Stepping out onto the ledge meant facing the Razor-Wind, a nasty updraft that carried freezing mist and soot all the way up from the Foundry Pits, coating every inch of the architecture in a layer of slippery, toxic grime.
The gargoyles here weren't decorative; they were Mana-Gutters, designed to vomit excess magical runoff into the abyss, and right now, they looked slippery as hell.
The rum had mostly worn off, leaving behind a sticky headache and a mouth that tasted like a camel's armpit, but the view...
well, the view hadn't improved much. A maze of sharp gothic spires and nightmare architecture jutted out of the gloom, slick with damp and bad intentions. The Moonclaw Citadel wasn't so much built as it was grown out of spite.
"Window escape. Classic," Wilhelm muttered, testing the ledge with his boot. "If I had a penny for every time I exited a building vertically instead of horizontally, I could buy better friends."
He threw a look over his shoulder at Brandan and Guthrum.
The Duke looked like a statue of righteous fury chiseled out of granite, his axe resting easy in hands the size of bear paws. Brandan was a walking storm cloud, still buzzing with the residual high of smearing a king across a floor.
"You two coming, or are you waiting for a written invitation from the pavement?"
Guthrum grunted, stepping onto the narrow ledge with surprising grace for a man wearing half an armory. Brandan just stomped out, the ledge cracking audibly under his weight.
"Quietly, tiny," Wilhelm hissed, gesturing vaguely with his rapier. "We're trying to avoid a tea party with the locals."
They started the descent, leaping from one gargoyle to the next, scrambling down the slick roofs of the outer complex. It was like parkour, if parkour involved heavy armor and the constant threat of becoming street pizza.
Then came the sound. Steel on steel. Screaming. The city below was waking up, and it was grumpy.
"Seems the party started without us," Brandan rumbled, landing heavy on a flat rooftop, dust puffing up.
Wilhelm landed beside him, lighter, almost slipping. "Seems so. And look who brought the favors."
Ten Tincti Knights dropped onto the roof from the upper spires, landing in a circle around them. Their armor bore the jagged crown sigil. Bladebloods. The King's elite, or what was left of them, looking for payback.
"Kill the usurpers!" the leader roared, charging straight for Wilhelm. Of course. Go for the pretty one.
"Really?" Wilhelm sighed, side-stepping a thrust that would have skewered a lesser man. "You're interrupting my brooding."
He ducked, woven through the attack, his mind calculating the odds.
[ SPIRIT POWER: 34.000 (Lvl 15) ]
These knights? 30k each easy. Ten of them? 300k total threat. And he had... peanuts. He had to be smarter. Or faster. Or just drunker.
"Have at you!" Wilhelm shouted, parrying a strike with his rapier, the impact jarring his shoulder. He danced back, almost falling off the edge.
He slapped a hand against the slate tiles.
"Slip!" he yelled. Skill: Sheet Ice (Tier 1).
[ EFFICIENCY CHECK ]
Formula: 100 ml * (100,000 / 34,000)
Factor: 2.94
Cost: -294 ml
Pain spiked in his veins. Nearly 300 milliliters for a bit of frozen water. Being low-level sucked. But the ice spread.
The leader's boot lost traction, he flailed, and Wilhelm was there. A boot to the chest sent the man sliding off the roof, screaming into the abyss.
[ ENEMY ELIMINATED: Tincti Knight (Lvl 12) ]
XP Reward:+2.000 Spirit
One down. Nine to go.
Guthrum and Brandan were handling the heavy lifting. Brandan swung the Starfall Blade it trailed light like a comet, cleaving through shields.
Guthrum was a whirlwind of axe and stone magic.
Wilhelm faced two knights.
"Fireball!" one shouted, hands glowing.
"How original," Wilhelm quipped. He dodged left, the ball of flame singeing his coat tails.
He needed damage. He opened his System Menu mentally. The Skill Point. It was flashing there, forgotten in the rum haze.
"Oh, right. Upgrade!"
He dumped the point into Fireball.
[ SKILL UPGRADED: Fireball (Level 1 -> 2) ]
Effect: +20% Heat Intensity. +5% Explosion Radius.
Note: It burns better.
Wilhelm grinned. "Let's see if the new model has a kick."
He thrust his palm out. He felt the blood rush to fuel the spell.
Skill: Fireball (Tier 1 - Lvl 2)
Cost: 100 ml * 2.94 = ~294 ml
A ball of swirling orange flame, bigger and hotter than before, burst from his hand. It hit the caster in the face. Not just a burn.
An explosion. The man reeled back, blinded, screaming. Wilhelm lunged, rapier finding the gap in the neck armor.
[ ENEMY ELIMINATED. XP Reward: +2.000 Spirit ]
[ LEVEL UP! ]
Wilhelm Storm: Level 15 ➔ 16.
Spirit Power: 34,000 + 4,000 = 38,000.
The rush was intoxicating. But the cost... his chest felt hollow.
[ VITALITY: 3,212 / 5,000 ml ]. Almost two liters gone. He swayed.
He looted the fallen caster quickly while Brandan finished off the last three with a terrifying overhead smash that cracked the roof. A heavy purse. Wilhelm snatched it.
[ LOOT ACQUIRED ]
Currency: 50 Annunaki Silver, 25 Annunaki Bronze.
Item: [ Crimson Vials (Blood Refill) x2 ]
"We're clear!" Guthrum shouted, his axe dripping. "Move, Wilhelm!"
Wilhelm looked at the carnage. He looked at his shaking hands. He grabbed a vial, downed it bitter, metallic taste and felt his blood bar tick up.
"Coming, father dearest!" he called, sheathing his blade with a flourish that almost cost him a finger. "Just collecting taxes!"
They ran, jumping the gap to the next tower, leaving the dead to keep the secrets of the night.
Getting off the roof meant sliding down the Wyrm's Back, a stretch of slate tiles quarried from the Silent Peaks that hissed actually hissed when the rain hit them.
Wilhelm grabbed a gutter made of Void-Glass to steady himself; the stuff was transparent and cold enough to burn skin, supposedly forged by the Technomancers before they got purged for being too useful.
The rain out here wasn't like normal rain. It was heavier. Greasier.
It fell from the darkness above probably miles up, from the Concrete Sky itself and by the time it hit the bridge, it felt like getting slapped with wet gravel.
Wilhelm shivered, pulling his coat collar up. Useless. He was soaked to the bone within seconds.
"Is it necessary?" Wilhelm shouted over the roar of the downpour. He waved a hand at the abyss on either side of the bridge. "The architecture, I mean. Does everything have to be so... vertical? It's bad for the knees!"
Nobody laughed. Brandan was marching like a possessed tractor, and Gutrum was just staring ahead with that grim, northern stoicism.
They were walking across the Weeping Span. A bridge the size of a city block, connecting the Shard Fortress to the habitation ziggurats.
It was just endless black stone, slick with rain, gargoyles vomiting water out of their mouths every ten paces.
Ahead, lights flickered. Not electric buzz-lights, but torches. A circle of men in gray livery.
"Baldur," Brandan grunted.
Baldur Stormsong. The middle brother. The "Grey Perfection" or whatever they called Cemenvale. He stood in the rain like he didn't feel it.
Straight spine. Hands clasped behind his back. He wasn't wearing armor, just a thick wool tunic that looked itchy as hell.
He was looking at a man on his knees.
Wilhelm slowed his walk. He grabbed a gargoyle for support, swaying a bit. "Oh. Are we interrupting a party?"
They got closer. The man on his knees was crying. Ser Holland Voltrun. Wilhelm knew him. Good sword arm, terrible gambler. He looked like a wreck, snot mixing with the rain on his face.
"My Lord, please!" Holland wailed, clutching at Baldur's boots. "The company was starving! We were days from the supply line! You said to bring food. You said 'by any means'!"
Baldur didn't look down. He looked at the horizon, his face hard as a tombstone. No anger. No joy. Just... math.
"I gave an order," Baldur said. His voice cut through the rain. Flat. Metallic. "To provision the troops. You did this."
"I took two carts from the Clayborn village!" Holland sobbed. "Just two! To feed your men!"
"Efficient," Baldur nodded. He finally looked down.
He reached into a pouch at his belt. He pulled out a small iron pin. The Stormsong lightning.
"Stand up, Ser Holland."
Holland blinked, scrambling to his feet, wiping his eyes, hope dawning on his face like a sunrise. "My Lord? You... you understand?"
Baldur stepped forward. He pinned the iron badge to Holland's wet tunic. He smoothed the fabric. It was almost gentle.
"For your loyalty to the regiment," Baldur said, his voice quiet, steady. "For ensuring no soldier went hungry on the march. This is for you."
Holland laughed, a hysterical, bubbling sound. "Thank you! Thank you, Lord Baldur! I knew "
"And now," Baldur interrupted. He didn't blink. He nodded to the massive, hooded man standing by the railing. The one holding the rope. "The punishment."
Holland froze. "What?"
"You looted," Baldur said. "Stealing from the populace is a crime. Punishment for theft is death. The law does not make exceptions for useful men, Holland. If I forgive you because you were helpful, the law is just a suggestion."
"But... the medal!" Holland screamed, backing away.
"For the loyalty," Baldur said simply. "The rope is for the theft."
The hooded man moved fast. A sack over the head. A shove.
Wilhelm flinched. He actually closed his eyes.
Snap.
It was a wet, ugly sound. The body swung over the side of the bridge, jerking once, twice, then hanging still in the pounding rain.
Wilhelm felt sick. He grabbed the gargoyle harder. This family. By the Anunnaki, this family was broken. One brother smashes you with a hammer because of feelings. The other hangs you because of algebra.
Baldur watched the body swing for a second, then turned.
His eyes landed on Wilhelm. Cold. Dismissive. Like he'd found gum on his shoe.
"You look like a drowned rat, Storm," Baldur said. Not Stormsong. Never that.
"It's the humidity," Wilhelm managed, flashing a weak, lopsided grin. "Does wonders for the complexion, really. You should try it, brother. Might loosen up those..." He gestured vaguely at Baldur's stiff posture. "...everything."
"Baldur," Gutrum Falken stepped in, his voice grave.
Baldur nodded to the Duke. Respectful. "Lord Falken. And... King Brandan, I presume?" He looked at Brandan, eyes scanning the blood on the armor. "You look untidy."
"He's dead," Brandan growled, ignoring the jab. "Hartmut. The old wolf is dead."
"We know," Baldur said. "The bell tolling gave it away."
"We need the legions," Brandan said, wiping water from his eyes. "The Church. The Knights of Kynoboros. They'll come for us. For the regicide."
Wilhelm chimed in, stepping forward, hands fluttering in the air like panicked birds. "Exactly! Right! The holy boys in their shiny tin cans. We need to hit them, Baldur. Now. Tonight. While they're polishing their halos. We catch them in the rectory, surprise attack, boom-bam-thank-you-mam. We secure the city gates before they can organize."
Baldur stared at Wilhelm.
"A surprise attack?" Baldur asked. The temperature seemed to drop another ten degrees.
"Tactical initiative!" Wilhelm offered, wiggling his eyebrows.
"Cowardice," Baldur corrected. "We do not slit throats in the dark, bastard. We are House Stormsong. If we fight the Pontifex, we fight him at noon. We send a herald. We state our grievance. We give them time to arm."
Wilhelm's jaw dropped. "Time to... arm? Are you mad? There's thousands of them! They have Enmagurs who can boil your blood just by looking at you!"
"Then we will fight harder," Baldur said. Like it was obvious. "A victory won by deceit is not a victory. It is just murder with better marketing. I will commit my troops, Brandan. But we attack the Cathedral from the front. With honor."
Brandan grunted. He liked the sound of that. "Honor. Yes. I like it. A frontal assault."
Wilhelm groaned, rubbing his temples. "We're going to die. We're all going to die very honorably. Fantastic."
"There is a procedure," Baldur continued, clasping his hands behind his back again. "Since you have initiated a succession conflict. Where is he?"
"Who?" Wilhelm squeaked.
"Hartmut Bladeblood," Baldur said. "The prisoner. If we are to justify this war to the other Duchies, he must be tried. Publicly. For his crimes against House Falken."
The silence stretched.
The rain hammered down.
Wilhelm looked at Brandan. Brandan looked at the stone floor. Gutrum looked at the sky.
"The prisoner?" Baldur repeated. A frown creased his forehead. "You did take him into custody, correct? You did not slay a surrendered King in a fit of emotion, depriving us of the legal standing to rule?"
Wilhelm coughed. He laughed nervously, swaying on his heels. "Well... you see... 'Custody' is such a rigid word, isn't it? Very... textual."
"He resisted," Brandan blurted out. Lying badly. "He... uh... reached for a sword."
Baldur's eyes narrowed. He looked at the dry, caked blood covering Brandan's armor. He looked at the giant hammer. He looked at Wilhelm, who was currently trying to look invisible behind a stream of rainwater.
"He tripped?" Wilhelm offered weakly. "Onto the hammer? Repeatedly?"
Baldur's face remained stone, but his eyes... they darkened.
"We will speak of this later," Baldur said, his voice dangerous. "Prepare the men. We march at dawn. And Wilhelm?"
"Yes, dearest brother?"
"Stay out of my sight. You smell like liquor and bad decisions."
Wilhelm saluted sloppily as Baldur marched past them.
"Aye aye, Captain," Wilhelm whispered to the rain. "Better than smelling like a hangman."