The Master Bedroom of Mournwatch Keep was not a place of rest. It was a cold, stone chamber where the walls wept black water and the air smelled of iodine and raw meat.

  Duke Gutrum Falken lay on his stomach. His back was a ruin. The skin had been flayed open in precise, rhythmic lines by Desmus’s wire whip.

  Dr. Fenris Vulpine stood over him, pouring a bottle of high-proof alcohol directly onto the wounds.

  "This will sting," Fenris muttered, not looking up. "Actually, it will feel like liquid fire. Try not to pass out; you're too heavy to lift."

  Gutrum’s hands gripped the sodden bedsheets. His knuckles turned white. His jaw muscles bunched.

  He didn't scream. He let out a low, guttural hiss through his teeth.

  "You stubborn ox," King Brandan choked out.

  The King sat on a stool beside the bed, holding a wet rag. His massive shoulders were shaking. Brandan Stormsong, the Bear who crushed skulls with a hammer, looked small.

  "Why?" Brandan whispered, dabbing sweat from Gutrum’s forehead. "You should have let me take it. I have more HP. I have the fat for it."

  Gutrum opened one eye. It was bloodshot but clear.

  "You are the King, Brandan," Gutrum rasped. "Kings don't bleed. They rule."

  "I don't want to rule if it costs your back!" Brandan roared, slamming his fist into his own palm. "I want to kill Desmus! I want to burn the Church!"

  "Quiet," Gutrum commanded gently. "You will wake the children."

  The "children" were standing in the shadows.

  Gerald, Mary, and Astrid.

  They looked like ghosts. Gerald was leaning against the wall, staring at his father’s shredded back, his hand trembling near his sword. Astrid was hugging Malachia, burying her face in the glitch-girl’s shoulder to hide her tears.

  Wilhelm stood by the door, guarding the room, feeling every ounce of the gold in my pocket weigh like lead.

  Then, the door creaked open.

  Ser Alexander Shadowgrove walked in.

  He was followed by Konstantin Shadowgrove and Duke Silas.

  The room went instantly hostile.

  Gerald drew his sword. Brandan stood up, grabbing Thunder-Fall.

  "Get out," Brandan growled. "If you come to gloat, I will break your legs, Shadowgrove."

  Alexander didn't reach for his weapon. He held up a scroll. The seal was burning with divine light.

  "I am not here to gloat, Your Grace," Alexander said. His voice was devoid of its usual arrogance. It was flat. Professional.

  He walked to the foot of the bed. He looked at Gutrum’s wounds. He winced, just slightly.

  "Messy work," Alexander noted. "Desmus has no finesse. He hacks like a butcher."

  "What do you want, Alex?" I asked, stepping forward.

  Alexander looked at me, then at the scroll.

  "A modification to the contract," Alexander said. "Desmus is... busy. He cannot be here every morning and every evening to administer the penance."

  He rolled up the scroll.

  "He has assigned a proxy. Someone with the strength to ensure the damage is real, but the discipline to ensure the Duke does not die."

  Alexander looked at his own golden hand. Then he looked at Gutrum.

  "It’s me."

  Silence slammed into the room.

  "You?" Gerald whispered, stepping forward, his blade shaking. "You are going to whip my father? Every day?"

  "Protect and Punish," Alexander corrected softly. "That is the order. I am to guard him with my life... and flay him with my hand."

  He looked at Gerald with a strange, cold pity.

  "Would you prefer Kordula do it? Or Silas? They would enjoy it. They would cut too deep, or infect the wound."

  Alexander stepped closer to the bed.

  "I take no pleasure in this, Ranger. But I am a master of the blade. I can cut the skin without severing the muscle. I can cause the required pain without permanent crippling."

  He looked at Gutrum.

  "I am the best option you have, Wolf."

  Konstantin (limped forward, his cane tapping on the wet stone. Drag. Thud.Drag

  He looked at Gutrum’s back. He smiled from his mask,a horrific smile of recognition.

  "Welcome to the club, Duke," Konstantin lisped. "Pain is a fascinating roommate. At first, it is a guest. Then, it is a burden. Eventually... it is just furniture."

  Konstantin leaned over Gutrum.

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  "Alexander is right. Let him do it. Desmus wants you broken. Alexander just wants to finish the job and go get a drink. There is mercy in apathy."

  Brandan roared. "I will not allow it! No Shadowgrove touches him!"

  "Brandan," Gutrum’s voice cut through the rage.

  We all looked at the bed.

  Gutrum pushed himself up on his elbows. Fresh blood welled up on the bandages.

  "Let him," Gutrum said.

  "Father!" Gerald cried out.

  "It is a contract," Gutrum said, looking Alexander in the eye. "If it must be done... I want a warrior to do it. Not a priest."

  Gutrum extended a shaking hand toward Alexander.

  "Do your duty, Ser Alexander. But know this."

  Gutrum’s eyes narrowed. The Wolf was wounded, but he was still dangerous.

  "If you touch my children... or if you miss and hit the bone... I will rise from this bed and tear your throat out with my teeth."

  Alexander looked at the broken man. For a second, the Golden Lion looked... humbled.

  He nodded. A short, respectful bow.

  "Understood, Lord Falken," Alexander whispered. "I will be... precise."

  Alexander turned to leave.

  "I start tomorrow at dawn. Try to sleep."

  The Shadowgroves left. The door closed.

  Brandan collapsed back onto the stool. He buried his face in his hands and wept.

  "I'm sorry, Gutrum. I'm so sorry."

  Gutrum reached out. He placed his heavy hand on the King’s head.

  "Don't be," Gutrum whispered. "We are alive. The pack is alive."

  He looked at Astrid and Mary.

  "That is all that matters."

  I watched them. The King crying on the Duke's shoulder. The father bleeding for his children.

  I touched the cold stone of the wall.

  "I will buy it all back," I swore silently. "Every drop of blood. I will charge them interest."

  But for now, all we could do was listen to the rain and wait for the dawn... and the lash.

  I was making my rounds, checking the inventory. Specifically, the Most Valuable Asset: Livia Whitefield. I walked down the spiraling stone stairs to the makeshift holding cell a dry-ish storage room we had locked her in.

  The door was ajar. The lock had been picked. Not with a key, but with... a hairpin?

  "Great," I hissed, panic spiking. "There goes 500,000 Gold. If she escaped, I'm going to have to explain to Brandan why our retirement fund is running through the woods."

  I drew Cinderbrand, keeping the flames low to avoid alerting her. I crept down the hallway, following the scent of... lavender and mud?

  I turned the corner into the old armory.

  I froze.

  Livia was there. She hadn't fled the castle. She was standing in the shadows, her white dress still stained with muck. But she wasn't alone.

  Rowan, the Clayborn peasant I had ordered to go home, was standing there. He was shivering, holding a basket of stale bread. He looked terrified.

  "My Lady," Rowan stammered, backing against a rack of rusted spears. "Please... I just brought bread... I didn't mean to intrude..."

  Livia stepped closer to him. She didn't look like a prisoner. She looked like a predator. She reached out. Rowan flinched, expecting a slap.

  Instead, Livia placed her hands on his dirty, asymmetrical face.

  "Hold still," Livia whispered. Her voice wasn't haughty. It was... trembling. "Let me see the texture."

  She ran her thumb over a scar on his chin. She traced the crooked line of his nose.

  "My Lady?" Rowan squeaked. "Yesterday... you said my face was a crime against architecture. You said I should be sterilized."

  "I lied," Livia breathed.

  She leaned in. And she kissed him.

  It wasn't a quick peck. It was desperate. Intense. A collision of a High-Level Angel and a Level 1 NPC. Rowan dropped the bread basket. His eyes went wide. He stood stiff as a board, too scared to move, too shocked to breathe.

  Livia pulled back, breathless. She looked at him with eyes that shone with a terrifying, obsessive adoration.

  "I didn't want you to breed because I am jealous, you idiot," Livia hissed, gripping his rough tunic. "I didn't want you to make more Clayborns. I wanted you to remain... a limited edition."

  "I... I don't understand," Rowan whispered.

  "Look at you," Livia murmured, stroking his muddy hair. "You are flawed. You are rough. You are real."

  She pointed to her own perfect, glowing skin.

  "Look at me, Rowan. I am 1.2 Million SP. I am designed. I am symmetrical. I am boring. My brothers? They are statues. But you..."

  She pressed her forehead against his chest.

  "...you are a masterpiece of chaos. You are mud that learned to breathe. And I want to own you."

  I stepped out of the shadows.

  "Well," I said loudly, causing them both to jump. "That is going to complicate the ransom negotiations."

  Livia spun around. She didn't draw a weapon. She threw herself in front of Rowan, shielding him with her body. Her eyes were wild.

  "Don't hurt him!" Livia screamed. "He is innocent! I forced him!"

  "My Lady?" Rowan blinked, peeking over her shoulder. "You just kissed me..."

  "Quiet, object of my desire!" Livia snapped at him. "Let me handle the Merchant!"

  I walked closer, sheathing my sword. I looked from the radiant Noble to the muddy peasant.

  "Livia," I said slowly. "Do you have any idea how illegal this is? This isn't just a scandal. This is Heresy."

  I pointed at the ceiling.

  "The System forbids 'Cross-Species Contamination'. If the Church finds out an Angel is romancing a Mob... they won't just kill you. They will delete your House."

  Livia’s shoulders slumped. She knew. She looked at Rowan.

  "I know," Livia whispered. "Why do you think I was so cruel to them in the forest? I tried to drive them away. I tried to make myself hate them."

  She looked at her hands.

  "But in a world of plastic gods and metal ships... he is the only thing that feels warm."

  She looked at me. The arrogance was gone. In its place was a terrified girl in love with something she wasn't allowed to touch.

  "Please, Wilhelm," Livia begged. Not demanded. Begged. "Don't tell my brothers. Don't tell the Church. Sell me. Ransom me. But let him go."

  I looked at Rowan. The poor guy looked like his brain had short-circuited.

  "She's crazy, isn't she, Lord?" Rowan asked me.

  "Completely," I nodded.

  I looked at Livia.

  "You realize," I said, rubbing my temples, "that if I keep this secret, I am technically an accomplice to Heresy? I could be whipped alongside Gutrum."

  Livia bit her lip. "I will pay you. Not in gold. Information. I know where the Whitefield Treasury is hidden. I know the codes."

  I sighed. I looked at the two of them. The Knight of Vanity and the Peasant of Clay. It was tragic. It was dangerous. It was also... strangely touching.

  "Get him out of here," I commanded. "Rowan, go back to the kitchen. Livia, go back to your cell."

  "You won't tell?" Livia asked, hope blooming in her eyes.

  "I'm a Merchant, Livia," I grumbled, turning away. "I hold onto assets until the value peaks. Right now... your secret is worth more than your execution."

  I paused at the door.

  "But seriously, Livia? 'Limited Edition'? That is the worst pick-up line I have ever heard."

  Livia blushed a deep, human red that made her look more real than she ever had in her pristine armor.

  "It is an acquired taste," Livia sniffed, pushing Rowan toward the door. "Go, my beautiful disaster. I will see you at dinner."

  I walked back up the stairs, shaking my head.

  "Great," I muttered. "We have a depressed army, a tortured Duke, a glitched girl, and now... a romantic subplot that could get us all executed. I need a drink."