The wine bottle was lighter now. Dangerously light.

  Brandan stared at the dregs in his glass, swirling the dark red liquid until it formed a little whirlpool. He looked like a bear trying to read tea leaves.

  "So," Brandan rumbled, his voice thick but steady. He looked up, locking eyes with Alexander across the fire. "The Trial. The big dance. Me, the Tiny Pope, and you."

  Alexander didn't look up from his own glass. He was inspecting the refraction of light through the crystal stem. Bored. Effortlessly, infuriatingly bored.

  "A formality," Alexander murmured. "I kill you. I kill the child. The Church cries. I go home and polish my armor. It’s a Tuesday, really."

  "You're confident," Brandan grinned. It wasn't a nice grin. It was the grin of a man who had smashed a king into paste. "But confidence bleeds, Shadowgrove. I’ve seen it."

  "And I’ve seen incompetence," Alexander countered, finally looking up. His violet eyes were cold. "You swing that hammer like a drunk lumberjack. Malachia swings her sword like... well, like a twelve-year-old with a sugar addiction. You need practice, Stormsong. You need to grind."

  Wilhelm choked on his wine. "Grind? Since when do you use gamer terms?"

  "I listen," Alexander shrugged. "You talk in your sleep, Master of Coin. Something about... 'XP' and 'Loot tables'."

  Brandan slammed his empty goblet onto the table. The wood groaned.

  "He's right!" Brandan roared, standing up. He knocked his chair over. He didn't pick it up. "We need blood! We need iron sharpening iron! I can't fight the Violet Eye cold! I need... a warm-up."

  He spread his massive arms.

  "A Tournament!"

  The word hung in the humid, wine-scented air.

  Wilhelm felt his stomach drop. Not the wine. The math.

  "No," Wilhelm said instantly. He put his hands up. "Absolutely not. Veto. Hard veto. Do you know how much a tournament costs? The lists? The heralds? The insurance liability for when someone inevitably gets decapitated by a stray lance? Twenty thousand gold. Minimum."

  He tapped his temple.

  "We have... let me check... thirty-nine thousand. You want to blow half the treasury on a party?"

  "It’s not a party!" Brandan argued, looking offended. "It’s military exercises! With... pageantry!"

  "It’s a money pit!"

  "It’s an investment," Bastian chimed in.

  The Sister was lounging on a chaise, looking like he was posing for a painting. He plucked a grape from a silver bowl.

  "Think, Wilhelm," Bastian purred. "The nobility is bored. They are scared. They are sitting in their manses, hoarding gold. How do we extract that gold without taxing them until they revolt?"

  Bastian popped the grape into his mouth.

  "We sell them glory."

  Wilhelm blinked. He pulled out the Monocle, but he didn't put it on. He just stared at Bastian.

  "Explain."

  "Entry fees," Bastian said simply. "One thousand gold per entrant. Open to all Highborn. Every Duke, every Count, every third son with a sword and an ego will want to prove they aren't afraid of the war."

  Wilhelm’s brain did a backflip.

  One thousand gold.

  There were at least three hundred minor nobles in the Citadel. Plus the mercenaries. Plus the merchant princes who wanted to play knight.

  "Three hundred thousand..." Wilhelm whispered. His mouth watered. "That’s... that’s a lot of liquidity."

  "And the concessions," Bastian added, winking. "We sell the wine. We sell the seats. We sell the 'limited edition' tournament scarves. It’s a gold mine, darling."

  Wilhelm stood up. He swayed. He looked at Brandan.

  "You're a genius," Wilhelm said. "A loud, violent genius. We do it. The Grand Tournament of the... the Shattered Crown? We'll workshop the name."

  "And the prize?" Alexander asked. He sounded amused. "What do they win? Besides a concussion?"

  Brandan grinned. He reached under the table and pulled out a heavy, iron-bound box. He kicked it open.

  Inside, resting on black velvet, was a set of armor. Not steel. Not ironvine.

  It shimmered like oil on water. Dark, shifting, terrifying. And a sword that looked like it was forged from pure starlight.

  "Found it in Hartmut's vault," Brandan said. "Too small for me. Too big for Malachia. But for a normal man? It makes you a god."

  Wilhelm stared at the armor.

  Endurance +100.

  He looked at his own fragile ribs. 8 ENDURANCE limit.

  If he won that... he wouldn't be squishy anymore. He could take a hit. He could survive.

  "I'm in," Wilhelm blurted out.

  Everyone looked at him.

  "You?" Alexander laughed. "You're going to fight in the lists? You'll be a smear on the wall in round one."

  "I have tricks," Wilhelm muttered, hand drifting to his rapier. "And I have motivation. Not dying is a great motivator."

  The door to the solar banged open.

  "We heard," a voice said.

  Gerald Falken stood there. He looked like he’d been dragged through a hedge backward, but in a rugged, heroic way. Mud on his boots, sword at his hip.

  Behind him, Mary the brooding shadow leaned against the doorframe, sharpening her dagger (does she ever stop?).

  And Astrid.

  The one-armed Falken was bouncing on her toes.

  "A tournament," Astrid said. Her eyes were shining. "Real fighting. No wooden swords."

  "We enter," Gerald said, stepping into the room. He looked at the wine, then at Alexander, then at Brandan. "If the King fights, the Falkens fight."

  "Mary too," Mary mumbled from the back. "I need to stab something that isn't a rat."

  "And me!" Astrid shouted. She raised her single fist. "I want in! I'll fight anyone! Even him!" She pointed at Alexander.

  "No," Gutrum’s voice cut through the room like a portcullis slamming shut.

  The Duke walked in from the balcony. His face was stone.

  "Gerald fights. Mary fights. Astrid watches."

  "Father!" Astrid wailed. "That's not fair! I broke the Prince's nose! I'm ready!"

  "You have one arm, girl," Gutrum said. His voice wasn't angry. It was terrified. Deep, fatherly terror. "These aren't squires. These are killers. Tincti Knights. Mercenaries. They will not go easy on you because you are a child. They will aim for your blind side and they will kill you."

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  He stepped close to her. He towered over her.

  "I lost your mother. I will not watch you die for a game."

  Astrid stood her ground. She was shaking, tears of rage in her eyes. "I'm not a game! I'm a warrior! Look at my stats! Ask Wilhelm! I have the heart!"

  "Heart doesn't stop steel," Gutrum said. "No."

  The room was awkward. Heavy. Family drama spilling onto the rug.

  "Oh, let her fight," Alexander drawled.

  Gutrum spun around. His hand went to his axe. "You stay out of this, Alexander."

  Alexander stood up. He walked over to Astrid. He looked down at her the golden Knight and the broken wolf.

  "She has spirit," Alexander said. He looked at Gutrum. "You cage a wolf, Lord Falken, it bites the bars. Let her run."

  He looked at Astrid.

  "I'll sponsor her," Alexander said. "She fights under my banner. If anyone breaks the rules... if anyone tries to butcher her instead of fight her..." He tapped the pommel of his sword. "...I'll step in. Personally."

  Gutrum stared at him. "I don't trust you."

  "Good," Alexander smiled. "Trust gets you killed. But I promise you this: I won't let her die. It would be a waste of potential."

  Astrid looked at her father. Pleading. "Please, Papa. Let me try."

  Gutrum looked at Wilhelm. Wilhelm shrugged, helpless. "She did headbutt Volpert pretty hard, Gutrum. Just saying."

  Gutrum closed his eyes. He aged ten years in a second.

  "Fine," he whispered. "But if you get hurt... if you get so much as a scratch... I burn this tournament to the ground."

  "Deal!" Astrid cheered. She ran over to the table and grabbed a lemon cake from the platter.

  "Right," Bastian clapped his hands. The sound was crisp, cutting through the emotion. "So we have a Tournament. We have participants. We have profit."

  He walked over to the empty chair at the head of the table the one meant for the Master of Laws, but currently empty. He sat down.

  "We need to formalize this. A Small Council meeting. Tomorrow. We set the brackets. We set the fees."

  He smoothed his emerald doublet.

  "And," Bastian added, his voice silky, "I think it is time we settle the titles. I organized the grain. I organized the housing. I want the seat. Master of Diplomacy."

  Crash.

  Baldur threw his wine glass into the fire. It shattered.

  The Grey One stood up. His face was a mask of cold fury.

  "You want a seat?" Baldur hissed. "You want a title? You are a thief, Bastian. You sit in Kaledon, in my chair, drinking my wine, and now you want to be rewarded for it?"

  "I saved the city, Baldur," Bastian said calmly. "What did you do? Besides sulk and burn?"

  "I held the line!" Baldur roared. "I followed the law! You... you twist the law until it looks like you!"

  Brandan groaned. "Brothers. Please. Not now. I'm buzzing."

  "The Council meets tomorrow," Wilhelm interjected quickly, stepping between Baldur and Bastian. "We'll vote. Democracy! Yay! Or... tyranny with extra steps. Whatever works."

  He looked at the group. The King, the Enemy, the Bastard, the Ranger, the Cripple, the Spy.

  "We're going to make so much money," Wilhelm whispered to himself.

  "And," he added, looking at the Void-Walker Armor, "I'm going to get that suit. Even if I have to cheat. Especially if I have to cheat."

  Alexander raised his bottle.

  "To the Tournament," the Beautiful Knight said. "May the best cheater win."

  "ANU!," Wilhelm said. "Pass the bottle."

  -----------------------------------------------------------------------Break---------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Morning didn't break. It shattered.

  It arrived in the form of a sunbeam fake, magical light from the False Sky hitting Wilhelm directly in the eyeball. He groaned, rolling over on the expensive carpet, and immediately regretted the movement. His head felt like someone was using it to practice drumming.

  "Ugh," Wilhelm croaked. "Who authorized the sun? I specifically requested eternal darkness."

  He peeled his face off the floor. The room smelled of stale wine, woodsmoke, and damp boots.

  Astrid was already awake. The one-armed wolf was sitting cross-legged on the rug, using her feet to hold a whetstone while she sharpened her wooden sword with... well, she was just rubbing it aggressively. It was more therapeutic than functional.

  "You snore," Astrid announced. "Like a pig in mud."

  "It’s tactical breathing," Wilhelm wheezed, sitting up. His back popped. The whip marks from Desmus throbbed, a dull, hot reminder of yesterday.

  Gerald the Ranger King, looking unfairly majestic even with bedhead was leaning against the mantle, eating a heel of bread. Mary sat in the shadows, staring at the embers of the fire, looking like she was contemplating the futility of existence.

  "Food," Wilhelm whispered.

  He crawled literally crawled to the table. The remains of the feast were there. Cold roast chicken. Half a wheel of cheese. And wine.

  Wilhelm didn't bother with a glass. He grabbed a chicken leg in one hand and the wine bottle in the other.

  He ate like a starving animal. The grease coated his tongue. The wine washed away the metallic taste of blood loss.

  A rush of warmth flooded his limbs. The shaking stopped. The headache receded to a manageable throb. Wilhelm stood up, wiping grease on his already ruined coat.

  "I live," he declared, spreading his arms. "The Bastard rises."

  "Good," a voice boomed from the doorway. "Because you are late for class."

  The door slammed open.

  Archbishop Desmus stood there.

  He wasn't wearing his battle leathers. He was wearing the high, stiff-collared robes of the Scholarch. But he still had the bayonets. And the glasses that reflected nothing but judgment. He smiled, that terrifying, shark-like grin that Annunaki Gods would have been proud of.

  "Class?" Wilhelm blinked. "Your Grace, I am the Master of Coin. I built a house yesterday. I killed a criminal. I don't do... recess."

  "You are eighteen," Desmus said, checking a pocket watch that ticked loud enough to be a bomb. "The Law of the Anunnaki is absolute. Every noble under twenty cycles must attend the Schola Anunnaki. To be sorted. To be ranked."

  He looked at the Falkens.

  "You too. The Northern curriculum is... lacking. You require civilized instruction."

  "I don't want to go to school," Astrid snapped, grabbing her stick. "I want to fight in the tournament!"

  "The Schola is the tournament, little wolf," Desmus stepped closer, his shadow falling over them. "It is where we separate the wheat from the chaff. The Ranks must be established. Novaru. Zerathi. Veylorn. Kharzun. Amunar."

  He said the ranks like they were holy sacraments.

  "Get dressed," Desmus commanded. "The bell tolls in twenty minutes. And ANU hates tardiness."

  The walk to the Schola Anunnaki was... silent.

  Mostly because Wilhelm was trying to figure out how he went from running an economy to running to class. They walked through the Upper District, past the newly built Angelic Manse, toward the highest spire of the Citadel.

  And then they saw it.

  Wilhelm stopped. He actually stopped swaying.

  "Okay," he whispered. "That... is impressive."

  The Schola wasn't a building. It was a celestial event trapped in stone.

  Huge, floating monoliths of obsidian orbited a central tower that pierced the smog, reaching up toward the real sky that nobody had seen in centuries. Between the floating rocks, bridges made of pure, shimmering starlight connected the classrooms.

  The entrance wasn't a door. It was a mouth. A gargantuan archway carved in the shape of a roaring lion, flanked by statues of the twelve Zodiacs. They moved. The stone statues actually shifted, breathing, watching the students file in.

  The air here buzzed. It tasted of ozone, old parchment, and raw, unfiltered magic. It felt like walking into a thunderstorm that had learned how to read.

  "It’s beautiful," Mary whispered. For the first time, the brooding shadow looked... awestruck.

  "It’s a target rich environment," Gerald muttered, hand on his sword. "Too many vantage points."

  "It’s school," Astrid groaned. "I bet they make us do math."

  They walked through the Lion Gate.

  The Grand Hall was a cavern. The ceiling was missing or rather, it was enchanted to show the Cosmos as it looked before the Fall. Stars. Billions of them. Swirling in patterns that hurt the eyes if you looked too long.

  Hundreds of students were there. The youth of the Moonclaw nobility.

  Wilhelm saw the cliques instantly.

  The Tincti squires, polishing their armor. The mage-born, sparks dancing on their fingers.

  And there, sitting on a floating desk ten feet in the air, was Pontifex Malachia.

  She wasn't wearing school robes. She was wearing her cupcake dress, but she had added a sash that said "GOD" in crayon. She was kicking her legs, looking bored, eating a bag of something that looked like crystallized mana.

  She spotted Wilhelm. She waved frantically.

  "Shiny Pants!" she screamed, her voice echoing through the sacred hall. "Over here! I saved you a seat! It’s next to the gargoyle that vomits water!"

  Wilhelm waved back weakly. "Professional," he muttered. "Very professional."

  But then the air got cold.

  Across the hall, surrounded by a phalanx of large, brutish boys, stood Prince Volpert.

  He looked... perfect. Too perfect. His broken nose was healed (probably Lydia’s potions), his blonde hair was coiffed, and he wore a uniform of black and gold silk. He looked like Prince of Everybody's dreams.

  Volpert saw Astrid.

  His eyes narrowed. He touched his nose instinctively.

  He didn't scream. He didn't cry. He just smiled. A cold, promise-of-death smile. He drew a finger across his throat.

  Astrid grinned back. She mimed headbutting the air.

  "This is going to be a disaster," Wilhelm sighed. "A magical, educational disaster."

  Desmus walked onto the central dais. He didn't use a microphone. He just spoke, and his voice boomed like God himself was taking roll call.

  "SILENCE!"

  The hall froze. Even the floating desks stopped bobbing.

  "Welcome," Desmus intoned, "to the Anvil. Here, you are not Princes. You are not Dukes. You are metal."

  He spread his arms. Behind him, twelve massive banners unfurled from the starry ceiling. The Zodiacs.

  Aries. Taurus. Gemini. Cancer. Leo. Virgo. Libra. Scorpio. Sagittarius. Capricorn. Aquarius. Pisces.

  "You will be sorted," Desmus roared. "Not by your choice. But by your soul. The Stars see you. The Stars know if you are a leader... or a coward. A warrior... or a thinker."

  He pointed a bayonet at the students.

  "And once you are sorted... you will fight."

  The floor of the hall began to shift. The stone tiles retracted, revealing a sand pit below. An arena.

  "To determine your Rank," Desmus smiled, his glasses flashing. "From Novaru, the scum... to Amunar, the chosen. There are no written tests here, children."

  He laughed.

  "In the Schola Anunnaki... you pass by bleeding."

  Wilhelm looked at the sand. He looked at Volpert, who was already drawing a jeweled dagger. He looked at Astrid, gripping her wooden sword.

  He tapped his Monocle.

  "Right," Wilhelm whispered, loosening his rapier in its sheath. "School's in session."