We rode out of the mirror grove, the mood strangely light for a group of people dragging a prisoner of war through a haunted forest.

  Livia Whitefield was walking behind my horse, Coin-Biter. Her hands were bound with [Spider Web]. Her once-pristine white armor was now a collage of mud, ash, and rust spores. She looked like a wedding cake that had been dropped in a sewer.

  I looked back at her, doing mental math on my fingers.

  "Five hundred thousand," I muttered to Brandan. "Easy. Her brother Vireo paints with liquid gold. And Morvin? That creepy kid probably has diamonds in his lunchbox. 500k is the floor price."

  "She smells like a wet dog, Wilhelm," Alexander Shadowgrove drawled, riding beside me. "That depreciates the value. Maybe 300,000. And a coupon for a bath."

  "I do NOT smell like a dog!" Livia shrieked, struggling against the ropes. "I smell like tragedy! I am a martyr for beauty!"

  "You have a mushroom growing on your ear, Livia," Kordula giggled, poking her with a stick. "Is that the new fashion in the Whitefield lands? 'Fungal Chic'?"

  Livia tried to shake the mushroom off, but her hands were tied. She let out a frustrated scream that sounded like a tea kettle dying.

  "Stop it!" Livia yelled. "My hair! It’s losing volume! I can feel the frizz! The humidity is a war crime!"

  Melina Milkwright skipped alongside her, glowing with helpful radiation.

  "Don't worry, Ms. Mirror!" Melina beamed. "I can burn the frizz off! With gamma rays! Do you want a little zap?"

  "Get away from me, you glowing abomination!" Livia recoiled. "If you radiate me, I might mutate! Imagine if I grew a third eye! It would ruin my symmetry!"

  I laughed, taking a bite of an apple. "Gods, you are high maintenance. Remind me to charge extra for the 'Annoyance Fee'."

  We plodded along. Livia kicked a rock.

  "Where is the peasant?" Livia asked suddenly. Her voice wasn't whiny for a second. It was... sharp.

  "Who? Rowan?" I asked. "I sent him home. To make babies, as per my instructions."

  "You idiot," Livia hissed. "Turn back. Send the army to his village."

  I pulled Coin-Biter to a halt. I looked down at her.

  "Excuse me?"

  "The village," Livia insisted, looking around the dark forest nervously. "It’s going to be hit. The Grave-Weavers. They hunt in pairs. We killed the male. The female will go for the softest meat nearby. The Clayborns."

  I stared at her. Then, I burst out laughing.

  "Oh, that is rich!" I slapped my knee. "A diversion! 'Oh, look over there, a monster! Please untie me so I can run away while you save the mud-people!'"

  "It's not a diversion, you greedy Bastard!" Livia stomped her muddy boot. "They are going to die!"

  "Since when do you care?" Brandan asked, frowning. "Ten minutes ago, you wanted to sterilize them because they were 'visually offensive'."

  "I do!" Livia argued. "They are hideous! But they are alive! You can't just let them be eaten! That’s... messy! Blood stains are notoriously hard to get out of limestone!"

  I shook my head. Her logic was like a pretzel made of glass.

  "Let me get this straight," I said, leaning down. "You forbid them from having kids because they are ugly. But you don't want them to get eaten because... blood is messy?"

  "Yes!" Livia nodded furiously. "Finally, you understand! Aesthetic order must be maintained! A massacre is chaotic! It ruins the landscape!"

  "You are insane," Gutrum grunted. "Truly."

  "And you are terrible at economics," I added. "Livia, listen to me. I'm the Master of Coin. Clayborns are assets. They farm. They mine. They pay taxes. If you stop them from breeding, in twenty years, there is no workforce. No workforce means no grain. No grain means no fancy silk capes for you. Savvy?"

  Livia blinked. She looked genuinely confused.

  "But... look at them," Livia whispered. "Their noses are too big. Their chins are weak. Why would you want more of that?"

  "Because 'that' pays for my wine!" I shouted.

  "Then drink water!" Livia shouted back. "Have some standards!"

  "We are not turning the army around," Alexander cut in, looking bored. "It’s a trap. She just wants to lead us into an ambush or slip away in the confusion."

  "I am worth 1.2 Million SP!" Livia screamed. "I don't need to trick you! I am telling you the aesthetic truth! The village is a target!"

  "Quiet, asset," I said, nudging her forward with my boot. "Every time you talk, I swear the ransom drops by a thousand gold."

  "You will regret this!" Livia wailed as we started moving again. "When the landscape is ruined by scattered limbs, don't come crying to me! It is going to look terrible on the map!"

  "We'll take our chances with the decor," I muttered.

  I looked at Brandan. He rolled his eyes.

  I looked at Melina. She was trying to braid Livia’s muddy hair while Livia sobbed about split ends.

  "500,000 Gold," I whispered to myself, soothing my nerves. "Just think of the money, Wilhelm. She's just a very loud, very annoying check that hasn't cleared yet."

  We rode on, ignoring the prisoner's warnings about monsters and aesthetics, convinced that the only thing Livia Whitefield cared about was her own reflection.

  The forest grew colder as evening approached. The violet leaves of the Whispering Weald turned black in the twilight, and the mist curled around our legs like a freezing tide.

  We had stopped for a brief rest. The Shadowgroves and Stormsongs were further up the path, arguing about logistics.

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  But the Falkens had clustered together near an old, moss-covered stump.

  It was a quiet, private tableau. A family portrait painted in grey and sorrow.

  Gerald Falken sat on the stump, staring at his hands. The black thorn-ring on his finger the sign of his engagement to the sadistic Kordula pulsed with a dull, necrotic light. Every time it pulsed, Gerald flinched, a spasm of pain shooting up his arm.

  Lady Olenka hobbled over to him. She didn't use her cane. She used Mary’s shoulder for support.

  "Let me see it, foolish boy," Olenka commanded gently.

  Gerald tried to hide his hand. "It is nothing, Grandmother. Just a ring."

  Olenka reached out with her wrinkled, paper-thin hands and took his strong, calloused one. She ran her thumb over the black thorns.

  "It bites you," Olenka whispered, her sharp eyes softening with tears. "You sold your happiness to buy your King breath."

  "It was a fair trade," Gerald said, his voice thick. "Brandan is the realm. I am just a Ranger."

  "You are my grandson," Olenka snapped, but she pulled his hand to her cheek. "And you are an idiot. A noble, heartbreaking idiot."

  Astrid walked up. She didn't say anything. She just leaned her head against Gerald’s knee. Her holographic glitch-arm flickered blue against his dark trousers.

  "I'll cut it off," Astrid whispered fiercely. "When I get big. I'll cut the ring off. Or I'll cut the finger off. Or I'll cut Kordula's head off."

  Gerald smiled a sad, tired smile. He rested his hand on her head.

  "Keep your blade sharp, little Scorpion. But not for this."

  Gutrum Falken stood behind them. The Wolf. The Shield. He looked at his broken pack. His mother, old and frail. His son, enslaved by marriage. His daughter, maimed.

  And then there was Mary Berg

  Mary was standing ten feet away. Leaning against a tree. Watching them.

  She was still wearing the ridiculous pink armor Malachia had forced on her, but in the gloom, she just looked... isolated.

  She was a Bastard. A 'Berg', not a 'Falken'. She felt she didn't have the right to join the circle.

  Gutrum turned his head. He saw her.

  "Mary," Gutrum rumbled.

  Mary straightened up. "Yes, Lord Father? I'll go scout the perimeter."

  "Stay," Gutrum ordered.

  He walked over to her. He towered over her. He looked at the pink glitter cape, at the 'Free Hugs' sign, at the scars on her face.

  "Why do you stand in the cold, Berg?" Gutrum asked softly.

  "Because I am not a Falken," Mary whispered, looking at her boots. "This is a family moment. I am just... the mistake."

  Gutrum didn't speak. He reached out and grabbed Mary by the back of her neck. Not roughly. Firmly.

  He pulled her in and pressed his forehead against hers.

  The Northern greeting. The transfer of warmth.

  "The name is just ink," Gutrum whispered into her skin. " The blood is just water. The Pack is the choice."

  He turned her around and pushed her gently toward the stump.

  "Go to your brother. Go to your grandmother. You are my daughter, Mary. Even in pink."

  Mary stumbled forward, tears welling in her eyes. Olenka opened her arm, pulling Mary into the huddle.

  "Come here, you glittering tragedy," Olenka chuckled, hugging her tight.

  I watched from the saddle of Coin-Biter, a lump in my throat the size of an apple.

  I was a Storm. A Bastard of the Duke. I had gold, I had levels, I had a swagger.

  But I didn't have that.

  Beside me, Pontifex Malachia hovered. She wasn't glitching for once. She was perfectly still, watching the Falkens hug. Her digital eyes were wide with a longing so deep it almost looked human.

  "They fit together," Malachia whispered. "Like puzzle pieces. No gaps."

  She looked at her own hands. Translucent. Data.

  "I don't have a slot," she murmured. "I'm an external asset. A plugin."

  She drifted backward, away from the warmth.

  "Malachia," I said softly.

  She looked at me.

  "Go on," I nodded toward the group. "Go annoy them. Olenka has candy in her pocket."

  "I... I can't," Malachia glitched sadly. "I'm not real, Wilhelm. I'm just the interface to a mad god."

  Suddenly, Astrid looked up from the huddle. She saw the floating, sad pixel-girl.

  She saw Me, sitting alone on my horse.

  She saw Melina, who was trying to give the radioactive puppy to a soldier.

  Astrid pulled away from Gerald. She walked over to us.

  She looked up at me. She looked at Malachia.

  "Wilhelm. Glitch. Melina," Astrid commanded.

  "What is it, kid?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

  "Dad says the Pack is a choice," Astrid said, her voice serious. "So get over here. Before I stab you."

  I blinked. A slow grin spread across my face.

  "Well," I sniffed. "I suppose I can spare a moment."

  I slid off the horse.

  Malachia floated down.

  Melina bounced over.

  We walked into the circle.

  Gutrum opened his massive arms and gathered us all in the Wolf, the Ranger, the Matriarch, the Bastard, the Coin, the Glitch, and the Danger.

  For a moment, in the middle of the haunted forest, surrounded by enemies and monsters, nobody was cold.

  Malachia leaned her head against Olenka’s knee. She closed her eyes.

  "System Update," Malachia whispered softly to herself. "Family module... installed."

  Gutrum looked at us all, his face stern but his eyes shining.

  "The lone wolf dies," Gutrum murmured the ancient words, pulling us tighter. "But the pack survives."

  And for the first time in my life, standing there between a crying Mary and a glowing Melina... I actually believed we might.

  Ten yards away, tied to a dead tree, Livia Whitefield watched the huddle. She was shivering. The mud had dried on her cheek, cracking her perfect porcelain skin.

  I stepped back from the warmth of Gutrum's huddle, just for a second, to check on our "investment."

  Livia Whitefield was tied to a dead tree a few yards away, the [Spider Web] binding her expensive armor tight. She wasn't trying to escape. She was staring at us.

  Her hair was a catastrophe of mud and frizz. Her porcelain skin was cracked with dirt. But her eyes were laser-focused on the hugging family.

  I expected a sneer. I expected an insult.

  Instead, I heard her whispering to herself like a mad art critic.

  "It is asymmetrical," Livia muttered, her voice trembling. "The color palette is a disaster. The neon pink clashes with the rusted iron. The Wolf is too large for the frame. It is... a mess."

  Beside her, one of the Weeping Cross soldiers stood guard, staring at his boots and sighing every four seconds.

  "Guard," Livia hissed.

  The soldier looked up slowly. "We are not guards. We are merely witnesses to the slow decay of time."

  "Quiet, you depressing furniture," Livia snapped. She nodded her chin toward Gutrum and Mary. "Look at them. It’s chaotic. It lacks poise. It violates every rule of composition."

  The nihilist soldier looked at the glowing circle.

  "It looks... warm," the soldier mumbled, a hint of longing in his dead voice.

  Livia flinched. She bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood.

  She watched Gutrum hold Mary. She watched Astrid lean against Gerald.

  "So much contact," I heard her whisper, a strange, frantic edge to her voice. "It wrinkles the fabric. It transfers oils. It is... inefficient."

  She sounded like she was trying to convince herself. Like she was listing reasons why she didn't want the one thing she couldn't buy.

  She slumped against the dead tree. Her gaze fell to a puddle of mud near her boots. She stared at her own reflection.

  I watched her face crumble. Just for a second.

  She wasn't looking at the mud. She was looking at the perfect, powerful, beautiful Livia Whitefield... and realizing that in that frame, she was completely alone.

  "It is a terrible painting," Livia choked out, turning her face away so the guard wouldn't see the envy burning in her eyes. "But... I hate that I cannot stop looking at it."

  I tightened the knot on her bonds, feeling a sudden, strange pity for the woman worth 1.2 Million SP.

  She was rich in stats. But looking at her shivering against that tree, she looked like the poorest person in the forest.