The Woolhaven woods were a surreal, pristine labyrinth. The trunks of the Yarn-Trees were thick and pale, their branches weaving together to form a dense canopy of soft, sound-dampening white fleece.

  It was a terrible place to hunt. The acoustic dampening swallowed our footsteps, but it also swallowed the sound of our prey.

  King Brandan led the charge, tearing through the heavy brush with Thunder-Fall glowing in his hands. Gutrum, Gerald, and Baldur flanked him in perfect formation. I trailed slightly behind, my [Perception] stat heightened by my Helm of the Ash-Seer, scanning the blindingly white environment for the iridescent scales of the Reptilian assassin.

  "There!" Gerald shouted, pointing his hunting knife at a smear of black blood on a pristine white root.

  We burst into a small clearing.

  The Reptilian was there, but it wasn't running anymore. It had stopped at the center of the clearing, panting heavily. It looked back at us, its slitted eyes burning with cold fanaticism.

  "You cannot stop the design," the assassin hissed.

  It didn't raise its crystal dagger at us. It drove the blade straight through its own scaly palm.

  Black blood poured onto the white ground, but it didn't soak in. It pooled, bubbling and expanding, reacting with a dark, terrifying magic. The assassin began to chant in the jagged, geometric language of the Anunnaki.

  "Stop him!" Brandan roared, hurling himself forward.

  But it was too late. The pool of blood erupted into a geyser of absolute darkness. The Reptilian used the distraction to leap backward, melting into the dense brush and vanishing from sight.

  We didn't have time to chase it.

  From the geyser of black blood, a nightmare pulled itself into the physical world.

  It looked like a wolf, if a wolf had been designed by a madman. It was ten feet long, made entirely of shifting, prehensile shadows and jagged, exposed bone. It had no eyes, just a glowing, hollow cavity where its face should be, radiating a freezing, terrifying aura.

  "Stand together!" Gutrum commanded, raising his broadsword.

  The Gore-Hound let out a screech that sounded like tearing metal and lunged.

  The beast targeted me, sensing the highest concentration of Aetheric magic.

  It was a blur of darkness. I couldn't even raise my sword in time.

  "ENERGY SHIELD!"

  The crackling blue barrier flared to life just as the beast’s massive, shadowy jaws clamped down.

  CRRRACK.

  The kinetic force was absurd. The jaws bit directly into the energy shield. The 500 HP barrier groaned, flashing bright red before shattering entirely like spun glass.

  The impact threw me backward into a Yarn-Tree. The soft trunk absorbed the blow, but the breath was knocked from my lungs. I hit the ground, drawing the Aurean Glassbow mid-roll.

  Brandan and Gutrum didn't hesitate. The Bear and the Wolf attacked the beast from both sides. Brandan’s hammer slammed into its flank, discharging a massive burst of lightning, while Gutrum’s broadsword bit deep into its shadowy shoulder.

  The monster shrieked, whipping its head around and swatting Gutrum away with a massive shadow-tendril.

  I took aim.

  My [Eye of the Shedding Serpent] activated. The monster's body was fluid, shifting shadow, but deep inside its chest, I saw it a pulsating, solid core of crystallized blood.

  "GLASSLINE SHOT!"

  TWANG.

  The massive glass spear ripped through the air.

  The glass projectile punched straight through the beast's shadowy exterior and shattered directly against its solid core.

  The monster convulsed violently, letting out a deafening roar. Thick, viscous, inky blood sprayed from the wound, painting the white woods black.

  The crimson mist tore from the beast, flying directly into my necklace.

  SLURP.

  The beast turned its hollow, glowing face back to me. It ignored the King. It ignored the Rangers. It realized I was the battery, and it wanted me dead.

  Its shadow-body began to expand, forming terrifying, razor-sharp spikes of hardened darkness. It prepared to launch itself at me like a massive, deadly spear.

  If that hit me, the 5,000 ml in my body wouldn't matter. It would cut me in half.

  I dropped the bow. My veins turned pitch black.

  "CHRONO-HEMORRHAGE!"

  I screamed as the blood was violently ripped from my system. My vision went blurry, but the grey, distorted sphere of fractured time exploded outward.

  It caught the Gore-Hound mid-leap.

  The apex predator of the abyss became a statue. It hung in the air, a terrifying mass of shadow and spikes, inching toward me at a fraction of a millimeter per second.

  "NOW!" I shouted, falling to one knee.

  Brandan, Gutrum, Baldur, and Gerald converged. It was a flawless, brutal execution. Thunder-Fall shattered its hind legs. Gutrum’s sword severed a shadowy limb. Gerald’s knives found the gaps in its armor.

  The beast was crippled, suspended in time, unable to fight back or flee.

  I pushed myself up, staggering toward the frozen monster. I stepped inside the grey sphere of slowed time.

  I pressed my bare hand against the beast's dark, shifting hide.

  "Let's see what you’re made of," I whispered. "THE LEDGER OF HANDS."

  I plunged my consciousness into the beast's dark, chaotic soul. It was a violent storm of instinct and abyssal magic. I sifted through the ledger of its existence until I found the specific code that allowed it to manipulate shadows into physical limbs.

  I closed my fist around it and pulled.

  Dark, inky light was ripped from the beast and absorbed into my own chest.

  The moment the skill was mine, the Chrono-sphere collapsed. Time snapped back to normal.

  The beast hit the ground, instantly dissolving into a puddle of inert black sludge.

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  The golden rush of leveling up hit me instantly, stabilizing my dizzy, blood-depleted body.

  "System, put it in Strength," I commanded, wiping the sweat from my forehead.

  The remaining essence of the beast pooled into my necklace.

  I stood up straight, my HP resting comfortably at 4,000 ml, my Vial full, and a brand new, terrifying power resting in my ledger.

  "Is everyone alright?" I asked, looking at the Kings and Rangers around me.

  Brandan rested Thunder-Fall on his shoulder, breathing heavily but uninjured. "We are whole. But the assassin got away. The trail ends here."

  "He bought himself enough time," Baldur noted grimly, looking at the black sludge. "He will report back to his Master. They will know we survived the assassination attempt. They will know we are coming."

  "Let them know," I said, a dark smile crossing my face.

  I looked at the shadow cast by the white Yarn-Trees. I focused my mind.

  Whoosh.

  From my own shadow, a thick, pitch-black tendril whipped out. It moved like a liquid snake, entirely under my control. I directed it to pick up the Aurean Glassbow I had dropped earlier and hand it back to me.

  Gutrum and Gerald stared at the shadow-limb in absolute shock.

  "They sent a monster to kill us," I said, the shadow-tendril retracting seamlessly back into the ground. "But they forgot... I'm a Merchant. And I always keep the change."

  I turned back toward the direction of the road.

  "Let's get back to the carriage. The White Basilica awaits. And I am very eager to show the Pontificate exactly how abrasive I can be."

  The white woods of Woolhaven were quiet again. The black sludge of the Umbral Gore-Hound was already sinking into the cashmere moss, leaving nothing but a dark stain.

  "We need to go back," King Brandan growled, wiping the sweat from his brow. "The assassin is gone, but the Scorpion is still vulnerable."

  "Wait," Gerald Falken said.

  The Ranger knelt by the shattered roots of a Yarn-Tree. Lying in the pristine white brush was a jagged piece of dark, pulsating crystal. The dagger. The assassin had dropped it in his frantic escape.

  Gerald picked it up with a heavy leather glove, turning it over in the light.

  "No sigil," Gerald muttered, his eyes narrowing. "No maker's mark. The crystal itself is unworked, like it was snapped right off a cavern wall. It’s a ghost weapon."

  "Bring it," Gutrum Falken commanded, his voice heavy with a father's protective fury. "Someone in that carriage knows what it is."

  We hurried back to the Aegis Cloud-Carriage.

  The moment the velvet doors slid open, the smell of antiseptic and blood hit us. In the medical bay, Dr. Fenris Vulpine was wiping his bloody hands on a towel.

  "He will live," Fenris grunted, nodding toward the second master hammock. "The crystal shattered a rib and missed the lung. I’ve sutured the muscle and pumped him full of restorative potions. But he needs to stay flat."

  Lying in the glowing silk hammock, looking impossibly pale but devastatingly beautiful even in his agony, was Bastian Stormsong.

  Gutrum didn't hesitate. The massive, stoic Duke of the North walked straight to Bastian’s hammock and dropped heavily to one knee. It was an astonishing display of respect.

  "You took a blade meant for my daughter, Prince Bastian," Gutrum said, his voice thick with profound gratitude. "The North remembers. House Falken is in your debt for the rest of my days."

  Bastian offered a weak, trembling smile, reaching out a pale hand to gently touch Gutrum’s shoulder. "Please, Lord Wolf... stand. She is a Scorpion, but she is our family. I only did what the King would have done."

  Brandan stepped forward, his chest swelling with pride and rage. He placed a heavy hand on Bastian’s uninjured shoulder. "You fought like a Bear today, little brother. But I need you to look at something."

  Gerald stepped forward and presented the dark crystal dagger.

  "The assassin dropped this," Gerald explained. "It has no markings. Do you recognize the make? You saw the beast up close."

  Bastian’s blue eyes locked onto the dagger. He let out a sharp, painful hiss of breath, clutching his bandaged ribs as if the mere sight of the weapon brought the agony back.

  "I... I do not recognize the crystal," Bastian whispered, his voice incredibly frail. "But the hilt... bring it closer, Gerald. Look at the binding."

  Gerald brought the dagger closer. The hilt was wrapped in a strange, dark, iridescent leather that shimmered slightly in the ambient light.

  "It is deep-mine Basilisk skin," Bastian breathed, looking up at the King with wide, fearful eyes. "It is incredibly rare. Completely heat-resistant. There is only one elite guard in the entire Realm equipped with basilisk leather, Brandan. I saw that exact wrapping on a sword hilt in our own camp... hanging from the belt of Ser Damian Ironvine."

  A deadly, absolute silence fell over the carriage.

  "Damian," Brandan growled, the name vibrating in his chest like an earthquake.

  Gutrum’s eyes darkened with absolute, uncompromising Northern wrath. "He murders Ser Hestor to hide the ledger, and then sends a shapeshifter to finish my daughter."

  "How incredibly convenient," a smooth, cynical voice echoed from the shadows.

  Vasco Vane stepped into the ambient light, his hands folded neatly behind his back. He looked at the dagger, then at Bastian, his dark eyes calculating every single angle of the room.

  "An untraceable, shape-shifting assassin of supreme skill," Vasco mused, his voice dripping with polite skepticism. "A creature capable of bypassing all our magical wards... and yet, in its haste, it carelessly drops a weapon wrapped in the highly specific, highly recognizable leather of the exact man we currently suspect of treason. It is almost... theatrical."

  Gutrum stood up, his hand dropping to the pommel of his broadsword. "What are you implying, Lord Vane?"

  "I am merely implying, Lord Wolf, that assassins do not drop their calling cards unless they want them to be found," Vasco said smoothly. He locked eyes with Bastian. "Or, perhaps, someone in this carriage wants us to march against House Ironvine with absolute, blinding fury. A planted dagger is a very cheap way to buy a war."

  The implication was staggering. Vasco was subtly suggesting Bastian had planted the dagger, or even orchestrated the attack, to frame the Ironvines and secure his own power.

  Bastian let out a wet, agonizing cough. He looked at Vasco, his eyes brimming with tears of pain and perfectly manufactured betrayal.

  "Are you suggesting, Lord Vane," Bastian whispered, his voice cracking, "that I impaled myself on a poisoned crystal blade... that I nearly died on this floor... simply to cast a shadow on your favorite Queen Mother's son?"

  Bastian let his head fall back against the silk pillows, looking utterly exhausted and heartbroken. "If you love Lady Lydia so much that you would defend her murderous kin over the blood of your own Prince... then I pity you, Vasco."

  "Watch your tongue, Vane," Brandan snarled, turning his massive frame toward the Master of Liabilities. "My brother is bleeding on this bed because he threw his unarmored body over a child. He is a hero. You sit in the shadows and count coins."

  Vasco didn't flinch, but he knew he was losing the room. The emotional weight of Bastian’s sacrifice was an impenetrable armor. You cannot logically debate a martyr who is actively bleeding.

  "I mean no disrespect to the Prince's bravery, Your Grace," Vasco said carefully, trying to salvage his footing. "I only ask that we look at the ledger of probability. Basilisk leather is rare, yes. But it is not exclusive to the Ironvines. Anyone with enough gold could procure it to frame them."

  "Actually, they couldn't."

  The voice was cold, flat, and completely devoid of emotion.

  Morvin Whitefield walked out from the dining hall, a half-eaten candied apple in his hand. The nine-year-old sociopath looked at the dagger, completely ignoring the tension in the room.

  "Basilisk leather from the deep-mines of Kynoboros requires a specialized tanning process using Woolhaven silk-acid," Morvin stated, taking a bite of his apple. "My family controls the patent. I personally reviewed the export ledgers last year. House Whitefield sold the entire global supply of that specific iridescent leather to Duke Dankmar Ironvine. Exclusive rights. No one else in the Realm has it."

  Morvin looked directly at Vasco, his silver eyes completely dead.

  "Lord Bastian is correct," Morvin concluded. "That is an Ironvine weapon. Mathematically, there is a 99.8% probability that Ser Damian Ironvine equipped the assassin."

  Checkmate.

  Vasco Vane stared at the nine-year-old. He knew exactly what was happening. Morvin was aligning Whitefield interests with Bastian’s narrative because a war against the Ironvines suited them both perfectly. They were weaving a noose around Dankmar's neck, and Vasco was completely powerless to stop it because the King and the Wolf were already blinded by rage and gratitude.

  Vasco bowed his head slightly. A flawless, graceful concession of defeat.

  "I yield to Lord Morvin's impeccable accounting," Vasco murmured, stepping back into the shadows. "It appears the Ironvines have truly declared war on the Crown."

  Brandan grabbed the crystal dagger from Gerald’s hand. He didn't look at Vasco again. He looked at the blade, his eyes burning with a terrifying, apocalyptic fire.

  "Dankmar sent a monster into my house," the King whispered, his voice a low, rumbling thunder. "He tried to kill a daughter of the North. He almost killed my brother."

  Brandan turned to me, his massive face set in stone.

  "Drive the carriage, Wilhelm," the King commanded. "Drive it to the White Basilica. We are going to rip that ledger from the Church's hands, and then we are going to march on Vineburg and burn House Ironvine to ash."

  I nodded, feeling a chill run down my spine.

  I looked at Bastian in the hammock. The Velvet Strangler had his eyes closed, breathing shallowly, looking like a tragic, beautiful saint.

  The Aegis Cloud-Carriage glided silently over the pastel hills, the Anunnaki levitation core humming its steady, expensive tune. The pastel sky of Woolhaven was beginning to dim into a soft twilight.

  I sat at the obsidian steering pedestal, keeping one hand on the Reins and one eye on the towering woman standing guard near the front viewport.

  Freyda Skullwarden stood rigidly in her heavy armor, her wounded arm tightly bound in silk. She was staring out at the Yarn-Trees, looking as fiercely uncomfortable as a direwolf in a petting zoo.

  "You know, Lady Freyda," I drawled, leaning back and giving her my best, lopsided Bastard smile. "I’ve been doing some calculations. And I've concluded that the white silk bandages really bring out the terrifying, lethal intensity of your eyes. It’s a very striking aesthetic. Truly."

  Freyda stiffened. She slowly turned her head to look at me, her scarred, severe face flushing a deep, blotchy red. She was a warrior who could cleave a man in half, but a single compliment made her look like she wanted the floor to swallow her.

  "I am a knight, Merchant," Freyda said, her voice gruff and painfully awkward. "I am here to guard the King. I do not require... flattery. Or aesthetics."

  "It’s not flattery, mate, it’s an objective appraisal of assets," I chuckled softly, spinning a gold coin across my knuckles. "And for the record, you don't always have to look like you're waiting for the sky to fall. It’s perfectly acceptable to just... exist. You did well back there. You’re a good woman, Freyda."

  The blush deepened. Freyda looked down at her armored boots, shifting her weight. "I... thank you, Wilhelm. You are... you are not entirely intolerable yourself."

  It was a hilariously stiff, incredibly sweet moment.

  And then, a cold draft seemed to sweep through the carriage.

  "Flirting with the butcher's daughter, Wilhelm?" a dead, flat voice asked. "How statistically inefficient."

  Freyda flinched as if she had been struck. Her brief moment of vulnerability slammed shut, replaced instantly by her defensive, stoic wall. She gave a stiff bow and hurried away toward the medical bay without looking back.

  I scowled, turning around.

  Morvin Whitefield was leaning against the silk-glass window, a lollipop in his mouth and his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his polar-bear hoodie. He looked at the retreating giantess with complete apathy.

  "You have terrible taste in investments," Morvin noted, pulling the candy from his mouth. "Do you know what House Skullwarden actually does in their keeps? They don't just fight, Wilhelm. They are flesh-crafters. They treat the human body like a toy box. Splicing limbs onto hounds. Peeling skin for tapestries. They are an abrasive, grotesque lineage. Absolute scum. Why waste your charm on a gargoyle when you could aim so much higher?"

  "She has more honor in her little finger than you have in your entire Duchy, you creepy little calculator," I snapped, turning back to the steering Reins.

  "Honor does not yield dividends," Morvin replied smoothly, stepping up beside my chair. "If you are looking for an alliance, you should be looking at my sister. Livia is beautiful. She is popular. And she is currently reinventing the entire social Culture of the Realm. Marry Livia, Wilhelm. The Whitefields and the Broker. We would own the continent."

  I paused. I took my hand off the Reins and turned to fully face the nine-year-old sociopath. My Merchant instincts were suddenly screaming.

  "Hold on," I narrowed my eyes. "That doesn't track. You don't make mistakes in your math, Morvin. So why are you pitching a bad trade?"

  Morvin tilted his head, his silver eyes unblinking. "A bad trade?"

  "I am the Bastard of House Stormsong," I stated, tapping my own chest. "I am the Flaw. I have no titles. I have no land. By the laws of the Realm, a bastard has absolute zero claim to Kaledon or the throne. I am a self-made Merchant, sure, but politically? I am a dead end. You are the heir to Woolhaven. You wouldn't waste your most valuable political asset your sister on a bastard with no legal inheritance."

  I leaned down, getting right in his face.

  "So, what is the logic flaw, Morvin? Why do you want me in your family?"

  Morvin stared at me. He didn't look caught. He looked like a chess grandmaster watching his opponent finally notice the trap that was set ten moves ago.

  A slow, chilling smile crept across his young face.

  "You are very sharp, Wilhelm," Morvin whispered. "You are entirely correct. I would never allow Livia to marry a bastard. It would be a catastrophic waste of equity."

  He put the lollipop back in his mouth, the stick pointing out like a tiny, sugary cigar.

  "But you aren't a bastard," Morvin said simply.

  The hum of the carriage faded into white noise. The breath caught in my throat. I stared at him, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs.

  "What did you just say?" I breathed.

  "I read the ledgers, Wilhelm. All of them," Morvin murmured, looking out the window at the setting sun. "While King Brandan drinks and Bastian spins his little webs, the Whitefields manage the archives. We see the ink that was erased. You are not an illegitimate mistake. You have a true, undeniably powerful lineage."

  He turned his silver eyes back to me.

  "Your parents are alive, Wilhelm. And they love you very much. They gave you up to protect you from the board. But you are not a Flaw. You are the most valuable piece in play."

  My hands started to shake. For twenty-odd years, the word 'Bastard' had been branded onto my soul. It was why I was discarded. It was why I had to buy my worth with gold.

  "Who?" I demanded, grabbing the collar of his hoodie. I didn't care that he was nine. I didn't care that he was a Duke. "Who are they, Morvin? Tell me!"

  Morvin didn't flinch. He just looked down at my hands gripping his coat.

  "Leverage, Wilhelm," Morvin whispered coldly. "The golden rule of commerce. You never give away your most valuable asset for free."

  I gritted my teeth, my mind spinning violently. "What do you want? Gold? Soft-Hearts? I'll buy the information right now."

  "I don't want your coin," Morvin smiled, gently but firmly prying my fingers off his collar. "I want your loyalty. When the time comes when the Crown fractures and the Realm burns I will ask you for a favor. And when you grant it, I will give you your true name."

  He patted my arm, smoothing out his wrinkled hoodie.

  "Drive the carriage, Lord Storm. The White Basilica awaits. And you have a legacy to survive for."

  Morvin turned and walked casually back toward the dining hall, blending into the crowd of Kings and Lords as if he hadn't just shattered my entire reality.

  I stood at the obsidian pedestal, staring blindly out the window. My hands were trembling so hard I had to grip the Reins to steady them.

  Not a bastard.

  Parents alive.

  I looked up at the approaching spires of the White Basilica, my jaw clenching.

  I had always fought for gold. But now, I was fighting for a truth I didn't even know I possessed.