To get to the food, they had to cross the Ventilation Ribs, massive rusted pipes that wheezed recycled air up from the lower districts, smelling faintly of ozone and the deep, damp rot of the Grotesque Quarters miles below.
It was a long, hungry walk to the Gargantua's Gullet the Royal Dining Hall which sat in the center of the spire like a stomach waiting to be filled.
The Dining Hall wasn't a room; it was a throat. A giant, stone throat stretching up into the black lungs of the colossal tower, probably waiting to swallow them whole.
The table in the center looked ridiculous. A slab of dark ironwood, barely visible in the gloom, drowning in the shadows cast by gargoyles mounted twenty meters up on the walls.
Gargoyles that looked a bit too much like real things petrified mid-scream.
And on the table? A feast. Cold, mostly.
Hartmut the gods rot his soul had apparently been planning lunch before his head got acquainted with the floor tiles.
Wilhelm poked a pheasant with the tip of his knife. It still had its feathers on the tail. Fancy. Useless, but fancy. He tore a leg off with a wet shhh-lick sound, sat on the edge of the table not the chair, never the chair, too stiff and chewed.
"Needs salt," Wilhelm announced, talking to the empty air. Or to the shadows. "And maybe less... dead guy ambiance."
Brandan sat at the head of the table. He hadn't wiped the blood off. It was drying on his face, cracking like old mud on a riverbank. The twisted crown sat in front of him, next to a pitcher of wine.
He stared at it like it was a venomous spider he couldn't summon the energy to squash.
He poured wine. Didn't use a cup. Just drank from the pitcher, the red liquid spilling down his beard, mixing with the darker red of Hartmut's insides.
"It's quiet," Brandan rumbled. His voice sounded small in the echo chamber.
Wilhelm swallowed a chunk of meat. He washed it down with a swig from his own bottle rum, scavenged from a dead guard's belt. "Usually how it works when you kill the noisy ones, brother. Silence follows the hammer. It's a package deal."
Brandan didn't laugh. He slammed the pitcher down.
"It didn't fix it," he said. He looked at his hands. Big, scarred hands. Trembling. "I thought... when I hit him. When I felt him break. I thought it would leave. The... weight."
He rubbed his chest, right over his heart.
Wilhelm stopped chewing. He watched Brandan with that strange, shifting gaze half madman, half razor-sharp clarity. He hopped off the table and swayed over to his brother. The walk was loose, knees bending a bit too much, arms counter-balancing a ship that wasn't there.
"The ghost pain?" Wilhelm asked softly.
"She's not here," Brandan whispered. He looked like a child lost in the woods, not a six-foot-six war machine. "I smashed him to paste, Wil. And Lisa is still dead. She's still gone." He looked up, eyes wet. "And now I have this... this thing." He gestured at the crown. "And I have Lydia."
Brandan shivered.
"She's cold, Wil. Lydia... she touches me and it's like ice. Like grabbing a railing in winter. Lisa was..." He closed his eyes. "Warm. Summer. Soft. Lydia is... calculation. Maps and coins and poison."
Wilhelm placed a hand on Brandan's back. "Aye. Lydia is a piece of work. A sharp piece. Don't hug her too tight, you'll cut yourself."
"Take it," Brandan said suddenly. He shoved the crown across the wood. The metal screeched. "Take the damn thing."
Wilhelm blinked. He looked at the crown, then at Brandan. He let out a breathless, wheezy laugh. "Me? Oh, that's rich. That's a good one." He mimed putting it on his head, tilting it jauntily. "Wilhelm the First! King of Leftovers! No, thank you."
"I'm serious," Brandan growled. "You're smarter than me. You see the angles. I just see nails for my hammer. You rule. I can't."
"Brother," Wilhelm said, dropping the act for a second. His voice got low, serious. "Look at me. Look at this face." He pointed to his beautiful, Archangel features. "Pretty, yes. But the name? Storm. Not Stormsong. Just Storm. The moment that gold touches my bastard head, half the Enmagurs in the choirlands will blow me up. The other half will stab me. I can't wear that. Rules of the game, savvy?"
"Then be Vice King," Brandan insisted, desperate now. "Be my Hand. Run the kingdom while I... while I drink until I can't remember her face."
Wilhelm sighed. He picked up a grape, tossed it, missed his mouth. "They won't accept a bastard as Vice King either, Brandan.
They're stuck up like that. You put me on that pedestal, and you just paint a target on my chest."
"Then who?" Brandan roared, his voice cracking. "I can't do it alone!"
"Baldur," Wilhelm said. He poured more wine for Brandan. "The Grey One. Baldur Stormsong. He's legitimate. He's boring. He loves rules almost as much as he loves looking grumpy. Make him Vice. He'll handle the paperwork."
Brandan slumped. Defeated. "Baldur. He... he is stiff."
"Stiff is good for structure," Wilhelm reasoned, leaning back against the gargantuan table leg. "Keeps the roof up."
Brandan stared into the bottom of the pitcher. "And you? You leave me alone with them? With Lydia and Baldur?"
"Me?" Wilhelm grinned. A flash of teeth in the dark. "Oh, I'm not going anywhere. If you're passing out jobs... I'll take Master of Coin."
Brandan snorted. "You? With the treasury?"
"I'm great with coin!" Wilhelm protested, waving the gnawed pheasant leg. "Spending it. Counting it. Stealing it. Making sure it flows... liquid assets, eh? Give me the gold, Brandan. I'll make sure the army gets paid and that we stay in the finest vintage while the world burns down outside."
Brandan looked at him. Really looked at him. And for a second, the crushing darkness of the room lifted just an inch.
"Master of Coin," Brandan muttered. He shook his head, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Gods help us all."
"They usually don't," Wilhelm chirped, grabbing another bottle. "That's why we have rum."
[ SYSTEM LOG: RESOURCE RECOVERY ]
(User: Wilhelm Storm)
Current Status: Malnourished / Post-Combat Drain
--- CALORIC INTAKE (The King's Feast) ---
Consumed:
Cold Pheasant (Whole): 1.200 kcal
Sugared Grapes: 300 kcal
Fine Vintage Wine (Sugar/Alcohol): 600 kcal
Cured Cheese: 800 kcal
TOTAL INPUT: ~2.900 kcal (Massive Surplus)
--- VITALITY CONVERSION ---
Processing fuel into magical potential...
Blood Volume Update:
Start: 3.800 ml ⚠️
End of Meal (projected): ~4.250 ml (Safe Zone Reached)
Body Temperature: Stabilized.
[ ROLE ACCEPTED: Master of Coin ]
New Skill Unlocked: [ Creative Accounting I ]
Effect: Can manipulate ledger values by 5% without triggering suspicion.
Bonus: Treasury Influence.
The silence in the hall was heavy, broken only by the settling of the Black-Iron foundations, a sound like a submarine groaning under pressure.
The main doors, carved from the wood of the extinct Iron-Weep Forests that supposedly screamed when you cut them, shuddered in their frames.
The echo of Wilhelm's "rum" comment hadn't even died in the upper reaches of the dark vault when the main doors groaned.
They didn't just open. They heralded.
Duke Gutrum Falken walked in. The Lord of Falkenberg. He didn't stride like a conqueror; he walked like a man carrying the weight of a falling mountain on his back. He looked… exhausted. And perfect.
That Archangel curse even with grime on his cloak and the lines of stress around his eyes, his face had that warm, unbearable softness. Kind eyes in a hard world.
He stopped ten paces from the table, looking at the mess. The pheasant leg. The spilled wine. The crown.
Wilhelm slid off the table. He stood straighter. Unconsciously fixed his collar. He wanted... well, he wanted the nod. Just the nod that said, You did good, boy.
Gutrum didn't nod. He looked at Brandan, covered in dried gore.
"You killed him," Gutrum said. Not a question. A gravestone inscription.
Brandan didn't look up from his wine. "He screamed, Gutrum. He screamed about his brothers."
"He was a King." Gutrum's voice was low, rolling across the stone floor like thunder. "The Anunnaki laws are clear. Only the law can kill a King. Only a trial under the eyes of the Pontificate."
Wilhelm frowned, chewing on a fingernail. "Trial. Right. Lots of talking. Deliberation. Yawn. We saved them the parchment, didn't we?"
Gutrum turned those soft, sad eyes on Wilhelm. "Wilhelm. Think."
Wilhelm blinked. He tilted his head. Think.
Okay.
Hartmut is dead. Paste.
No trial.
Regicide.
The Church.
The Pontificate.
Wilhelm's stomach did a little flip that had nothing to do with the rum.
"Ah," Wilhelm said. He stopped swaying. "The Holy Knights."
"The Pontifex," Gutrum corrected, stepping closer to the table, ignoring the smell of rot. "They tolerate wars between houses. They do not tolerate mortals usurping the divine right of judgment. You have just declared war on the Bladebloods... and the Church. At the same time."
Brandan slammed his fist on the table. The plates jumped. "Let them come! I'll crush their breastplates like eggshells!"
"There are thousands of them," Wilhelm muttered. his brain was spinning now. The gears grinding sparks. "The Kynoboros Cathedral. It's... it's right down the street. It's full of them. Shiny boys. Big swords. Zealots. They don't drink rum, Gutrum. Never fight a man who doesn't drink; he's got too much focus."
Wilhelm began to pace. A frantic, scurrying walk.
"Okay. Okay. Minor hiccup. Just a... a tactical fumble." He spun around, coat tails flaring. "We close the gates. Kynoboros is a fortress. We lock it down. Nobody in, nobody out."
"And the Holy Knights already inside?" Gutrum asked, crossing his arms. "The Archbishop?"
"Leverage!" Wilhelm snapped his fingers. "We need leverage. The Cathedral... we can't breach it. It's suicide. Magic barriers, consecrated ground, yadda yadda. But..." A grin spread across his face. A wicked, desperate grin. "Bishops have families. Archbishops have... well, 'nieces' and 'nephews', if you catch my drift. And actual children. Heirs."
Brandan looked up, confusion clouding his rage. "Children?"
"We take them," Wilhelm said, talking faster now, hands flying. "Tonight. Now. Before the news spreads. We grab every son and daughter of high ranking clergy in the city. We put them in a nice, comfortable tower. And we tell the Pontifex: 'You want a crusade? fine. But you'll be marching over your own bloodline.'"
He looked at Gutrum, beaming. It was brilliant. Dirty, yes. But brilliant. It solved the problem. "It buys us time, Gutrum! It keeps the knives away from Brandan's neck!"
Silence.
The massive room felt colder.
Gutrum Falken didn't move. He just looked at Wilhelm. And the warmth in his face... it didn't vanish, but it turned into something worse. It turned into disappointment.
"Is that who you are, Wilhelm?" Gutrum asked softly. "A man who trades in children?"
The words hit Wilhelm harder than a warhammer.
His smile faltered. twitched. "I... it's war, Your Grace. It's... survival."
"It is cowardice," Gutrum said. Simple. Brutal. "We are Stormsongs and Falkens. We do not drag innocents into the dark to save our own skins. That is what they do. The Bladebloods. Not us."
Wilhelm felt his chest tighten. He hated it. He hated that look. He'd take a beating over that look any day. He looked down at his boots scuffed, cheap leather next to Gutrum's pristine heavy treads.
"I just..." Wilhelm's voice was small.Just a bastard boy trying to be useful. "I don't want Brandan to die."
Brandan stood up. He loomed over the table, a tower of bloody iron. "Let the priests come," he growled, grabbing his hammer again. "Let them bring their incense and their prayers. I don't need hostages. I don't need shields made of children. I am the Storm! If they want to judge me, let them come and try!"
Brandan looked at Wilhelm, nodding fiercely, thinking Wilhelm had made a clever joke earlier, missing the hurt entirely.
But Wilhelm saw only Gutrum's face.
Wilhelm shrank back. He pulled his coat tighter around himself. "Right. Yes. Stupid idea. Truly. Must be the bad wine. Fumes getting to the noggin." He forced a chuckle, but it sounded brittle, like stepping on dry leaves. "No kids. No hostages. Honorable combat only. Getting stabbed in the face properly, like gentlemen."
He looked at Gutrum, eyes pleading for forgiveness. "I didn't mean it, Your Grace. Just... spitballing."
Gutrum sighed, a long, heavy exhale that seemed to age him ten years. He reached out, placed a hand on Wilhelm's shoulder. Squeezed.
"I know, son," Gutrum murmured. "The shadow of this place... it clouds the mind. But we must be better than the darkness we live in. Remember that."
Wilhelm nodded, looking at the floor, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Better. Aye. Better."
He felt sick. Not because of the plan it was a good plan, dammit but because he'd seen that flash in Gutrum's eyes. That look that reminded Wilhelm he was just a bastard, prone to dirty tricks, while they... they were heroes.
Even if heroes usually ended up dead.