A circle of darkness enveloped Ruda as Draz obscured the light. A gentle gong signaled the start of the fight, and a second later, the raider was almost upon her. His huge leg struck out, trying to break the arm with the blade raised up, ready to pierce the open belly. The kick was immediately followed by a swift punch. Ruda dodged, stepping back and hearing the scraping of her knuckles on the surface of her pauldron, tearing off thorns and spines without the slightest harm.

  The fist touched the sand.

  A wave of impact, comparable to an artillery shell exploding, rippled across the arena, and a curtain of sand rose, obscuring her vision. The raider’s cheap visor discerned the figure ripping his fist from the resulting dent. Draz waved his hand, sending a small torrent of sand toward Ruda. The next swing sent a similar blast toward the captives.

  He smiled, relishing the danger, or perhaps the prospect of a kill, elated by the adrenaline released, perfectly mirroring Ruda’s feelings. Victory or death, she wasn’t about to face the outcome with fear.

  From ten paces away, she fired at the toothy grin, forcing Draz to move to the right to avoid injury. No matter how thick-skinned he was, an armor-piercing projectile traveling at a thousand meters per second would leave holes in him. The raider saw her, moving before the first shot, and Ruda noted the vividness of his perception as she pierced the peculiar sandstorm. The bullets slammed into the arena netting, sparking sparks and startling the spectators with flying fragments.

  Having driven Draz aside, Ruda positioned herself between the raider and the captives, buying herself some peace of mind before descending upon him. Her hoof sank into his raised fist, failing to pierce the skin. With all the hydraulics and servo-muscles of her armor, Ruda barely managed to move the brute more than a step. But she hadn’t expected any other outcome and pushed off with her other foot, closing the distance to her opponent in a second and slashing at Draz’s wrist, seeking to sever an artery.

  Draz caught the blade, holding it between his palms. Learned from the lessons of El Satanini and Chernogor, Ruda didn't try to win a physical confrontation, and when her hands twisted the weapon to the side, she gave in, allowing herself to be torn off her feet and rolled away, feverishly considering a different approach.

  The raider’s missed kick ripped the armor plate from her waist, revealing the moving mechanisms, and slammed into the sand, gouging out a long trench. Ruda fired a shot at Draz’s face, drawing him away from potential victims. There was no need to rush. Their fight had no time limit. Her twenty-round pistol had seventeen bullets left. More than enough for a distraction.

  Like a giant ogre from ancient tales, Draz loomed over Ruda, relentlessly raining blows that made the floor shake. He moved methodically, without the slightest risk, relentlessly tearing the hooks and loose armor plates from her carapace. Each swing threatened to throw Ruda off balance, and she dropped the pistol, leaving it dangling by its chain. In a normal combat situation, this would have been a dangerous mistake, but Draz’s fingers were too large to pull the trigger.

  Frantically retreating, she seized the moment and snatched a small capsule from her belt, crushing it in her fist. A purple mist with a bluish tint at its core rose between the fighters, sliding into Draz’s frantically inhaling nostrils. It was a drug—called the Last Breath—invented through the joint efforts of Magister Szarel’s family.

  Unlike the veil, which brought sweet dreams and sleep, the Last Breath exposed the nervous system, exalting all sensations to impossible heights. The perception of time slowed, the heartbeat accelerated, and the unexperienced purity of sensation plunged the mind into a coma of purest ecstasy, causing brain hemorrhage and inevitable disability or death.

  Draz’s vision didn’t even blur, and his fist flew past Ruda’s head, forcing her to concentrate on defense. How was this possible? The fluidity of his movements, the flexibility of his limbs, his immunity to poison, and his sheer strength… Even for an Abnormal, he was blessed with too many gifts from nature.

  Using her blade, Ruda struggled to deflect the most dangerous strikes, snapping back with economical lunges and not daring to linger in the attacker’s shadow. The simplicity of his style was deceptive, clouding caution. Nevertheless, her weapon failed to touch skin; Draz batted away the pincer each time, touching the non-cutting side, and tried to lure Ruda into the trap of his long arms.

  True to his nickname, he never let up, tirelessly turning their duel into a semblance of a dance, one she was destined to lose the moment he decided to use the power that had repelled the Insectoid. Ruda wasn’t sure what it was, but based on the way he stood in the previous round, the source of the light emanated from his face. Eye beams? The ability to create a fireball? She needed to win before the fight entered a new phase.

  She noticed Ney, who had crossed to the other side of the observation deck and stood with his foot on the railing. With a worried expression, he slammed his hand against his knee. His finger pointed left.

  Obeying, Ruda dodged to the left. The shells flew through the sand, causing Draz to jerk to the side. Buckshot and bullets struck Ruda’s armor, ricocheting into the bandit leader, and a huge smile spread across her face. You’re my clever one! How many times had her instructors told her about the importance of paying attention to every detail on the battlefield, and she still acted as a child compared to her lover’s experience.

  The prisoners were armed and had no intention of dying. What an idiot she was!

  Draz’s eyes widened as he realized the ricochet’s trajectory. With an irritated growl, he leaned back on his toes, desperately slipping out of harm’s way, refusing to be humiliated by losing to the slaves. A flicker of wild, animalistic rage flashed in his gaze as the sword thrust at his face. Arching his neck, the bandit avoided the stab, responding with a lightning-fast counterattack, intending to crush the crusader’s head, clearly having lost all intention of continuing the game.

  Ruda pressed the button on the hilt, hearing a click, and the pincer opened, creating wide cutting arcs and drawing a long, bloody gash across Draz’s flawless cheek. The fist stopped a millimeter from her faceplate, blowing sand into the moat with a gust of wind. Not quite believing her own survival, Ruda cautiously watched as the giant retreated, casually dodging the prisoners’ shots.

  A gong sounded, and the bridge lowered, rumbling with the stampede of soldiers’ feet as they rushed toward the slaves. Armored troops crashed into the men holding the weapons, knocking them off their feet.

  “Don’t forget your promise, Governor!” Ruda demanded, grabbing her gun.

  A wisp of white smoke escaped the raider’s nostril as he touched the cut on his cheek, brushing against the exposed muscle. The animalistic fury in his gaze diminished to a cold, disdainful contempt, his pupils returning to their normal size.

  “Call me Draz,” he said, surprising Ruda with his rapid change to friendliness. With a snap of his fingers, louder than a grenade, his henchmen sheathed their firearms and drew shackles and electric batons, beginning to exercise caution. Taking the crusader’s hand, Draz knelt, kissing her gauntlet. “Let no one talk about predictability in our arena! Right, Hess?!”

  “Oh, come on, Governor!”

  With a laugh, Draz rose to his full height, hugging his opponent and raising her hand, maintaining his grip on Ruda’s wrist. “The champion is defeated; long live the champion... what’s your name, miracle?” Draz whispered casually.

  “I was named Ruda at birth. A private under Latif,” she whispered back, unnerved by the complete lack of any hint of indignation in his voice. He should have been furious.

  Such an abrupt change to calm was alarming. In the police force, she’d learned that a crime boss could be incompetent, evil, or stupid, but he could never afford to appear weak.

  So where’s the revenge?

  “Ruda, Latif’s first blade, peerless marksman, scourge of monsters, and enlightener of arrogance!” Draz declared, striding into victory pass next to his opponent.

  “Ruda, Ruda! Glory to the champion!” The crowd chanted as servants deftly served drinks, fueling the celebration.

  Watching the brutal packing of the people who had saved her life, Ruda suppressed the urge to slit Draz’s throat. A savage bit a guard but only broke his teeth on the steel. Children cried and screamed while several older teenagers tried to encourage them, earning heavy slaps for their tardiness. A farmer was punched in the solar plexus, bending the venerable Insectone double and leaving a crack in his discolored chitin. Women were unceremoniously pulled by the hair. Anyone who resisted received a jolt of electricity to the neck.

  A childish desire for revenge would have brought nothing but grief now, but as Ruda was led through the corridors upward, she swore to herself to be part of the Oathtakers’ army, which would surely be sent to bring prosperity to the wild land. Feda’s words sealed the fate of the local scum. They will not be allowed to launch massive raids on the Oathtakers’ territory. The maces of the crusaders will illuminate the horror on the faces of the recent oppressors before their all-too-short demise.

  Answer, what’s better: spending the night with Ney, helping Dahel with her homework, or wasting time torturing all sorts of rabble? We only live once, Ruda; take time more responsibly! Bam, corpse, victory, and off to do useful things. She chastised herself for her stupidity. It distracted her from the filth walking beside her.

  Rising to the level of the audience, Draz unerringly stomped to Chernogor’s table, hugging Feda and the commander. He had no communication device in his ear, and except for the implant, there was no way the giant could have been told who Ruda had come with. He spotted them in the crowd, instantly memorizing their unfamiliar faces.

  “Drinks on me!” Draz roared, sitting down on a chair. The Siamese twins eagerly placed mugs of the red, fragrant liquid and decanters of iced water on the table. Instead of a second drink, they set out a cup of mead for Ruda. “Ignoring the girl?”

  “She doesn’t like ordinary water.” The servant shrugged, rushing to add meat and bread.

  Ruda took off her helmet, sitting next to Rustam.

  “You declared me victorious,” she said cautiously. “Then the slaves are ours.”

  “Yours, most beautiful night sky,” Draz smiled kindly.

  “No need for flattery, Governor.”

  “Flattery? The truth! Your teeth resemble sparkling stars in the night sky, adding charm to your eyes, which resemble bottomless, tranquil lakes, beckoning a traveler weary from a long journey in search of true beauty...”

  Is he tipsy, or has the drug finally taken effect? Ruda thought, stunned.

  “Your eyes are like pure antifreeze,” she returned the compliment, blushing. ‘Sea’ would have been more accurate, but how could a wasteland bastard know that term?

  The situation reminded her of the idiotic incident when Ney had decided to introduce her to his parents. The Schwarzendrubers owned eight factories producing light equipment, a mine on the border, and had branched into providing tourist services for those seeking boat rides. An ancient family, they descended from the eighth champion of Dominator and were renowned for their involvement in many campaigns, often sending their scions to the orders.

  Arriving at their luxurious, antique-style mansion, Ruda expected to encounter stern military personnel known for their loyalty to their country, military instructors, and army tacticians. Instead, she found herself surrounded by a gaggle of Ney’s young nephews, who mistook the crusader for a new servant and were trying to woo her into bed. And she thought she had a large family. The thought of growing up with fifty assholes made her panic.

  “Please excuse my friend; she’s still running on adrenaline.” Ney tried to come to her rescue, standing next to Ruda.

  “Sincerity is always a joy to the heart.” Draz pushed Ney aside, lifting the crusader from her chair and leading her in a dance around the table while the other onlookers made room for them. “There’s no need to be so tense. The drumming of your hooves soothes my nerves better than any musical instrument. Today belongs to passion, both on the battlefield and...”

  “Governor, I already have a chosen one,” Ruda said as he leaned her in for a kiss, one hand on her waist.

  With an unwavering smile, Draz straightened up, continued the dance, and smoothly handed his partner over to Ney, loudly clapping his hands.

  “Bravo! May you have a dozen sons and no fewer girls!” The robber sang carefree, clinking glasses with Yeshua and Chernogor, emptying the jug of unknown alcohol in one gulp.

  Kneeling, he beckoned to Rustam, took the needles and thread from the servant, and ordered the boy to stitch up the wound on his cheek. The boy set the items aside and first cleaned the wound, then with great effort pierced the thick skin, straining his armor to its limits and earning an approving grunt. When the job was done, Feda gave him a gold-plated medallion.

  “You spoil us, sir,” said Yeshua.

  “It’s not every day that capable warriors honor me with their courage.” Draz shrugged, patting Rustam on the helmet. “I’d say the exchange is quite even. How about joining my army? I’d gladly accept you into my personal guard.”

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “I promised the boss slaves,” Ruda replied. The corner of her mouth twitched. She hated calling people that.

  “And he will get them; he definitely will,” Draz assured. “But let’s think about the future. Latif doesn’t have one. This bloodthirsty mosquito irritates everyone. Me, you, the outsiders—there’s no one who wouldn’t want to get rid of him. Rabor tolerates him, but all patience comes to an end. On the other hand, a new, energetic, and sensible leader, replacing the loser, will be a welcome guest in Rabor. Don’t worry about allies; just whisper when he needs soldiers, and your friend will take care of everything.”

  “I... will think about your offer, Draz,” Ruda said cautiously. “Brent, do we have enough room in the transports to deliver all the winnings?”

  “No,” the old man replied, showing no indignation at her action. “There’s nothing to even throw away.”

  “Do you have any cheap trucks for sale, Governor?” Yeshua asked.

  “Do you doubt the competence of my stewards?” Draz playfully elbowed the apologetic Yeshua in the side and pulled a passing servant closer, throwing the woman into the crusader’s arms. She kissed him and ran a finger along his chin, inviting Yeshua to privacy. He declined. “I have a better idea. Hess!”

  “Here!” a scruffy raider jumped up on the opposite side of the arena.

  “How about forgiving your debts for tonight for...” Draz stopped shouting and leaned over. “Will two APCs be enough for you?”

  “Sure,” said Chernogor.

  “Three trucks!” Draz barked, lifting Rustam onto his shoulder.

  “Your mercy knows no bounds, Governor!” Hess replied, his face brightening. Based on his mood, Ruda guessed he had lost much more.

  “Good man! I’ll see you on the next raid. We won’t skimp on the loot! Friends? Are we at a funeral? More drinks, louder music, have fun, and forget your problems in our beautiful city!” Draz jumped onto the railing, bending it under his weight, and began dancing, balancing effortlessly while Rustam clutched his neck in fear. “Have you had a girlfriend yet? No? Want to fix that? That beauty over there seems to be free…”

  Bonfires flared with renewed fervor; servants hauled in cartloads of lizards for roasting; nimble, brightly dressed actors leaped and rolled down the aisles, leaping up near the flames to juggle, tell dirty jokes, and even perform entire performances for the amusement of the vile crowd.

  A choir of young girls, dressed in skirts, hats, and jackets sewn from multicolored scraps of leather, lined up on the southern balcony and sang cheerful and inspiring songs. Intoxicated by alcohol, a dirty vagabond in greasy body armor grabbed the edge of the balcony, trying to reach the singers’ bare legs. Feda nodded to the guard, who knocked the drunk out.

  Ruda wanted to come to her charge’s aid, but she didn’t dare commit another rash act. So far, nothing dangerous had happened, though Draz feigned surprise at Rustam’s refusals, glancing at her. Without lust, which was far more dangerous in their situation. Letting herself be distracted, Ruda kissed Ney wholeheartedly, dancing to the melodic cacophony of a dozen songs intertwined, while hundreds of killers celebrated, praising the arena master’s generosity.

  An acrobat cartwheeled along the bent railing, suddenly stopping and lifting his legs into the air. To the crowd’s delight, a blue glow—a chilled mist—emerged from his bare heels, then a whitish thread of ice ran across this created canvas, creating a pattern of embellished arena battle scenes in which slavers fearlessly split ranks of defending slaves, whose faces twisted with anger and ruthlessness. Ruda, as if by accident, danced through part of this image, inhaling the icy air and breaking the thin ice.

  Ney dispelled any dreams of crunching a slaver’s skull under her mace, reciprocating and matching Ruda’s rhythm. His feet resonated, stomping in time with her resounding stomps to the pounding drums as they came together and parted, ducking under each other’s arms and laughing. She couldn’t help but think of their potential wedding, trying to imagine her potential children.

  Oddly enough, it no longer seemed like something she wasn’t worthy of.

  As if by accident, Yeshua’s side brushed the handrail as they parted, and the acrobat crashed to the floor, cursing as the conjured image melted.

  ****

  After parting with the unexpected entertainment, Draz waved to the people, throwing on a black leather jacket on his way to the balcony without fastening the silver zipper. He pulled the thread from his cheek with two fingers; the wound had already healed, leaving flawless skin. Why did this always happen? Some wild animal had forever left its mark on the work of art he had become, but the reminder from the cloven-hoofed stranger had vanished. Unfair.

  “I hope you haven’t missed me too much in my absence,” he joked, brushing his hair with a comb.

  “For a second, you got me worried.”

  “Only for a second? Then I should never leave the arena,” he responded flirtatiously.

  Souzan rose from the cushions, the hem of her fur dress rustling across the purple-patterned carpets, and hugged him around the waist. She had to stand on tiptoe to do this, and Draz returned the favor, kissing her soft, slanted eyes and smoothing the black, saber-like hair protruding from beneath her wool-lined cap. Souzan had sworn allegiance to him ten years ago, bringing with her six hundred fighters. He valued loyalty, and Souzan’s group tripled in size, acquiring both equipment and rare weapons. Draz noticed the handle of a laser pistol in the slit of her dress.

  Alas, granting her second-in-command her deepest desire was impossible. Souzan’s hips were too narrow. She would not be able to give him a child without risking her life. Slipping from their embrace, Draz kissed the fingers of the next supplicant, savoring the promising scent of sunflowers and gazing into her amber eyes, completely unfazed by the elongated, fanged maw.

  Latke snorted, the dog lying near her boot growled, Feda frowned, and Souzan sat back down, picking up her terminal and beginning to read her messages, completely unfazed by Davinia’s blatant advances. What a woman, what a woman! How he regretted the inability to proclaim her his partner.

  But every ruler must have heirs. Otherwise, what’s the point?

  “What news have you brought me in your beak, perspicacious eaglet?” he purred.

  “The administrators are alarmed,” Davinia whispered. “The latest attack has exhausted their patience. Believe it or not, the clerks are calling for mercenaries. Even my... acquaintance tried to persuade me to do a stupid act. They started a meeting, preparing to send word to Paikan, daring to accuse you of incompetence and treason.”

  “Such is the fate of all responsible rulers,” Draz sighed mockingly. “In an attempt to justify their failures, the cowardly and envious always cast aspersions on those who saved them, willingly sacrificing former allies for the sake of remaining in power for another day.”

  Davinia proved her worth, willingly cooperating with his informants for generous rewards and shelter. Thanks to her casual remarks regarding the clerks’ plans, the guards apprehended numerous terrorists after the murders, sparing Rabor the need for a trial.

  Undoubtedly, the woman played both sides, and several times the administrators avoided carefully prepared ambushes, but Draz was not frustrated at these innocuous antics, accepting them like a patient takes a bitter pill. Maintaining cover was worth the sacrifice, and ultimately, Davinia brought significant benefits, offsetting the trivial losses. Can one blame a person for wanting to prosper?

  “My ray of sunshine, I’m afraid I must ask you to depart.” Draz raised his hand, for the Wolfkin to turn elegantly, lightly touching him with her fan. “Matters of state.”

  “By your will, sir.” Davinia lowered her eyes, full of promise, and walked out of the balcony.

  “Did you like today’s opponents, sir?” The steward bowed, handing Draz a glass of wine. Blue-eyed, with a smattering of gray in his fair hair, the man descended from serfs who had bought their son’s freedom.

  “What do you think?” the ruler responded sourly, shaking his glass and watching the swirling drink. “The jewel of the show was an outside beauty, not found by you. I demanded a test. You gave me an easy ride.”

  You can’t become stronger without risking your life. So Paikan taught. In that narrow interval between death and triumph, a person won not only survival but also learned something new and invaluable.

  History had convinced Draz of the truth of this statement. How many fools perished from dehydration and starvation in bunkers after the Extinction, waiting for rescue instead of demonstrating the resolve to brave the raging storms and try to survive in a changed world? How many tribes perished in wars, rejecting an ultimatum demanding submission instead of making the slightest attempt to adapt to preserving their way of life under a cruel ruler and then rebelling? Even his abnormal lifespan did not come without a willingness to gamble everything for the greatest reward.

  “My fault,” the steward didn’t argue. “Next time, we’ll invite more ferocious fighters.”

  “Don’t sweat the small stuff.” Draz accepted the cigar from him and inhaled deeply, savoring the smoke’s movement through his lungs. He exhaled a thin stream of gray air upward. “I respect your ability to keep the entire city supplied.”

  “We should have killed the bastard for interfering,” Feda said.

  “And demonstrate weakness?” Souzan laughed.

  “Weakness? Letting her scratch you wasn’t weakness?” Feda hissed.

  “All men bleed,” Souzan replied.

  “True,” Draz agreed, taking a sip of wine. “Feda, the correct decision after making a mistake is to accept the consequences, not throw a tantrum and butcher anyone who comes to hand. I invited those willing to join the fight. Showing cordiality proved how much I’m above petty squabbles and maintained a warm atmosphere, endearing me to potential allies. Screams, murder, an inability to keep one’s word... If you were balancing on the brink of choice, would I have earned your loyalty with such antics?”

  “No,” Feda said. “But you punished Itil.”

  “I did,” Draz agreed, feeling his manhood clench. “That situation was different. She openly dared to display insolence and then stabbed me in the groin. A ‘no’ would suffice instead.” He turned to the old man, dressed in a leather cape, thick woolen pants, and a warm shirt, holding a cup of soup. The village elder took a sip of the stew, and the wooden cane leaning against his leg fell. Draz graciously handed it to the old man, who looked like a teenager in comparison. “Do you enjoy our hospitality, my dear sir?”

  “The rumors of Rabor’s excesses turned out to be true.” His blue eyes looked at the choir of singers that another drunkard was trying to get to. “Our daughters...”

  “Utterly safe, you will return to your village in an hour, blessed with gifts.” A bolt of electricity crackled between Draz’s words, and the would-be rapist fell with a scream. “Keep calm, and more good things will come your way.”

  The presents consisted of upgraded equipment for working in the fields and caves: moisture collectors, tractors, hazmat suits, carving knives, and other trinkets. Draz had planned to hand them out after the storm, but Souzan advised him to disguise the event as a charity to avoid even a hint of panic in the future. Secluded in his office, his deputy presented him with the charts, drawing his attention to a fact that had eluded him.

  The villagers’ work performance tripled after Paikan elevated them from slaves to serfs, granting them certain privileges. The number of runaways dropped fivefold, long before Draz’s selection program went into effect.

  Previously, he had viewed the serfs as valuable providers of food and breeding females, capable of spreading his stable genes to produce a future source of soldiers. But the data forced him to reconsider.

  Since the serfs worked better, it was reasonable to assume that, having become free and granted the rights of Rabor citizens, the opportunity to attend school, and the lure of wealth, their productivity would increase exponentially. Of course, he would have to accept further restrictions on his own power and concessions, but he was building a country here.

  Volnitsa would soon have to change.

  After exchanging pleasantries with the village elder and inquiring about the needs and dreams of his subjects, Draz called over the guards, noticing the merriment in the arena dying down. The gang leaders led their soldiers away, sending gifts and assurances of loyalty to their future master, no doubt confident that the great distance from Rabor would allow them to shirk the heavy responsibilities of the upcoming confrontation, limiting themselves to mere verbal praise.

  Strike while the iron is hot. Draz waved kindly to the actors and girls gathered below on the balcony. The elder walked down without using his cane, moving easily and confidently, bringing a predatory grin to Draz’s face.

  The Iternians were wrong. In theory and practice, the products of bioengineering were not hereditary when Normies were enhanced. But Draz and Paikan were born abnormals, and it seems that in those distant times, the arrogant corporate employees had no idea of ??the true potential of their research.

  Paikan advanced this theory. Paikan, Paikan, how did we get to this point? I won’t lie to myself; our collaboration could only end this way. Without killing you, I cannot overcome my fear and become a worthy leader. But my heart is sickened; it aches at what you have turned yourself into. How your glory shone! Your plans allowed us to take advantage of everyone, profiting from the most grievous defeats. You laid the core of the empire. I was proud to serve in your army and plot your demise!

  Then you met Mad Hatter. I don’t understand why you changed. Yes, we couldn’t hope to defeat that woman. The khatun’s slightest whim would have turned everything we’d created into a bone-strewn desert. But that’s no reason to indulge in decadence; it’s not final proof of the futility of our efforts! You wanted heirs!

  Despite all your genius, you never understood one simple thing. The best thing about people is their mortality. And the best thing is that their mortality is unexpected. We’re alive; she’s dead! Who cares who’s stronger! In nature, the fittest survive.

  “How many clerks are with us?” asked Draz, dropping the mask of mirth and focusing on the matter at hand, surrounded by his closest circle of officers.

  “Three hundred have proven their resolve in action,” replied Feda. “Should they turn yellow-bellied, we have incriminating evidence. There’s no other path left for them but ours. The storm has seen to that.”

  “Ambitious paper pushers, no doubt.” He tapped his fingertips against his chin, considering. Three hundred… not enough to warrant a sense of security. “The archives must be preserved at all costs. Not a single profession, not a single piece of knowledge, must be lost.”

  “Governor, this isn’t a hundred years ago. At worst, we’ll order instructors,” Souzan assured.

  “Agreed.”

  He noticed Oztai rise, still dressed in his jester’s costume and wiping his bloodied nose, and Cihan standing nearby. Both had served his cause in the shadows, but Oztai was insane. Even now, his nails were blackened with spilled blood, and he never let a day go by without committing a slow murder, freezing his helpless victim and reveling in their terror as their organs failed one by one, his cruel fingers breaking the hardened crust their skin had become. Adults, the elderly, children—Oztai made no distinctions when claiming to hone his skills in this manner.

  Mad dogs can be used, but how do you know when they’ll bite the hand that feeds them? Better to nip the problem in the bud.

  “Cihan, Oztai, I have a job for you. Grab the youngest of Latif’s group and squeeze every bit of information out of him. Who are they, why did they come, who are they really working for? Afterwards do away with any loose ends.” Oztai licked his lips in anticipation. Cihan bowed his head, catching the hint.

  “Didn’t we decide not to seek revenge?” Souzan asked in surprise. Feda and several officers grimaced in disgust, moving away from the maniac.

  “There’s a purpose to everything I do.” Draz began counting on his fingers. “Have you ever heard of Latif’s mercenaries turning down promotions out of loyalty? I haven’t. Has his rabble ever demonstrated the kind of courage Ruda did? They’d rather stab their leader in the back than risk even a cut for a slave. Davinia also reported the discovery of the listening device and the clerk’s visit. So why didn’t they offer to sell us information about any of that? Don’t they want to get rich?”

  “I don’t trust Davinia,” Latke said. “The she-wolf is too cunning for a mutant and often eluded our surveillance when she visited the market and chatted with the meat.”

  “She’s just expanding her menagerie,” Feda said.

  “Her technological equipment is too expensive for a brothel owner,” Latke insisted.

  “Toys stolen from the Reclaimers. As long as they’re used for our benefit, I have no objection,” Souzan stated.

  “She was meeting with the administrators behind your back!” Latke raised her voice.

  “As expected. Should I condemn anyone who makes money on the side? Paikan isn’t here, so she’s left the main thing unsaid for now. The Reclamation Army has issued a warrant for her arrest. She’s undoubtedly weighing the benefits, not wanting to burn bridges. She won’t have that luxury again,” Draz promised, noticing Latke’s indignation, born of a misguided conclusion that he was ignoring her concerns. “Soon there will be no sides but ours. Until then, keep an eye on her personally. No one else can handle this task. If Davinia decides to betray us, bring me her hide for a rug.”

  “Give me your word, and the scheming upstarts are dead.” Feda jumped up, the weapon on his hand whirring.

  “I need you by my side.” The warning in Draz’s voice calmed his subordinate’s ardor. “We have no evidence, so why anger our employees? Let the boys carry out one last terrorist attack. We’ll know the truth from their reaction. The true rabble of Latif won’t mourn the loss of a frog. I’ll compensate them threefold for the cost of the equipment and armor. If Ruda breaks my heart, I’ll rip the still-beating heart from her chest and devour it before her eyes.” Bloodthirstiness flashed in Draz’s eyes, but his next words were inspiring. “My friends. Today we turn the page in the history of Volnitsa, writing the first word in our future legend of wealth. It’s time for Rabor to accept his only master.”