Stepping out of the velvet-scented shop meant walking back into the Rain of Ash, the gritty fallout from the Foundry District that turned every puddle into black ink. The door chime a delicate thing made of Hollow-Silver tinkled behind him, a cheerful little sound that felt like a mockery against the thunder rolling overhead.

  It wasn't a hero's wound.

  Wilhelm didn't take a spear to the chest while defending a bridge. He was running. Scrambling over wet cobblestones, slipping on the greasy rain, the smell of roast pork sweet, sick, human pork clinging to his hair.

  He heard the shout behind him. A voice he knew. One of the Angels. Ser Hestor, maybe?

  "Turn back, filth! Face the light!"

  "Face the light? My brother might have skin made of granite and a skull full of stubbornness, but I’ve only got [Heat Resistance Level 1], and I am far too pretty to end up as a well done steak for Alexander's Sunday dinner, savvy?"

  Wilhelm didn't turn. He ran harder.

  THWACK.

  It felt like someone had swung a sledgehammer made of ice into his right shoulder blade. The breath left his lungs in a wet whoosh.

  He hit the ground. Face first in a puddle.

  The pain didn't come right away. Just the shock. The cold numbness spreading down his arm. Then... fire. A red-hot spike twisting in the meat of his back.

  "Deserter!" Hestor yelled, somewhere in the gloom. "Let him rot!"

  Wilhelm crawled.

  .He didn't think about winking or swaying. He thought about air. He thought about not dying in the mud like a dog.

  He dragged himself through an alley, boots scraping uselessly, hand clawing at the black brick.

  There.

  A light. A small, dusty yellow light. A shop window filled with junk that looked too expensive to touch.

  Vane’s Curiosities.

  Wilhelm fell against the door. The bell chimed a cheerful, delicate ting-a-ling that had no business existing in a world this loud. He stumbled in, grabbed a curtain for support, and pulled it down with him as he collapsed.

  Carpet. Soft. Expensive.

  He coughed. Blood sprayed out, soaking into the intricate blue patterns.

  "An Anunnaki Silk weave," a voice said. Soft. Mildly irritated. "From the Second Epoch. Do you have any idea how hard blood is to get out of Second Epoch silk?"

  Wilhelm wheezed, trying to lift his head.

  Vasco Vane stood over him. He was a small man. Slender. Pointy beard. Eyes that looked like they were counting coins even when he was asleep. He wore a velvet robe that looked cozy.

  "Help," Wilhelm gurgled. "Arrow... back..."

  Vasco sighed. A long, weary sigh, like a parent watching a toddler drop ice cream.

  "Yes. I can see that."

  Vasco didn't rush. He walked over, stepped fastidiously over the puddle of blood, and grabbed Wilhelm by the collar of his coat.

  He didn't lift him gently. He hauled him. Dragged him across the floor like a sack of spoiled flour. Wilhelm screamed a strangled, wet noise as the bolt jarred against his ribs.

  "Up we go," Vasco muttered.

  With surprising strength, he hoisted Wilhelm onto a heavy oak counting table. He shoved a pile of ancient scrolls onto the floor to make room. Crash.

  "Hold still," Vasco said.

  He turned to a cabinet. The glass clinked. He brought out a tray.

  Silver tools. Thin, hooked probes. A pair of pliers that looked like a crab’s claw. And a bottle of clear spirit.

  "This," Vasco said, pouring the spirit directly onto the wound, "is going to hurt a great deal."

  Wilhelm arched his back, a silent scream trapped in his throat as the alcohol burned through the torn muscle. He bit his tongue. Tasted copper.

  Vasco leaned in. He adjusted a monocle. He looked... clinical. Not a healer. A butcher with a degree.

  "Friendly fire," Vasco noted, his voice calm, almost musical. He tapped the end of the bolt sticking out of Wilhelm’s shoulder. "Fletching is white and gold. Baldur’s colors. An Ironvine shaft."

  He grabbed the bolt with the pliers. He didn't pull yet. He twisted it slightly. Wilhelm whimpered, tears mixing with the rain on his face.

  "You see, Wilhelm," Vasco murmured, watching the blood well up with a strange fascination. "This is the geography of betrayal. An enemy... a Bladeblood? They stand in front of you. They look you in the eye. They stick the sword in your gut."

  Vasco yanked.

  Wilhelm blacked out for a second. The world went gray. Then it snapped back in a wash of agony.

  The bolt clattered onto the table. Wet. Red.

  "But brothers..." Vasco continued, picking up a curved needle and thread. "Allies? Men of Honor? They always aim for the spine. Because they expect you to be watching the front."

  He started to sew. He treated Wilhelm’s skin like thick canvas. Tug. Pull. Knot.

  "Baldur is losing," Vasco said softly, right into Wilhelm’s ear. "I can hear it from here. The cooking. The screaming. Honor is expensive, little Storm. Too expensive for you."

  Wilhelm gasped, his head swimming. "Dead... we're dead..."

  "Not yet." Vasco tied off a knot. He snipped the thread. "But you need a change of strategy. Hammers don't work against sunlight. You need a lever."

  Vasco grabbed a cloth and wiped the blood from his own hands. He leaned close, his face hovering inches above Wilhelm’s sweaty, pale forehead. His breath smelled of mint and rot.

  "Clara," Vasco whispered.

  Wilhelm blinked, trying to focus. "Who?"

  "Clara," Vasco repeated, enunciating clearly. "She lives in the sapphire tower of the Archbishop's residence. They say she is his niece. She isn't. She is his daughter. His sin. His only weakness."

  Vasco smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. It was a hungry one.

  "You tried to take hostages before," Vasco said soothingly. "But you thought too big. You don't need all the children. Just the one that matters."

  "Lydia..." Wilhelm choked out. "Lydia will peel me..."

  "Lydia will kiss your feet if you hand her the Archbishop's leash," Vasco corrected. He poured a glass of water and held it to Wilhelm's lips, but pulled it away just before Wilhelm could drink.

  "You failed tonight, Wilhelm. You ran. You bled. You ruined my carpet."

  Vasco placed a hand on Wilhelm’s bandaged shoulder. He didn't squeeze. He just let the weight rest there. Possessive. Heavy.

  "I have repaired you," Vasco whispered. "I have stitched the traitor’s hole in your back. You are walking because I allow it."

  He finally let Wilhelm drink. Wilhelm choked down the water, shivering uncontrollably.

  "Capture the girl," Vasco said, his voice hard now, stripping away the faux-gentleness. "Bring her to the Undercroft. Surviving is not enough, Wilhelm. I expect a return on my investment."

  Vasco patted the wound once. Just a light tap. A reminder of the pain.

  "Now get off my table. You’re dripping on the ledgers."

  "There," Vasco murmured, snipping the thread with a pair of silver scissors that looked sharp enough to cut a shadow. "You are... structurally sound. Mostly."

  Wilhelm groaned, testing his shoulder. It felt tight. Like his skin was two sizes too small for his body. He slid off the counting table, his boots hitting the floor with a wet squelch.

  "You have the bedside manner of a bricklayer, Vasco," Wilhelm muttered, adjusting his coat to hide the bloodstains. He tried to do that thing that charming little hand flourish he usually did to distract people but his arm just twitched. "And the prices of a highwayman."

  Vasco didn't look up. He was already cleaning his instruments, wiping Wilhelm’s blood off the steel with a silk rag. He looked small in the dim light of the shop. Harmless. Like a librarian who counts dust motes.

  But his shadow... his shadow seemed to stretch too far across the room.

  "Investment requires risk, Wilhelm," Vasco said softly. His voice was like oil sliding over velvet. "I am investing in you. Do not make me regret my portfolio choices."

  He walked around the counter, his movements quiet. Too quiet. He stopped right in front of Wilhelm, looking up with those coin-counting eyes.

  "The girl," Vasco whispered. "Clara. She is the lever. You move the lever, you move the world. Or at least... you move the Archbishop's army away from your brother’s throat."

  Wilhelm swallowed. The taste of the painkiller-spirit was still vile in his mouth.

  "Kidnapping," Wilhelm said, trying to sound cavalier, swaying a bit on his heels. "It’s such a... strong word. I prefer... aggressive adoption? Surprise chaperone service?"

  "Call it what you like," Vasco smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Just don't come back without her. I have no use for broken tools twice in one night."

  He patted Wilhelm’s injured shoulder. Gently. Just enough to remind him of the pain.

  "Go on now. The rain is waiting."

  Wilhelm turned and stumbled out into the night, the little bell above the door ting-a-ling sounding like a funeral toll.

  The Archbishop’s tower rose out of the Garden of Stone Lilies, a pretentiously jagged courtyard where every flower was carved from razor-sharp Obsidian-Glass art that could slit your wrists if you tripped. The moat wasn't water; it was a sluggish river of green Alchemical-Sludge, probably the toxic byproducts of the Church trying to brew a cure for their own hypocrisy.

  The rain was a physical assault, but hunger was worse. It clawed at Wilhelm’s stomach, a hollow ache that made his vision swim. 950 ml. He was running on fumes. A stiff breeze would kill him.

  He stumbled into a narrow alley behind the Sanctum's kitchens. It was a graveyard for the day's failures. Broken crates, spoiled produce, and... bodies. Two Bladeblood squires, slumped against a dumpster, arrows in their chests. They hadn't made it to the retreat.

  "Sorry, lads," Wilhelm muttered, dropping to his knees in the muck. "But the dead don't need lunch."

  He rifled through the first squire's pack. Nothing but spare socks and a love letter. He tried the second. Jackpot. A heavy, wax-sealed box. Military Grade Rations.

  Wilhelm tore it open with his teeth. He didn't taste it. He just shoved the contents into his mouth. Dried salt-beef hard as wood. A block of compressed sugar and fat. A flask of thick, syrupy wine meant for shock victims. He ate like a starving wolf, ignoring the rain, ignoring the dead eyes staring at him. Fuel. It was just fuel.

  Wilhelm wiped the grease from his mouth with a wet sleeve. He felt the warmth flooding back into his limbs. The shaking stopped. The world sharpened. He stood up, kicking the empty ration box aside.

  "Thanks for the meal," he whispered to the corpse. Then he looked up at the towering, slippery wall of the Archbishop's sanctum. "Now... let's go steal a daughter."

  It hammered against the gargoyles of the Archbishop’s sanctum, turning the black stone into a slippery death trap. Wilhelm clung to the side of the building, fifty feet up, hugging a statue of a weeping angel like it was his long-lost mother.

  "Who builds like this?" Wilhelm wheezed, spit and rain mixing on his chin. "Pointy bits everywhere. It’s hostile architecture! It’s anti-human!"

  He reached up, grabbing a stone claw. His stitched shoulder screamed a hot, white line of agony but he pulled.

  .A very bad day. No Relax, no rum, just a wet coat and a hole in his back.

  He swung his leg over a parapet. Below him, the drop into the abyss was a mouth waiting to chew him up. The lights of the city were blurry purple bruises in the fog.

  "Easy, Wilhelm," he whispered to himself, his hands shaking as he gripped the wet stone. "Just a little climb. A little crime. Then we go home. Simple."

  He scrambled up a drainpipe that groaned under his weight. The architecture here was insane gothic arches twisting into sharp, jagged geometries. Kantian nightmares. Logic made of stone, sharp enough to cut you.

  He reached the balcony. The Sapphire Tower.

  The window was huge. Stained glass depicting the Anunnaki descending in fire. Subtle.

  Wilhelm tried the latch. Locked. Obviously.

  "Right," he muttered. He pulled out his rapier. "Subtlety is for people who aren't freezing to death."

  He jammed the blade into the frame and pried. The lock snapped with a loud CRACK.

  He tumbled inside, landing in a heap on a plush carpet that probably cost more than his life. He lay there for a second, dripping, wheezing, smelling of wet dog and desperation.

  "I am..." he gasped, trying to stand up and look dashing, but mostly looking like a drowned rat. "I am... the dread Tiefhe... oh, forget it."

  He looked around.

  It wasn't a dungeon. It was a bedroom. But it was huge. Too huge for a child. Toys were scattered everywhere expensive, clockwork things but they looked... abused. A mechanical bird had been taken apart, gears spilled on the floor. A doll was decapitated.

  And in the center of the room...