He slipped out of the Great Hall, the cheers of the 'loyal' subjects fading into a dull, thumping headache behind his eyes.

  Navigating the Citadel’s back corridors was a bit like sailing through a reef made of sharp tongues and even sharper daggers; one wrong turn and you're snagged on a political secret you really didn't want to know, savvy?

  He dodged a frantic maid and sidestepped a puddle of something that smelled suspiciously like expensive wine and poor life choices, his mind still stuck on that tiny crease in Lydia Ironvine’s forehead.

  It was the look of a woman who had just realized the bill was due, and Wilhelm Storm was the only one foolish enough to try and audit the apocalypse.

  He followed the scent of aged parchment and heavy iron, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the "Provisional King," until the polished marble gave way to a hallway that felt... heavier. More permanent.

  A hallway that led to the only thing in this world that didn't lie: the ledgers.

  The Office of the Master of Coin wasn't an office. It was a vault with a desk in it.

  Wilhelm pushed the heavy iron door open. It groaned.

  "Hello?" he called out. "Any gold in here? Or just dust?"

  He walked in.

  The room was vast, lined with towering shelves of ledgers. In the center was a desk made of mahogany that looked like it had been stolen from a museum.

  But the real view was on the table.

  A map.

  And a stack of reports that reached Wilhelm’s chin.

  He walked over. He picked up the top parchment.

  Wilhelm dropped the paper.

  "Three weeks," he whispered. "We have three weeks of food."

  He picked up another one.

  "Payment," Wilhelm laughed hysterically. "With what? Buttons?"

  He opened the main ledger. The Royal Treasury.

  It wasn't empty. That would have been manageable.

  It was negative.

  Debt to House Ironvine: 5 Million Annunaki Gold

  Debt to the Iron Bank of Oilmere: 12 Million Annunaki Gold.

  Current Liquid Assets: 45,000 Annunki Gold and a bag of magic beans (unverified).

  Wilhelm slumped into the chair. It was comfortable. Too comfortable.

  He looked at the map. The Firelands were burning red. Helga Bladeblood Hartmut’s daughter had taken the dragons. She had taken the food. And she was sitting on the only trade route that mattered.

  "She’s starving us," Wilhelm realized. The headache spiked. "She’s not attacking the walls. She’s attacking our stomachs."

  He looked at his hands. The hands of a thief. A trickster.

  "Brandan can smash armies," Wilhelm whispered to the empty vault. "Baldur can hold lines. But hunger? You can't hit hunger with a hammer."

  He spun a gold coin on the desk. It wobbled and fell.

  Clink.

  "Well," Wilhelm said, a grim smile touching his lips as he uncorked a hidden bottle of brandy he’d definitely stolen from Desmus’s private stash. "I wanted to be Master of Coin. Guess I better learn how to make gold out of mud."

  He took a swig. It burned.

  "First order of business," he muttered, dipping a quill into ink. "We need to sell something. Or someone. Or... maybe it's time to visit the Flesh Pits. I hear they pay well for... spare parts."

  He looked at the door.

  The war of swords was over.

  The war of coin had just begun.

  "Joy," Wilhelm toasted the air. "Pure joy."

  Wilhelm stared at the "Biomass" number. "Cannibalism," he whispered, tracing the line on the ledger. "It's not cannibalism if you call it 'Recycled Protein', is it?"He laughed. A short, dry sound in the silence of the vault.

  Then he grabbed the quill. He aggressively struck through the line [ Biomass Input ]. Ink splattered across the page.

  "No," he muttered, rubbing his tired eyes. "Not yet. I'm a bastard, not a monster. If we start doing that, Helga has already won."

  He shoved the paper aside and grabbed the blueprints for the fungal farms.

  "Rats," he decided. "We'll feed them rats, boiled leather belts, and that gray fungal muck from the sewers. We'll still call it 'Saint's Manna' so they actually choke it down. But we aren't eating people."

  He downed the rest of the brandy.

  "At least not until Tuesday."

  It wasn't a knock.

  Knocks are dry. Knocks are knuckles on wood. Rap-tap-tap. Civilized.

  This sound? This was wet.

  SLAP.

  Like someone had taken a slab of raw beef and flung it against the heavy oak door of the vault.

  Wilhelm flinched. The movement sent a fresh spike of pain through his shoulder, right where Vasco had sewn him up like a turkey. He was sitting behind the massive mahogany desk, feeling very small and very sober. The brandy bottle was empty. The candle was guttering, casting long, nervous shadows that danced on the walls.

  "Enter?" Wilhelm squeaked. He cleared his throat. Deepened his voice. "Enter! If you have gold! If you have bills, the Master of Coin is currently... dead."

  The door didn't open. It oozed.

  The handle turned with a wet, grinding noise, and Gorm stepped in.

  If you could call him a 'him'.

  Gorm was... pink. Translucent, shiny, boiled-ham pink. He wore an apron made of human skin Wilhelm could see a tattoo of a anchor on the pocket, which was a nice nautical touch and he smelled like a laboratory that hadn't been cleaned in a century. Formaldehyde and rot.

  "Master Stoooorm," Gorm slurred. His tongue was split down the middle. Snake-like. "House Skullwarden sendssss greetings."

  Wilhelm stared at the man’s hands.

  They were huge. Meaty. And he had six fingers on each hand. But no pinkies. No index fingers. Just thumbs. Six thumbs, wiggling like pale worms.

  "Greetings," Wilhelm managed, pressing his back against the chair. "Lovely apron. Vintage?"

  "We require payment," Gorm said, stepping closer. Squelch. Squelch. He touched the desk. He left a slime trail on the mahogany. "The Flesh Pits are hungry. The war... it used much biomass. We need replenishment."

  "Gold," Wilhelm said quickly. "We have IOUs. Very shiny paper."

  "Not gold," Gorm hissed. He leaned over the desk. His eyes were milky white, no pupils. "Meat. We want the dead from the Cathedral. The crispy ones. Good crunch. Or..."

  He looked at Wilhelm. He licked his lips. Both halves of his tongue moved independently.

  "...fresh skin. Archangel skin is... supple. High value."

  Wilhelm’s hand drifted to his rapier.

  Wilhelm swallowed. "I... I think there's been a misunderstanding. I'm mostly bone. Gristle. Terrible texture, really."

  "We will see," Gorm giggled. He reached out. One of those thumb-hands grabbed the edge of the desk. Wood splintered. "Give us the contract for the corpses. Or donate yourself to the cause."

  Wilhelm couldn't breathe. The room felt tiny. The walls were closing in. He was going to die in a basement, eaten by a thumb-man.

  Then the light died.

  Not the candle. The doorway.

  Something massive blocked the exit.

  THOOM.

  The footstep vibrated through the floor. It shook the inkwell. It shook Wilhelm’s teeth.

  THOOM.

  Gorm spun around, his apron flapping. "Cousin?" he hissed, sounding relieved. "You are late! Help me holding him down! He is slippery!"

  The figure stepped into the flickering light.

  She had to duck. Literally duck. The doorframe was seven feet high, and she scraped her head.

  Ser Freyda Skullwarden.

  She was a tower of dull, scratched plate armor. Dark iron, unpolished, smelling of ozone and old blood. No helmet. Just a head of brutally buzzed blonde hair and a face that looked like it had been carved out of granite by an angry god.

  A scar ran from her temple to her jaw, twisting her lip into a permanent, frozen snarl.

  She didn't look at Wilhelm. She looked at Gorm.

  And the look wasn't familial love. It was pure, unadulterated disgust. Like she had stepped in dog shit.

  "Cousin Freyda!" Gorm smiled, spreading his thumb-hands. "We share the loot! The skin is "

  Freyda moved.

  She didn't charge. She just... arrived. One second she was at the door, the next she was looming over Gorm.

  Her hand gauntleted in black steel shot out.

  She grabbed Gorm by the face. Her palm covered his entire head.

  She lifted.

  Effortlessly. No grunt. No strain. Just hydraulics. She lifted a three-hundred-pound flesh monster into the air like he was an empty coat. Gorm’s legs kicked helplessly, his thumbs flailing.

  "Put me down!" Gorm squealed, muffled by the steel glove crushing his skull. "Family! Blood! The Body is a Toy! That is our motto!"

  Freyda stared at him. Her eyes were grey. Dead grey.

  "The Body is a Temple," she rasped. Her voice sounded like tectonic plates grinding together. Deep. Resonant. Terrifying. "And you are polluting mine."

  She turned. She wound up.

  And she threw him.

  She didn't toss him. She launched him.

  Gorm flew across the room. He hit the heavy iron door with a wet CRUNCH that sounded like a melon being dropped from orbit. He slid down the metal, leaving a pink smear, groaned once, scrambled to his feet, and bolted into the dark corridor, whimpering.

  Silence.

  Heavy, thick silence.

  Freyda stood there, her chest heaving slightly. She wiped her gauntlet on her leg, as if touching her cousin had made her dirty.

  Then she turned to the desk.

  Wilhelm was pressed so far back in his chair he was almost part of the upholstery. He looked up. And up. And up. His neck actually cracked.

  She was colossal.

  She didn't salute. She didn't bow. She just stared at him with that permanent snarl.

  "Baldur sent me," she stated. No emotion. Just facts. "He says you are prone to dying. I am to prevent that."

  Wilhelm blinked. He tried to summon the Jack Sparrow charm. He tried to do the hand thing.

  "Well," Wilhelm squeaked, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. "That was... impressive. Solid 8 out of 10 on the dismount. Though the landing was a bit messy. I usually prefer a more "

  "Sit down, little man," Freyda interrupted.

  She didn't shout. She just said it. And Wilhelm’s butt hit the chair before his brain gave the order.

  "I am not here for conversation," she rumbled, walking closer. Every step was an earthquake. "I hate conversation. I am here because I owe the Grey One a debt. You are the receipt."

  She leaned down. Her face was inches from his. He could see the pores in her skin, the white line of the scar, the sheer, overwhelming mass of her.

  "Do not make me talk," she whispered. "And do not get killed. I hate paperwork."

  Wilhelm stared at her.

  His heart was doing a very confused tap-dance against his ribs. It was 90% terror. But there was a solid 10%... something else. Something primal and very, very stupid.

  Wilhelm swallowed hard. He looked at the empty brandy bottle. Then at the seven-foot-two woman who could crush his skull like a grape.

  "Understood," Wilhelm whispered, a nervous, crooked smile twitching on his lips. "No talking. Minimal dying. I can do that."

  He watched her turn and take a position by the door, standing like a statue of war.

  "Gods," Wilhelm muttered to himself, sinking lower in his chair."I think I'm in love. Which is unfortunate, because she would definitely break me in half."

  He reached for the bottle again. Still empty.

  Followbutton. Every Rating and Review you leave is like a fresh coin in the vault and believe me, I need the liquid assets if I’m going to survive the next Tuesday.

  Question for the gallery: Was I a genius for considering 'Recycled Protein,' or am I just one bad day away from a very short rope? Drop your thoughts in the Comments below. I read them all... mostly to see who's plotting to steal my brandy.

  Wilhelm Master of Coin & Professional Mutt