The weather in the County of Highgrape was, quite frankly, insulting.

  It was a perfectly balmy seventy-two degrees. The sun was a brilliant, unblemished gold, casting a warm, idyllic glow over the rolling emerald vineyards. A gentle breeze carried the scent of crushed grapes and roasting Steak.

  It was the perfect day for a picnic.

  THWACK WHOOSH.

  A massive, iron-reinforced boulder arced beautifully across the crystal-clear blue sky.

  CRASH!

  The boulder slammed directly into the western parapet of Castle Highvine. A massive chunk of pristine white marble exploded outward, sending three screaming, heavily armored Sterling guards plummeting seventy feet into the moat below.

  "Ooooh! Ten points to the Union engineers!" Pontifex Malachia cheered, her mouth full of blackberry tart. The Glitch-Pope was sitting cross-legged on the end of the massive wooden feasting table we had dragged out onto a grassy hill overlooking the siege. She clapped her sticky hands, a shower of pink pixels sparking off her hair. "Did you see the hang time on the guy with the halberd? Beautiful trajectory!"

  "The trajectory is mathematically sound," Baldur Stormsong noted dryly, not looking up from his plate of roasted mutton. He carefully cut a perfectly square piece of meat. "At the current rate of bombardment, the structural integrity of the western gatehouse will fail in exactly two weeks. Though historically, a siege of this magnitude could take months."

  "They won't last a month, Baldur," King Brandan roared with a massive, booming laugh. The Bear of Kaledon was in absolute heaven. He had a chalice of stolen Vineburg wine in one hand and a giant turkey leg in the other. "Not with those mercenaries starving inside, and Damian Ironvine trapped like a rat! Drink up, everyone! To the Union’s catapults!"

  I sat at the absolute center of the table. I was propped up by three heavy silk pillows, my torso tightly wrapped in thick, magically treated bandages courtesy of Dr. Fenris. The dull, hollow ache in my abdomen was agonizing, but for the first time in my entire life, my soul felt incredibly light.

  I wasn't the Crimson Broker sitting with clients. I wasn't the Bastard begging for scraps.

  I was Count Wilhelm Stormsong. And I was having a lovely brunch while my friends bombarded my new house.

  "Careful with the wine, Your Grace," Dr. Fenris Vulpine drawled, leaning heavily on his wolf-head cane. The cynical Master of Flesh took a slow, deliberate sip from his own cup, shooting me a sarcastic glare. "Our shiny new Count is currently operating on exactly one kidney. If he drinks that Highgrape vintage, his blood toxicity will kill him before he even gets to measure the drapes in his new castle."

  "Oh, hush, Fenris," Lady Olenka Falken scolded warmly. The elderly matriarch of House Falken sat comfortably in a cushioned chair, her sharp, intelligent eyes twinkling with good-natured amusement. "The boy just bought us a war with his own internal organs. Let him have a sip. Honestly, men are so dramatic about missing parts. It builds character!"

  "It builds a 15% reduction in maximum stamina, Lady Olenka," I deadpanned, though I couldn't stop the genuine smile spreading across my face.

  "Here, Lord Wilhelm!" Melina Milkwright chirped brightly. The relentlessly cheerful Milk Duke’s daughter practically skipped over to my side of the table, holding a massive platter of warm, honey-glazed pastries. Behind her, her father Moro was laughing loudly at one of Brandan's dirty jokes, clapping Gutrum on the back. "I made these extra soft so you don't have to chew too hard! And I saved the biggest one for Lady Freyda!"

  Sitting rigidly on the bench immediately to my right, completely entirely ignoring the food, was Freyda Skullwarden. The giantess was back in her heavy plate armor, acting as my personal, terrifying bodyguard.

  "I am on duty, Melina," Freyda said gruffly, staring straight ahead at the exploding castle. But as Melina held out a perfectly glazed, steaming honey-cake, Freyda’s stern expression faltered. She glanced at the cake, then at me.

  "Eat the cake, Freyda," I smiled gently. "Castle Highvine isn't going to ambush us. It's currently too busy being reduced to gravel."

  Freyda’s scarred face flushed a deep, brilliant red. She awkwardly took the small cake in her massive, gauntleted hand. "Thank you... My Lord," she muttered softly, carefully taking a tiny bite.

  On my left, York Bladeblood stepped forward with a silver pitcher of water. The arrogant, bitter ward was completely gone. In his place was a fiercely loyal, dedicated young man. He poured the water into my cup with careful precision, offering me a respectful, deferential nod. He had seen what I paid for this victory, and he had tied his absolute loyalty to the Stormsong name.

  I reached out with a trembling hand, breaking off a piece of Melina's honey-cake and washing it down with the crisp water. The magical, nutrient-dense pastry hit my empty stomach, and immediately, a translucent blue screen pinged in the corner of my vision.

  I let out a long, shuddering breath as warmth finally started to seep back into my pale hands. The icy, hollow feeling in my veins was receding.

  But as the feeling returned to my body, I noticed the perimeter of our little grassy knoll. A heavy cordon of Moonclaw spearmen stood at attention, guarding our brunch. Their armor was battered and stained from the long, brutal march. They weren't laughing. Dozens of hollow, starving eyes were locked onto King Brandan’s massive turkey leg, and then onto the platter of honey-cakes. They hadn't eaten a proper meal in days. They watched us gorge ourselves in the sun, and as a few of the grunts caught me looking, their gaunt faces tightened into dark, furious glares.

  It was a stark, ugly reminder: we might be celebrating a massive victory, but the grunts were still the ones bleeding and starving for noble politics.

  "A toast," Gutrum Falken suddenly said.

  The table quieted. Even the trebuchets seemed to pause for a moment.

  The Wolf of the North stood up, raising his chalice. He didn't look like the hardened, sorrowful Duke who had marched out of Kynoboros. He looked like a proud father. He looked across the table, his eyes lingering on Mary Berg the Ice Queen, who was sitting quietly next to Gerald, both of them offering me warm, genuine smiles of respect.

  Then, Gutrum looked directly at me.

  "To Wilhelm," Gutrum said, his deep voice carrying over the gentle Vineburg breeze. "A man who proved that honor is not born in the bloodline, but forged in the fire. We marched into the South expecting to find monsters. Instead, we found a brother. To Count Stormsong of Highgrape."

  "To Count Stormsong!" Brandan bellowed happily, raising his cup.

  "To Wilhelm," Mary and Gerald echoed softly, raising their glasses.

  Even Vasco Vane and the beautiful, arrogant Livia Whitefield raised their cups, sharing a knowing, elegantly amused smirk at the sheer, chaotic success of my political ascension.

  I looked around the table. At the glitching Pope. At the cynical doctor. At the blushing giantess. At the Bear, the Wolf, and the Wall. Astrid was still in her coma, but for the first time, I knew with absolute certainty that she would wake up to a family that wasn't broken anymore.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  I raised my water cup, ignoring the shooting pain in my side.

  THWACK CRASH! Another boulder smashed into my future living room, sending a cloud of white marble dust into the air.

  "To family," I said, a deeply cynical, overwhelmingly happy grin on my face. "And to hoping the Sterling guards surrender before they completely destroy my new roof. Those tiles look expensive."

  The table erupted into laughter, the sound of genuine, unbreakable camaraderie drowning out the distant screams of the siege. We had a long, brutal war ahead of us to reach Dankmar.

  But as I sat in the sun, eating warm honey-cakes with my ridiculously dysfunctional family, the ledger was finally balanced.

  I was sitting in a heavy, fur-lined chair at the edge of the Vanguard’s command perimeter, my fractured ribs and missing kidney screaming in unison. I couldn't walk. I could barely sit upright without Fenris’s painkillers making the world tilt.

  But I didn't need to stand to see the board changing.

  The trebuchets had briefly paused their bombardment. The heavy oak gates of Castle Highvine remained stubbornly shut, but a small postern door near the rear moat had opened. A single rider was approaching our camp under the white banner of parley.

  He didn't wear the silver chalice of House Sterling. He wore the Green, polished emerald plate of Vineburg.

  Ser Damian Ironvine.

  He was the absolute picture of a storybook knight. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a Handsome Face and eyes that radiated a rigid, suffocating honor. He dismounted gracefully before the Kings, his armor gleaming in the afternoon sun.

  "I cannot surrender the keep, King Brandan," Damian announced, his voice carrying the deep, solemn cadence of a man marching to the gallows. "Castle Highvine belongs to Lord Sterling. I am merely a guest within its walls. But I come to parley to spare the men inside from a slaughter they do not deserve."

  King Brandan didn't care about Lord Sterling. He didn't care about the siege.

  The Bear of Kaledon took a slow, terrifyingly heavy step forward. His black eyes were completely devoid of mercy. He was staring at the man who had supposedly bedded his wife and placed a false heir on his throne.

  "You have a lot of nerve speaking to me of honor, Damian," Brandan growled, his voice vibrating with the low, atmospheric rumble of a coming storm. He rested the head of his massive warhammer, Thunder-Fall, in the dirt. "How is my wife? How is Lydia? Did she scream my name when you dragged her into your treasonous bed?"

  Damian’s jaw tightened. He didn't flinch, but a deep, profound pain flashed in his eyes.

  "I have loved my sister since we were children, Your Grace," Damian said firmly, his voice echoing over the silent Vanguard. "I love her fiercely. But I have never touched her in the manner you accuse me of. My honor is intact. I am not the father of Prince Volpert."

  "Oh, please!"

  A bright, hysterical giggle shattered the tension.

  Rictus Ironvine skipped out from behind a line of Moonclaw spearmen, twirling his lute. The Chaos-Prince danced right up to his stoic brother, his wide, manic smile stretching from ear to ear.

  "Don't lie to the Bear, Dami!" Rictus teased, playfully poking Damian’s polished breastplate. "It's so dreadfully boring! I saw the way you looked at her! The lingering touches! The longing stares across the dining table! It was nauseatingly romantic! Incest is supposed to be a dirty, dark little secret, but you two played it like a tragic ballad!"

  Damian glared at his younger brother with absolute disgust. "Shut your mouth, Rictus. You are a mad dog barking at shadows. I did not bed our sister."

  "He denies it," Lord Baldur Stormsong stated. The Master of Laws stepped forward, his face a mask of absolute, freezing logic. He pulled a heavy leather-bound tome from under his arm. "But the alchemy of the Realm does not lie, Ser Damian."

  Baldur opened the The Black Ledger, displaying a page marked with the golden seal of the Pontificate and Dankmar Ironvine.

  "When we raided the Vaults beneath the White Basilica of the Golden Ram," Baldur proclaimed, his voice ringing with cold, legal authority, "we uncovered Dankmar’s true design for the false Prince. Volpert possesses a Glass Soul.He suffers from a genetic anomaly that causes extreme constitutional weakness, meaning that any intense emotional shock or terror could lead to a fatal systemic collapse."

  Baldur looked up, his severe eyes locking onto Damian.

  "A Glass Soul is not a random mutation, Ser Damian," Baldur explained flawlessly. "It is an alchemical law. It can only be forged in the womb when the bloodline loops back upon itself. A closed circle. It requires absolute, uncorrupted genetic symmetry. It requires incest."

  Duke Gutrum Falken stepped up beside Baldur, resting his hand on his broadsword. "Lydia Ironvine is the mother," Gutrum stated grimly. "Which means Volpert’s father can only be an Ironvine of the exact same generation. The math is absolute. The traitor is either Dankmar himself... or one of his sons."

  "And Dankmar is sterile," Rictus piped up cheerfully, raising his hand like a student in a classroom. "Has been for years! An unfortunate riding accident. Very tragic for the family jewels!"

  Damian looked at the Kings, realizing the horrific, inescapable trap his father had built for him. "I swear to you, by the light of Anu," Damian pleaded, desperation finally cracking his stoic facade. "I am innocent! I did not father that child!"

  Brandan let out a breath that sounded like grinding stones.

  "I don't care," the King whispered.

  CRACK!

  Brandan swung Thunder-Fall with blinding, terrifying speed. He didn't aim for the head he needed the bastard alive. The massive warhammer slammed directly into Damian’s right knee.

  The sound of shattering bone echoed through the valley. Damian Ironvine, the perfect knight, let out an agonizing, breathless scream and collapsed into the dirt, clutching his ruined leg.

  "Bind him in Aether-cuffs," Brandan spat, his face entirely twisted by betrayal and rage. "Throw him in the Obsidian Keep with Bastian. He will watch me tear Dankmar's capital down, and then I will execute him in front of my traitorous wife."

  Two massive Moonclaw guards immediately hauled the screaming, crippled knight off the ground, dragging him toward the prison carriages.

  I sat in my chair, watching the brutal execution of justice, my Merchant mind spinning. The alchemy was flawless. The Glass Soul required incest. But Damian’s denial... it felt too real. A man like Damian would confess to save his honor. He wouldn't lie on his knees.

  Which left a terrifying variable.

  "Well, that was delightfully brutal!" Rictus laughed, clapping his hands together as he watched his brother being dragged away in agony. "A bit barbaric for my taste, but ten out of ten for dramatic impact! Now, if you'll excuse me, tourists, I think I’ll go find a tavern that isn't currently being pulverized by rocks "

  "Halt."

  Baldur’s voice cracked like a whip.

  The Master of Laws slowly turned, his freezing eyes locking entirely onto the brightly dressed, giggling bard.

  "The biological law remains," Baldur stated, taking a step toward Rictus. "If Dankmar is sterile... and if Damian is telling the truth..."

  Brandan slowly turned his massive head. The King’s grip tightened on his bloody warhammer.

  Rictus froze. The manic smile on his handsome face didn't disappear, but it twitched violently. For the first time since we met him in the ruins of Old-Vine, the Chaos-Prince looked genuinely, profoundly caught off guard.

  He looked at Brandan. He looked at Baldur. Then he looked at me, sitting in my chair.

  "Oh, you have got to be joking," Rictus breathed, a genuine, bewildered laugh escaping his lips. He pointed a finger at his own chest. "Me? You think I bedded Lydia?! The Ice-Bitch of the South?! Are you entirely out of your minds? I’d rather sleep with the Moonclaw beasts! They have better personalities!"

  "You are an Ironvine of the correct generation," Gutrum stated, his gray eyes narrowing. "You fit the equation."

  "I am the scaffolding!" Rictus shrieked, his voice hitting a frantic, hysterical pitch as he backed away. "I'm the punchline! I don't build Glass Souls! I sing songs! This is absurd! This is a farce! It's "

  "Seize him," Brandan ordered coldly.

  Four Moonclaw spearmen lunged forward, tackling the brightly dressed bard into the mud. Rictus thrashed wildly, his lute shattering beneath a soldier's boot.

  "Get your hands off my velvet!" Rictus howled, his manic laughter twisting into genuine, chaotic outrage. "You absolute, mathematical idiots! You're locking up the wrong clown! I didn't touch her! I didn't touch her!"

  They slapped heavy iron irons on his wrists and dragged him away, his hysterical, unhinged laughter echoing all the way back to the prison wagons.

  I leaned back in my chair, wincing as a sharp pain lanced through my missing kidney.

  The board had just shifted violently. We hadn't just captured the enemy commander; we had captured the entire bloodline of Vineburg. But as I watched Rictus being dragged away, a cold, deeply cynical dread settled in my stomach.

  If Damian was too honorable to lie, and Rictus was too unhinged to care... then who the hell actually fathered the false Prince?

  Dankmar Ironvine wasn't just playing a game of politics. He was playing a game of shadows. And we were entirely blind.

  "Count Stormsong," Brandan growled, walking over to me, his hammer dripping with Damian's blood. He looked up at the crumbling white walls of Castle Highvine. "The commander is broken. Tell the Union engineers to load the heavy pitch. I want this castle taken by nightfall."

  "At once, Your Grace," I nodded slowly.

  The siege was over. But the true nightmare of the Ironvine family had just begun.