"Tony…" Lira began, and for the first time there was a tremor of vulnerability, of confusion, in her voice. "This story… about your family, the war… It's not the whole truth, is it?"
She stopped a step from him, her gaze diving into his, trying to pierce the secret hidden behind eyes too old for his face.
"Who are you? Where do you really come from?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with everything they had just seen. Jem turned slowly, his look moving from their weapons to Tony, and for the first time he did not see a clever kid or a rival for leadership. He saw a stranger, an enigma. The story of a war orphan had always seemed too simple, but in the slums of Fondcombe people rarely asked questions. Now, faced with technology that belonged nowhere and a battle plan fit for a general, the lie had become a yawning chasm between them.
Tony held Lira's gaze, his face impassive. He could not tell them the truth. How could he explain another world, another life, the science, the engineering, Iron Man? They would call him mad, a demon, or worse. He needed a new lie—bigger, sturdier, one that could contain the truth of his abilities.
"You're right," he said at last, his voice even. "That's not the whole truth. I'm not a simple orphan. My father wasn't a merchant. He was a military engineer in service to a magister of Tyrosh. He designed siege engines—scorpions, improved catapults. He taught me everything: mathematics, materials science, strategy."
He paused, letting the information settle. It was plausible. The Free Cities were known for their more advanced technology.
"During the civil war here, his magister backed the wrong faction. They were purged. My family was slaughtered. I was sold into slavery in Myr, as I told you. I escaped and ended up here. That's all. I'm no noble, no sorcerer. I'm just the son of a man who taught me to see the world as a machine of levers and gears."
The lie fit. It explained everything: his education, his mechanical knowledge, his strategic thinking, even the cold rage inside him. It brought them back to a ground they could understand—the vengeance of a son for a murdered family.
Jem exhaled loud, as if a weight had lifted from his shoulders. An engineer. A weapons-maker. It was mad, but it was a madness he could accept. Better, it was a madness he could use. The flame of vengeance lit in his eyes.
"An engineer…" he repeated, a feral grin stretching his lips. "So these… these machines will help us take back what's ours."
Lira, however, remained unconvinced. She felt there were still shadows, missing pieces in the puzzle, but she accepted the new truth. It was sufficient—for now.
"Fine. The engineer," she said, laying her crossbow down gently. "Show us how your machines work."
What followed was intense training—a baptism of steel conducted in the secret of the forge's cellar. Theron, who had no more patience for the Black Hounds and who saw these weapons as the only way forward, became a gruff, demanding instructor. He had once served in the guard of a minor northern lord and retained a sense of military discipline. Besides, he had helped make the weapon and understood it.
"No!" he barked at Jem on the third night. "You hold that like an axe! You're using your arms! You must make it part of you! Feet apart, weight on the front leg, breathe from your belly! The weapon does the work, not your brute strength!"
Jem grunted in frustration. He was used to the raw impact of his strikes, to the power of his own muscles. The finesse required by the crossbow tormented him. The cocking lever, though designed to be smooth, demanded a precise technique he tried to brute-force, making the mechanism grind. His aim was poor; bolts sank everywhere into the sandbags Theron had set up, but not in the center.
Tony stepped in, not to scold posture but to teach mechanics.
"You don't get it, Jem. This isn't a cudgel. It's a system. Every part has a function. When you pull the lever, you must feel the cam engage, the gear turn. Listen to the sound. If it strains, you're at the wrong angle. Don't fight the machine. Guide it."
For days Jem wrestled with his own instincts. He spent hours cycling the lever empty-handed, learning to feel the click of the reset, to understand the rhythm of the mechanism. His revelation came when he stopped thinking about the target and focused solely on the process. His body relaxed; his motions became fluid. He shouldered the weapon, aimed, and worked the lever. Click-click-click. Three bolts punched a tight group near the target's center. A slow, satisfied smile lit his face. He understood.
For Lira it was different. When she picked up the crossbow, Theron saw she was a natural. Her lithe, quiet body—hardened by a life of pickpocketing and slipping through alleys—assumed the perfect stance instinctively. She didn't fight the weapon; she danced with it.
"She has the eye of a hunter," Theron murmured to Tony as he watched her train.
Lira didn't just aim; she pointed. Her instincts, honed by years of theft and evasion, let her anticipate where a target would be. Tony had made moving targets for her—sacks of burlap suspended on ropes Theron swung—and she hit them almost every time, her bolt arriving ahead of the swing. The weapon seemed forged for her. It was more than a tool; it was an extension of her predatory nature. All Tony had to teach her was the discipline of reloading. Change the magazine under pressure. He timed her attempts, pushing her to speed up, to stop watching her hands, to make the motion reflex. In a week she could empty a clip, insert a new one, and be ready to fire in under five seconds. She had become a killing machine, and the cold smile she wore while watching bolts rip through the targets disturbed even Theron.
While his two lieutenants learned handling, Tony focused on strategy. For hours he bent over a large tanned cowhide Theron had given him, sketching a detailed map of Fondcombe. He did not rely only on memory. He used the youngest Moucherons—the invisible kids, Pip and Pock among them—as his intelligence network. Under the pretext of begging or scavenging, they watched, listened, and returned each night with reports.
"Koss met two men by the fish warehouse at the third bell. They gave him a purse."
"Groleau never sleeps in the same place, but he spends two nights a week at the Rusty Crab tavern."
"There's a patrol of four Black Hounds that does rounds near the docks, always at the same hour, just before dawn."
Tony absorbed each scrap of information and plotted it on his map: red circles for known dens, blue lines for patrol routes, black crosses for tax collection points. The Black Hounds' territory was no longer a mystery. He knew their organization, their habits, their weaknesses.
After two weeks of training so intense it left bruises on Jem's shoulders and calluses on Lira's fingers, Tony decided they were ready. He gathered them one last time in the forge's cellar, the map spread on the floor, lit by a single lantern.
"Groleau has more than sixty reliable men," Tony began, his low voice echoing off the stone. "We're three. A frontal assault is suicide. A war of attrition too slow. We'll wage a campaign of surgical terror."
He pointed at two black crosses near the fishmarket. "Here. Our first target. Two collectors—Roric and Bael. Arrogant, stupid, predictable. Every night after their rounds they stop in this alley to count their take before bringing it to Koss. They're isolated and their guard is lax. They won't expect anything."
"We take them by surprise?" Jem asked, fists clenched.
"Better," Tony said. "They'll never see us. There's a tannery roof overlooking that alley; it's empty when they pass. That's our firing position. Lira, you take Roric, the bigger one. Jem, you take Bael. You fire at the same instant, on my signal. Two volleys. No more. The goal isn't to mutilate but to be efficient. A corpse doesn't talk, doesn't seek revenge, and doesn't cost upkeep. That's needless risk in a rotten world. Once they're neutralized, we take the money and vanish."
The plan was chilling in its simplicity.
The next night was their baptism of fire. They prepared in silence in the forge. Theron had given them dark cloaks and supple leather to wrap the metal parts of their crossbows to avoid glare. Tony brought out a pot of soot-and-grease mixture.
"Put this on your faces," he said, smearing the black across his own cheeks.
Jem and Lira followed without questioning his methods. Their features melted into the dark until only the whites of their eyes remained. They were no longer children. They were specters.
They moved through Flea bottom with uncanny stealth. After about twenty minutes they reached the tannery roof, climbed quickly, and lay prone, crossbows trained on the alley below.
The wait was long and taut. Cold wind carried the river and rotting fish scents. Finally, two silhouettes appeared—Roric and Bael—laughing loudly, sharing a flask.
"This is almost too easy," Jem muttered.
"Quiet," Tony hissed.
They let the men settle, lean against the wall, and pull out a heavy purse. It was time.
"Lira, ready," Tony whispered.
"Ready," she breathed, steady.
"Jem."
"Ready."
"On my signal… Fire."
There was no thunderous report, only the dry mechanical thwack of two mechanisms releasing, followed by the almost inaudible whistle of bolts cutting the air. Below, Roric lifted his head, surprise frozen on his face, as a small black projectile buried itself in his chest. He crumpled without a sound. Bael had just time to turn toward his companion before his own volley struck his throat, pinning him to the wall.
Silence fell, absolute. Two men lay dead in the alley. No one had heard a thing.
Tony, Lira, and Jem stayed still for a long moment, hearts pounding. They had done it.
"Let's go," Tony said finally.
They descended by rope, retrieved the purse, and walked back up the street, disappearing into the night as if they had never been there.
Back in the safety of the forge, they emptied the purse onto the table: a shower of copper coins and a few silver stags—the earnings of a night's extortion.
Jem looked at the loot, then at his hands. He had just killed. He should have felt guilt or euphoria. Instead he felt a cold emptiness. Efficiency.
Lira was already cleaning her crossbow with an oiled rag, her face unreadable.
Tony watched them. The first step had been taken. There was no going back. He had turned two street kids into assassins. He had made Theron an armorer of the shadows. He had started his war. And for the first time in months, he felt utterly and terribly himself.