I woke up to the taste of ash and the sound of weeping.

  My head throbbed where Kordula’s mace had connected. I pushed myself up, my vision swimming in purple static. The Grand Melee Arena was silent. The battle was over. The holographic banners overhead displayed:

  But I didn't care about the loss. I looked to the center of the hard-light floor.

  King Brandan lay in a pool of neon-green vomit. His skin was turning a terrifying shade of grey. His breathing was a wet, rattling gasp, like a drowning man fighting the ocean.

  Gutrum was holding Brandan’s shoulders, his face pale. Mary and Astrid were crying. Dr. Fenris was checking Brandan’s pulse, shaking his head slowly.

  "He has minutes," Fenris pronounced, his voice devoid of hope. "The nervous system is 90% liquefied. The Bear is shutting down."

  "No," I croaked, stumbling to my feet. "No!"

  I staggered toward them.

  Standing over the dying King were the victors.

  Duke Silas Shadowgrove leaned on his cane, watching Brandan die with the curiosity of a man watching a bug curl up on a hot stone.

  Kordula stood beside him, twirling a lock of her hair, smiling at Gerald Falken.

  Konstantin watched me approach, his expression unreadable behind his mask.

  "Give it to me," I wheezed, grabbing Silas by his velvet lapels. "The antidote. I know you have it, you old vulture!"

  Silas didn't flinch. He just smiled, revealing those yellow, rotting teeth.

  "Antidote?" Silas rasped. "My dear Master Storm, why would I save an enemy? Especially one who punches so... rudely?"

  "I will pay you!" I screamed, pulling out bags of gold. "One million! Two million! Name the price!"

  Silas swatted the gold away with his cane.

  "Gold is boring, Wilhelm. We already have the Shadowgrove fortune."

  Silas turned his gaze to Gerald Falken. The Ranger stood like a statue, watching his King die.

  "We want... a union," Silas whispered. "We want blood."

  Kordula stepped forward. She looked at Gerald with hungry, dilated eyes.

  "I want him," Kordula purred. "The Ranger. He runs so fast. I want to see if I can break his legs and make him stay."

  "Never," Gutrum growled, standing up. "My son will not marry a butcher."

  "Then the King dies," Konstantin said simply. He held up a small vial of blue liquid. "Tick. Tock."

  Brandan convulsed on the floor. His back arched. A terrible, gurgling scream escaped his lips.

  "Father!" Vera sobbed, holding his hand.

  Gerald looked at Brandan. He looked at the man who had been a second father to him. The man who was the heart of the Alliance.

  Then he looked at Kordula. The woman who flayed people for sport.

  Gerald closed his eyes. He took a deep breath.

  "Done," Gerald whispered.

  "Gerald, no!" Gutrum shouted. "Do not do this!"

  "He is the King, Father," Gerald said, his voice breaking. "He is our brother. If my life buys his... it is a cheap trade."

  Gerald walked forward. He stood before Kordula. He didn't bow. He looked at her with pure, cold loathing.

  "I accept," Gerald said. "Give him the vial."

  "Ah, ah, ah," Silas wagged a finger. "First, the binding. The System must witness it."

  Silas raised his hand.

  "SYSTEM!" Silas screeched at the sky. "INITIATE BETROTHAL PROTOCOL!"

  The air turned red.

  A massive, holographic interface slammed into the ground between Gerald and Kordula.

  "Hand," Kordula demanded, extending her own.

  Gerald reached out. His hand was calloused, scarred from the bowstring. Kordula’s hand was soft, pale, and cold as ice.

  They clasped hands.

  It wasn't a gentle glow.

  Thorns.

  Holographic, digital thorns erupted from the interface. They wrapped around their joined hands, digging into the virtual flesh, turning red as they simulated drawing blood.

  "Do you, Kordula, take this man to break?" the System voice droned, glitching slightly.

  "I do," Kordula whispered, staring into Gerald's eyes. "I will break every inch of him."

  "And do you, Gerald," the System continued, "take this woman to hold?"

  Gerald looked at Brandan, who was turning blue.

  "I do," Gerald choked out.

  The thorns tightened, then vanished, leaving a black, tattoo-like ring on Gerald’s finger. A ring that looked like a shackle.

  "Welcome to the family, husband," Kordula giggled, leaning in to lick Gerald’s cheek.

  Gerald didn't move. He looked dead inside.

  "The vial," Gerald whispered. "Now."

  Silas nodded to Konstantin.

  Konstantin threw the blue vial through the air.

  I caught it.

  "Fenris!" I shouted.

  I slid across the floor to Brandan. Fenris snatched the vial, uncorked it with his teeth, and poured the glowing blue liquid down Brandan’s throat.

  "Swallow, you stubborn ox!" Fenris commanded. "Swallow!"

  Brandan choked. He gagged.

  Then, he gasped.

  A cloud of green steam erupted from his mouth. His veins turned from neon green back to deep blue. The grey color faded from his skin.

  His eyes snapped open.

  He took a massive, heaving breath.

  "AIR!" Brandan roared, sitting up.

  "He's back," I sobbed, falling back onto the floor. "He's back."

  Brandan looked around, wild-eyed. He saw us crying. He saw Fenris holding the empty vial.

  And then he saw Gerald.

  Gerald was standing next to the Shadowgroves. Kordula was clinging to his arm, resting her head on his shoulder like a demonic parrot.

  Brandan blinked. The fog cleared. He saw the black ring on Gerald's finger. The Shadowgrove Crest glowing on his HUD next to Gerald's name.

  "Gerald?" Brandan rasped. "Why are you standing with them?"

  Gerald looked at the King. He forced a smile. It was the saddest smile I had ever seen.

  "Strategy, Your Grace," Gerald lied softly. "Just... strategy."

  Brandan looked at Gutrum. Gutrum couldn't meet his eyes.

  Brandan looked at me. I looked away.

  The King understood. The Bear wasn't stupid.

  He realized the price of the air in his lungs.

  "No," Brandan whispered. "Gerald... you didn't."

  "We are moving to the next zone!" Silas announced cheerfully, clapping his hands. "Come along, Gerald! We have wedding plans to discuss! I'm thinking... red velvet."

  Kordula pulled Gerald away. Gerald went with her, walking like a prisoner to the gallows.

  "I will fix this," Brandan growled, gripping his hammer until his knuckles cracked. "I will kill them all for this."

  "Not today, brother," I said, putting a hand on his chest. "Today, you live. Don't waste the purchase."

  We watched our Ranger walk into the darkness with the monsters, sacrificing his happiness so the King could keep his crown.

  "Come," I whispered, the word tasting like ash. Gutrum and I hooked our arms under Brandan’s, physically hauling the grieving King away from the sight.

  We turned our backs on the light and dragged him into the shadows of the exit tunnel.

  The massive Tournament Gate slammed shut behind us with a sound like a coffin lid closing.

  We stood in the damp, grey staging area outside the Arena. The cheers of the crowd were muffled now. We were the losers. The discarded.

  Gerald was gone. He had stayed on the other side of the gate, standing among the Shadowgroves, wearing the black ring of thorns.

  King Brandan leaned heavily against the wall, breathing hard, the toxins still flushing from his system. Gutrum stood with his arms around Astrid and Mary, shielding them from the world.

  "We regroup," Brandan rasped. "We go back to the barracks. We plan the rescue."

  "Not so fast, sinners!"

  Archbishop Desmus materialized from the shadows. He wasn't smiling. He looked... distraught. He was holding a heavy book in one hand and a barbed cat-o'-nine-tails in the other.

  "I have made a terrible administrative error!" Desmus shouted, adjusting his glasses frantically. "I am so ashamed!"

  "What now, Desmus?" I sighed, leaning on Cinderbrand. "Did you forget to fill out our eviction papers?"

  "Worse!" Desmus wailed. He pointed a bayonet at me. "You, Wilhelm Storm! It has been eight days since your last purification! Eight days! The schedule says weekly!"

  He looked genuinely apologetic.

  "I have been so busy with the Tournament... I neglected your salvation! I am sorry, Wilhelm. I will have to hit you twice as hard next time to make up for the delay."

  "Don't trouble yourself on my account," I muttered.

  Desmus ignored me. He flipped the pages of his book. His face darkened. He looked at Mary Berg.

  "And you..." Desmus whispered, his voice trembling with religious horror. "Mary Berg. The Ice-Bastard. My records show... four weeks."

  Mary stiffened. "I've been busy fighting for my life, Archbishop."

  "Silence!" Desmus shrieked. "Four weeks without the lash? Your soul must be filthy! The Anunnaki demand pain to scrub the genetic stain! You are overdue for a flaying!"

  Mary didn't flinch. She was a Bastard. She was used to being hated for being born.

  But then, Desmus turned his eyes downward. To the smallest among us. Astrid Falken.

  He looked at her empty sleeve. The arm she had lost to the horrors of the plague.

  "And here we have a new entry," Desmus hummed, tapping his chin with the whip. "A physical defect. A missing limb. Inefficiency. Asymmetry."

  Astrid shrank back against Gutrum’s leg. She was a warrior, but Desmus was a monster made of scripture and blades.

  "The System hates Flaws," Desmus said softly, crouching down to be eye-level with the child. "You are broken, little Scorpion. We must beat the weakness out of you. We must start the discipline early."

  He raised the barbed whip.

  "Step forward, child. It is for your own good. The Gods love a scream."

  "No," Gutrum rumbled.

  It wasn't a shout. It was a growl from the chest of a Wolf.

  Duke Gutrum Falken stepped in front of Astrid. He stood between the fanatic and his daughter. He loomed over Desmus.

  "She is a child," Gutrum stated. "She lost that arm fighting for this Kingdom. You will not touch her."

  "I have a quota!" Desmus yelled, standing up. "The Bastard Wilhelm! The Bastard Mary! The Broken Astrid! They are all flawed! The Law demands blood for the flaw! Someone must pay the price!"

  "Then take it from me," Gutrum said.

  The silence in the hallway was absolute.

  "Father, no," Mary stepped forward. "Uncle Gutrum, don't," I warned.

  Gutrum silenced us with a single raised hand. He looked Desmus in the eye.

  "I am the Head of House Falken," Gutrum said calmly. "I am responsible for my kin. If Wilhelm is a Bastard, it is my brother's sin. If Mary is a Bastard, it is my sin. If Astrid is broken, it is my failure to protect her."

  He opened his arms, exposing his chest.

  "I assume all debts. I will take the lash for all of them."

  Desmus blinked. He adjusted his glasses. He looked confused.

  "You?" Desmus laughed nervously. "But... you are pure, Gutrum. You are a Duke. Why would you bleed for trash?"

  "They are not trash," Gutrum said, his voice thick with emotion. "They are my Family."

  Desmus frowned. He calculated.

  "The exchange rate is not one-to-one, Duke," Desmus warned. "If you take the burden of three sinners... the punishment multiplies. It is exponential."

  Desmus leaned in, his grin widening.

  "It wouldn't be once a week. It would be every day. Every morning, before you eat. Every night, before you sleep. The lash. The brand. The salt."

  He looked at Gutrum’s stoic face.

  "You would live in constant agony, Wolf. You would never have a day without blood running down your back. Can you bear that? For them?"

  Mary grabbed Gutrum’s arm. "Father, please! I can take it! I'm used to it!"

  "No," Gutrum whispered to her. He touched her cheek gently. "No more, Mary. No more pain for you."

  He looked at Desmus. The honor shone brighter than any halo.

  "Do it," Gutrum commanded. "Every day. Every hour. I don't care. Just... leave the children alone."

  Desmus lowered his whip. He looked at Gutrum like he was seeing a rare species.

  "Self-sacrifice," Desmus muttered, scribbling in his book. "Highly irregular. The System usually encourages shifting blame, not absorbing it."

  He tapped his pen against his teeth.

  "I don't know if the Pontifex will allow a transfer of such magnitude. It cheats the suffering algorithm."

  Desmus turned around, his coat whipping.

  "I will ask Malachia. I will ask the Anunnaki. If they agree... prepare yourself, Duke Falken."

  He looked back over his shoulder, his eyes glowing white.

  "If they agree... I will peel you like an orange. Every. Single. Day."

  Desmus vanished into the shadows.

  We stood there in the grey light. Mary was weeping silently, holding onto Gutrum’s tunic. Astrid was burying her face in his leg. I looked at the Wolf Lord.

  "You are a fool, Gutrum," I whispered, my voice shaking. "A noble, stupid fool."

  Gutrum looked at me. He didn't smile. He just looked tired.

  "A father is a shield, Wilhelm," Gutrum said simply. "That is the job. Now... let's go home. We have a war to plan."

  He walked away, carrying the weight of three souls on his back, ready to bleed so we wouldn't have to.