic of survival.

  Wilhelm rubbed his face, trying to wipe away the image of Lydia’s burnt arm.

  "Emotions are expensive," he muttered to the damp air. "Bricks are cheaper. Let's buy bricks."

  He turned the corner onto the Street of Silks. Even in a starving city, this street smelled of money. And at the end of it stood the Ironvine Emporium.

  It wasn't a shop. It was a temple to the god of transactions.

  While the rest of Moonclaw was made of soot-stained basalt, the Emporium was polished obsidian and brass. The windows weren't boarded up; they were enchanted glass that shimmered with advertisements for potions Wilhelm couldn't afford.

  He pushed the door open. A bell chimed not a tinny ding, but a deep, resonant gong.

  Inside, the air was conditioned. Cool. Smelling of cedar and old gold.

  Chemistry for the desperate.

  Turn the ruin into a city. Requires Construction Time.

  Raw materials for the hungry engine of war.

  Two figures were already standing at the central terminal a massive slab of floating marble that served as the shop's interface.

  "Stone is sufficient," a voice grumbled. Deep. Northern. "Stone stops arrows."

  "Stone is depressing, darling," a second voice purred. Soft. Floral. "We are housing Angels, not cave bears. If you put a highborn in a stone box, they don't defend it. They resent it."

  Wilhelm swayed up to them.

  "Gentlemen," he chirped, leaning heavily on the terminal. "Arguing over drapes? Or are we planning to upholster the siege towers?"

  Gutrum Falken turned. He looked like a wolf trapped in a perfume shop. Uncomfortable. Rigid.

  "Wilhelm," Gutrum nodded. "We are discussing the housing. For the Angels."

  Bastian Stormsong stood on the other side. He was examining a swatch of velvet, holding it up to the light. He looked immaculate in his emerald doublet.

  "We are discussing morale, Bastard," Bastian corrected, flashing that Margaery-smile the one that said 'I know better than you, but I'll let you think you won'. "The Angels are grumbling. They are eating mushroom paste. They are cold. If we do not give them a home that feels like... victory... they will defect."

  Wilhelm looked at the Terminal. A holographic blueprint was floating in the air.

  "Ironvine Wood," Wilhelm read the price tag. "Twenty gold per plank. That's... ten thousand gold. Just for lumber."

  "It is madness," Gutrum growled. "Basalt is free. We can quarry it from the ruins."

  "Ironvine sings," Bastian countered gently, tracing the hologram. "It has acoustic properties. It holds Enmagic warmth. It tells the Angels: 'The King values you.' Stone says: 'The King is broke.'"

  Bastian turned his green eyes on Wilhelm.

  "You are the Master of Coin, sweet brother. Do you want rich, happy taxpayers? Or cold, angry soldiers?"

  Wilhelm looked at his gold count. 95,000. It felt like a dragon's hoard. But he knew how fast it could vanish.

  He thought about Lydia. About facades. About how looking strong was sometimes more important than being strong.

  "We buy the wood," Wilhelm decided, tapping the screen.

  Gutrum sighed, a sound like a crumbling mountain. "Waste."

  "Investment," Wilhelm corrected. "But if I'm spending ten grand on lumber, I want a return."

  He scrolled through the catalog. His finger hovered over a luxury item.

  "No," Gutrum stated instantly. "Absolutely not. We are at war."

  "Oh, Gutrum," Bastian cooed, stepping closer to the projection. "War is thirsty work. Look at the synergy stats."

  He pointed a manicured finger at the math floating in the air.

  "It pays for itself in forty weeks," Bastian calculated effortlessly. "But the loyalty? The loyalty is instant. You feed them sludge, Gutrum. Let them wash it down with vintage. It keeps the swords pointed outward."

  Wilhelm did the mental math.

  10k for wood. 8k for wine. 15k for construction.

  "It hurts," Wilhelm hissed, clutching his chest. "It physically hurts. But... Bastian is right. We're building a Golden Cage. If they love the cage, they won't fly away."

  He slammed his hand on the 'BUY' rune.

  "Excellent choice," Bastian beamed, smelling the phantom wine. "Now... defense."

  Wilhelm switched tabs to [ MERCENARY LINEAGES ].

  This wasn't hiring thugs. This was hiring bloodlines. Ancient pacts.

  Three holographic banners unfurled.

  "The Iron-Wing," Gutrum said immediately. "We need a wall. The city walls are weak. We need heavy infantry to plug the gaps."

  "The Sun-Eaters," Bastian mused. "Flashy. Terrifying. Good for intimidation."

  "And they eat three times as much," Wilhelm muttered. "We have one mushroom farm, Bastian. If we hire the Sun-Eaters, we starve by Friday."

  He looked at the Gale-Force.

  Speed. Foraging. True Sight.

  He thought about the Reptiloid. About the shapeshifter hiding in the castle. A tank couldn't fight a shadow. But a scout with True Sight?

  "We're taking the Gale-Force," Wilhelm announced.

  Gutrum frowned. "They are light infantry. They will fold in a siege."

  "We aren't in a siege yet, Father," Wilhelm said, his voice dropping. "We are in a hunt. There is a spy in the castle. A shapeshifter. I need eyes, not shields."

  He tapped the purchase.

  He was about to close the terminal when a flash of purple caught his eye in the [ PERSONAL EQUIPMENT ]tab.

  He paused.

  Wilhelm touched his own face. The bone mask was good for intimidation, but it didn't give him data. He was the Master of Coin. He needed to see the numbers. He needed to see if a wall was about to crumble, or if a drink was poisoned, or if a brother was actually a lizard.

  "Vanity item?" Bastian teased, noticing Wilhelm staring.

  "Audit tool," Wilhelm corrected.

  He bought it.

  Wilhelm stepped back from the terminal. He felt lightheaded.

  "We just spent half the kingdom's wealth," Wilhelm breathed. "In ten minutes."

  "You spent paper," Bastian said, placing a hand on Wilhelm's shoulder. "And you bought a future. Look."

  He pointed out the enchanted window.

  Down in the plaza, construction golems were already laying the foundation for the Manse. The Ironvine wood glowed with a faint, amber light. And nearby, a barrel the size of a carriage was being rolled into place, the smell of wine already drifting on the wind.

  The Angels standing guard nearby the ones who had been grumbling and slouching straightened up. They watched the construction. They smelled the wine.

  And for the first time in days, they saluted.

  Wilhelm adjusted his coat. He felt the weight of the gold missing from his ledger, but he also felt the gears of the city starting to turn.

  "Right," Wilhelm said, turning to his advisors. "We have homes. We have wine. We have spies."

  He picked up the Mana-Lens Monocle from the dispenser slot and screwed it into his right eye. The world instantly overlaid with numbers. He looked at Bastian.

  "Now," he said. "Let's Build."