The Brokered
I have seen too much. Done too much. Left behind a legacy of ruin.
This world—so lavish in its cruelty—has been my hunting ground, a stage where I have played the part of tyrant, executioner, and slaver. Chaos is my craft. I have carved devastation into the bones of nations, orchestrated horrors that would make the gods weep. And yet—never, not once—have I suffered such a humiliation.
Magic. I savor its power when it is mine to wield, an intoxicating force bending to my will. But turned against me? That foul, acrid sting upon my tongue, the searing pulse of foreign sorcery laced with stone dust—I despise it. I loathe the taint of another’s spellwork fouling my air. If my men crumble beneath its weight, so be it. They are dust and embers, easily replaced. But me? Me? Unforgivable.
I stand in the wreckage of what was once my sanctuary, jagged stone framing the ruin like a gaping wound torn into the mountainside. Worse still, the portal—my lifeline to a realm of raw, unbridled chaos—shudders, gasps, and dies. The gateway, my conduit, my tether to the benefactor who bestowed upon me dominion, is no more. Someone was thorough. Someone knew precisely where to strike, like a scalpel carving through flesh. And I have a very strong suspicion of who.
That slippery little rodent.
"Oi… Tater Face." The words leave me like a slow, venomous drip, each syllable steeped in malice.
Before me, bound and quivering, stands the insufferable, self-proclaimed leader of the Squished Brigade—a grotesque parody of nobility. A plump, sentient potato, swathed in tattered royal finery, his starchy flesh marred with soot and grime. The sight of him, bloated and trembling, is almost amusing. Almost. A creature that bleeds mashed filth.
"Oi, I’m talkin’ to ya. Who do you serve?"
The tuber quakes in his bindings, voice warbling into some grand proclamation. "By the esteemed honor of the grea—"
I don’t like his voice. His tone. His very existence.
Before my thoughts even fully form, my hand is already at his throat—or whatever passes for one. His beady eyes swell in shock, his words dying in a garbled choke.
"Bloody ‘ell, mate. Just forget I asked, yeah?" My voice dips into a low, amused murmur, laced with something darker. "Shut yer gob."
A sharp twist. A sickening pop. His body slumps in my grip, limp.
Something remains. I glance down.
The other half of him—still animate, still watching—dangles from my grasp, little black eyes darting about in silent horror. No nose. No neck. Just eyes and a mouth, staring up at me.
"Well, well. Feast your eyes, gentlemen." I let the remains drop with a wet, squelching thud. "My first bare-handed decapitation."
My men shift uneasily. Good. A reminder of where they stand.
"Right," I snap, fixing them with a glare that sends a ripple of discipline through their ranks. "Half of you—round the back. Flank the demon bird and her pathetic menagerie. The rest—quit gawpin’ and start diggin’. I want this rubble cleared. Now."
As they scramble to obey, I kneel, letting my fingers ghost through the dissipating magic where my portal once stood. The energy is still warm, still clinging to the remnants of what was. A death throe.
"Oh, Reggie… you knew exactly where to strike."
This was no random attack. No mere assault. This was precise. Calculated. A message, written in destruction and dust.
But from whom? Who is Reggie working for? And how, in all the hells, did I not see this coming?
A double agent, double-crossed by another double agent.
I exhale sharply, the weight of realization settling in my gut like a slow, creeping poison.
I must be losing my edge.
My men—a patchwork of demi-humans, the finest cutthroats and cold-blooded killers this wretched world can offer. They serve not out of devotion, nor even greed, but fear. And yet, I am no tyrant. No, I am an artist of incentives, balancing brutality with the intoxicating promise of reward. A blade in one hand, a feast in the other.
It keeps them on edge. Keeps them moving with that desperate, feverish energy. They do not know if today will be the day I reward them or the day I remind them why I am their master.
I rule with an iron thumb. Obey… or die.
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At last, the rubble is cleared. Half a damn day wasted clawing through the wreckage, dragging ourselves from the suffocating dark into the bruised light of twilight.
Damn that infernal girl. I should have snuffed her out the moment we crossed paths.
The scent of blood lingers in the air, thick and metallic. Tracks, faint but discernible, carve through the dirt, trailing toward the distant trees. Good. They are close. My quarry remains within reach. I will not allow that wretched brat to run her mouth to a certain deadly mage.
Ah, yes. I remember her.
A weapon crafted in flesh, molded by unseen hands. I never expected to encounter something like her all those years ago. But that was then, and this is now. Time wears away even the sharpest edges. The rumors whisper that Merlin is but a title, passed from one sorcerer to the next. The only one I have ever feared was her.
But she is no longer Merlin.
Which means I have nothing—and no one—standing in my way.
Perhaps patience truly is a virtue.
The trail winds into the forest, a slithering path of disturbed leaves and snapped twigs, leading me through the gnarled embrace of the underbrush before spilling into a clearing.
“They’re close,” I murmur, my voice a low growl. “Right, spread out, you lot. Find 'em. And get a message to the others."
It doesn’t take long.
By the time I arrive, my men have done their work well. The prey is gathered. Herded. Cornered.
Ember’s ragtag little crew—that pathetic, flea-bitten Raccoon Squad—stands with their backs to the trees, the forest a wall of twisted limbs offering no escape. Their eyes flicker between fear and defiance, but the fight has already begun to drain from their weary bodies.
And Ember, poor foolish Ember…
She dangles limply in the grasp of the largest of the raccoons, her once-defiant spirit hollowed out. A ragdoll stripped of its stuffing.
How utterly delightful.
I take a measured step forward, my gaze locking onto the little witch. A delicate thing, fragile in appearance—but I know better. There’s a fire in her veins, a defiance that should have been snuffed out long ago.
"Right, you lot," I begin, my voice cutting through the thick tension like a scalpel, sharp and practiced. "Simple enough, yeah? Dump the wench, and you leg it. Or..." I let the words hang, savoring the moment, "you die with ‘er."
An veteran looking raccoon steps forward, cocky as ever, his glossy eyes alight with something between amusement and recklessness. A cigarette dangles from his lips, the ember at its tip glowing in the dim light, curling smoke around his snout like a lazy specter. He leans on a crude looking crossbow as if it’s nothing more than an old walking stick, posture loose but eyes sharp. An odd sight—almost human, yet unmistakably beast.
"Sorry, pal, but we ain’t leavin’ the princess," he says, tone dripping with easy defiance.
The others shift beside him, their bodies stiffening, hands tightening around similar looking weapons. A silent agreement, a final stand.
How quaint.
I smile—thin, sharp, inevitable. "Right. Wouldn't have it any other way, mate." A breath, slow and deliberate, filling my lungs with the scent of blood and damp earth. "Besides... I was always plannin' on knockin' you off. Might as well do it 'ere and now, eh?"
I raise my hand.
Waste 'em all, lads."
The first spell, blade, claw, axe, ore hammer never falls. Hell, not even a war cry.
A howl splits the air. Not a cry of pain—no, this is something ancient, something primal, a sound that scrapes against the marrow and leaves men hollowed out with terror. It reverberates through the clearing, setting nerves on edge, making even the most hardened among my ranks flinch.
Then, the beast emerges.
A direwolf, massive beyond reason, crashes from the treeline like a living tempest. Its silver fur gleams under the sickly light, shifting between shadow and moonlight as it moves. And it moves like no ordinary creature—its speed is unnatural, its presence suffocating, a storm wrapped in flesh and fury.
Then comes the slaughter.
The wolf rips into my men with ruthless efficiency. Jaws snap. Bones shatter. Flesh peels away like wet parchment beneath its fangs. The night fills with the sound of agony—gurgled screams, the sickening crunch of breaking ribs, the desperate, useless struggle of men who already know they are dead. Blood spatters in thick, chaotic arcs, darkening the soil, soaking the roots of the trees.
And the wolf is not alone.
Perched atop its broad back, seated upon a massive black crate, is a squad of squirrels—small, swift, and armed. But this is no mere crate.
The black box looms in the chaos like a war-scarred bastion, its haphazard construction of scavenged wood and iron plating giving it the grim appearance of a battlefield relic. A single, narrow tower juts from its center, a sentry post standing in eerie silence—until it doesn’t.
A crackling roar splits the air. The tower hums, its crude structure thrumming with barely contained energy. Then, without warning, a bolt of arcane lightning spears through the sky, a jagged lance of raw destruction. It strikes the ground in a searing flash, detonating with the force of a thunderclap.
The earth shudders. The acrid scent of ozone thickens in the air. When the dust clears, three of my men lie motionless, their bodies scorched, their deaths instantaneous.
A fortress. A direwolf. And handfull of armed rodents.
And all of it—every damn piece—aimed at me and my men.
The absurdity would almost be laughable. Almost. If it weren’t so bloody real.
Then the arrows come.
A storm of death, whistling through the air, slipping between armor plates, burying deep in throats and soft flesh. Precision. Ruthless efficiency.
These squirrels are not rodents. No, they are tiny warriors, tiny killers.
Damn that Reggie.
The little bastard called for reinforcements.
I exhale slowly, irritation flickering beneath something colder, something calculative. This was unexpected. A complication.
But then again… I always adjust.