The plaza mud was a mixture of rain and viscera, slicker than the politics of Queen Illyra Ironvine on her best day. Wilhelm dragged the girl toward the center, his boots skidding on uneven stones laid centuries ago by King Kael Bladeblood, the "Sword Throne" himself a man who believed that if your guests weren't terrified of the floor, you weren't ruling hard enough.

  "STOP!"

  Wilhelm didn't just shout. He shrieked. It was a desperate, cracking sound that cut through the battle noise like a banshee with a stubbed toe.

  "NOBODY MOVES! OR THE GIRL BECOMES PAST TENSE!"

  It shouldn't have worked. One man yelling in a war? Useless.

  But the girl.

  Someone saw the silver hair. Someone saw the violet eyes.

  "The Child!" an Angel screamed. "He has the Child!"

  The ripple effect was instant. Swords lowered. Spells fizzled out. Even Brandan stopped mid-swing, his hammer dripping, looking confused.

  Alexander Shadowgrove paused. He stepped back from Baldur, smoothing his pristine tabard. He looked at Wilhelm. He looked at the blade at the girl's throat.

  He raised an eyebrow. Just one.

  "Wilhelm Storm," Alexander called out, his voice carrying effortlessly. "You really are a dirty little thing, aren't you? Hiding behind skirts?"

  "It's called leverage, mate!" Wilhelm yelled back, swaying a bit, pressing the blade closer to Clara's skin. "And I have a lot of it! This is Clara! The Archbishop's... favorite niece! His blood! You want her to leak? Keep moving! I dare you!"

  "I dare you!" Wilhelm screamed, his hand shaking just enough that the razor-sharp edge of the rapier kissed Clara’s skin. A tiny, single bead of red welled up.

  Alexander froze.

  The apple in his hand dropped. It hit the mud with a wet thud.

  For a microsecond, the mask of the bored god shattered. His eyes those violet eyes widened. He stared at the girl. Not at the hostage, but at the face. A ripple of genuine, cold terror washed over him.

  He took a step forward, his hand reaching out involuntarily, fingers trembling.

  "Careful," Alexander whispered. The smoothness was gone. His voice was jagged, stripped raw. "If you scratch her, Storm... I won't just kill you. I will burn your soul until the end of time."

  He blinked, realized he had shown weakness, and the mask slammed back down. But Wilhelm had seen it. The fear.

  Silence. Heavy, wet silence.

  Wilhelm’s heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Please work. Please work.

  "I want terms!" Wilhelm bellowed, gaining confidence. "Brandan Stormsong is King! Legitimized! Pardoned! We walk out of here, or the Cathedral gets a new coat of red paint!"

  Alexander chuckled. It was a dry, awful sound.

  "You threaten the Archbishop with his niece?" Alexander shook his head. "Desmus cares for nothing but the law, little rat. He will mourn her, and then he will burn you."

  "WRONG!"

  The voice didn't come from Alexander. Or Wilhelm.

  It came from the girl.

  Clara laughed. It wasn't a child's laugh anymore. It was sharp. Commanding.

  "Wrong, wrong, wrong!" She shouted, shoving Wilhelm’s sword away with her hand. She didn't cut herself. She just pushed it like it was a toy.

  Wilhelm froze. "Hey! The script! You're ruining the "

  "I lied!" Clara shouted to the crowd, stepping away from Wilhelm. She smoothed her cupcake dress. She stood up straighter. Taller.

  The air in the plaza changed. The Enmagic pressure spiked.

  "I'm not his niece, you idiots," she sneered. Her voice boomed, amplified by magic she shouldn't have. "I mean, technically I am. Biology is boring. But that's not why you're going to kneel."

  She looked at the army of Angels. She looked at Alexander.

  She reached into her dress and pulled out a ring. A heavy, platinum ring with a white gemstone that pulsed like a dying star. She jammed it onto her finger.

  "I am Pontifex Malachia Celestborne," she declared. "The Voice of the Concrete Sky. The Keeper of the Key. And I am bored of this noise."

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  The effect was physical.

  The Angels dropped. They didn't just kneel; they slammed into the mud, faces down, terrified. Even the Tincti. Even the Shadowgrove archers.

  To stand before the Pontifex unbidden was heresy. To fight in her presence was death.

  Alexander Shadowgrove’s smile vanished. For the first time, he looked... annoyed. He bowed. stiffly. Deeply. But his eyes were cold.

  Wilhelm stood there. Alone. Standing.

  He looked at his rapier. He looked at the twelve-year-old girl who was apparently God’s boss.

  "Oh," Wilhelm squeaked. "Oh, that's... that's a twist."

  He slowly, very slowly, slid his sword back into its sheath. He tried to whistle casually, but it came out as a wheeze.

  "Kneel, Shiny Pants," Clara Malachia hissed out of the side of her mouth. "Don't make it weird."

  Wilhelm dropped to one knee. "Kneeling. Yes. Big fan of kneeling. Always have been."

  The silence that followed Malachia's declaration was heavier than a Brickstone wall, hanging in the damp air like a held breath. It didn't last. The Cathedral doors exploded inward with a roar that would have shamed King Thalan Stormsong the "Thunder Voice" sending splinters of holy oak flying like shrapnel into the kneeling crowd.

  "So," Malachia said, clasping her hands behind her back and pacing in front of the frozen armies. She kicked a helmet. Clang. "My friend here, the one who smells like cheap rum, made a demand."

  She pointed a small, muddy finger at Brandan.

  "He wants the big guy to be King. King of the The Eternal Choirlands.Legitimate. No more choppy-choppy."

  She looked around.

  "I say... why not? Hartmut was boring. He smelled like wet dog. Brandan looks fun. He breaks things. I like breaking things."

  She raised her hand. The platinum ring flared.

  "I, Pontifex Malachia, hereby decree "

  "HERESY!"

  The roar came from the Cathedral doors. It wasn't a human voice. It was a landslide. A thunderclap.

  The massive oak doors blew open. Splinters flew everywhere.

  Out stepped a man.

  Archbishop Desmus Celestborne.

  He was seven feet tall. He wore the robes of a high priest, but they were open, revealing a chest covered in scars and tattoos of scripture. In his hands, he held two bayonets. Blessed silver bayonets, each as long as a sword.

  He didn't walk. He stomped. The ground shook.

  He wore round glasses that reflected the fires of the city. He was smiling. A wide, terrifying, shark-like smile.

  "SETH!" Desmus roared, pointing a bayonet at Wilhelm. "You bring a thief into the Holy Presence! You manipulate the Divine Child with your serpentine tongue!"

  "Uncle Desmus!" Malachia shouted, stomping her foot. "Stop it! I'm doing a decree!"

  "Silence, Child!" Desmus didn't look at her. His eyes were locked on Wilhelm. "You are the Vessel of God, Malachia! You are pure! But weeds... weeds have grown around your feet!"

  He crossed his bayonets. A cross of silver death.

  "A King of Murder cannot rule!" Desmus screamed, his voice shaking with fanatic ecstasy. "The law is clear! Regicide is death! If the Pontifex is confused by the whispers of devils, then I must be the earplugs! I must be the cleansing fire!"

  He started to run.

  Toward Wilhelm.

  "Anu!" Desmus howled, throwing pages of the Mispaht ha elohim into the air like confetti as he charged. "Anu! Anu! Anu!"

  Wilhelm scrambled back, crab-walking in the mud.

  "Wait! Wait!" Wilhelm waved his hands frantically. "Let's discuss the theology! I have valid points! Subsection C of the... oh god he's fast!"

  Desmus wasn't human. He was a freight train of holy wrath.

  Malachia stepped in front of him. "Uncle! Stand down!"

  Desmus stopped. Inches from her. He was panting, drool mixing with blood on his chin. He looked at her with adoring, terrifying love.

  "My flower," he whispered, his voice suddenly soft, gentle. "My sweet, innocent flower. Step aside. The gardener has work to do. There is a rat near your shoes."

  He looked over her shoulder at Wilhelm. The crazy eyes snapped back.

  "I WILL PURGE THE UNCLEAN!"

  Wilhelm scrambled behind Brandan. Brandan raised his hammer, but he looked unsure. You don't hit an Archbishop. It's bad luck. And it gets you excommunicated. Or dead.

  "Okay," Wilhelm whispered to Brandan's back. "New plan. We need to talk him down. Or run. Running is good. I like running."

  "He will kill us all," Brandan grunted.

  "Not if we spin it," Wilhelm hissed. He poked his head out.

  "YOUR GRACE!" Wilhelm shouted. "Wait! You call it murder! I call it... non-consensual retirement! Also! Alexander Shadowgrove! He's the one who let the pagans in! He's the one who didn't protect the purity of the... uh... floor tiles!"

  Desmus’s eye twitched. He looked at Alexander.

  Alexander didn't flinch. He just ate an apple he had pulled from nowhere.

  "The Bastard speaks lies, Father," Alexander said smoothly. "But his brother did kill the King. The law demands blood."

  Desmus vibrated. He wanted to kill everyone. He was torn between his love for the Child Pontifex and his absolute, burning need to stab sinners.

  "LORD ANU!"," Desmus screamed at the sky, "DEMANDS A VERDICT!"

  He pointed one bayonet at Brandan. One at Alexander.

  "TRIAL BY COMBAT!" Desmus laughed, a sound like glass breaking in a grinder. "God chooses! God decides! If the Storm survives, he is King! If he dies, he is meat! "ANU!"

  Wilhelm slumped against Brandan's leg.

  "Trial by combat," Wilhelm groaned. "Why is it always trial by combat? Can't we have a trial by competitive accounting?"

  Malachia turned to Wilhelm. She winked.

  "Better start praying, Shiny Pants. Uncle Desmus usually referees these things. And by referee, I mean he throws knives at people who bore him."

  Wilhelm looked at the berserker priest, the bored assassin, and the burnt brother.

  distinguished taste. Or you’re just as mad as I am.

  100,000 words of blood, coin, and spectacular failures already written and ready to be unleashed.

  Here is the plan: From now on, we’re going full speed ahead. Every single day, there will be a new chapter. At least one, sometimes two, depending on how much wine the Pontifex demands and how many people Baldur decides to use as shields.

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