I surrendered the driver’s seat.

  "Alright, glitch-kid," I sighed, stepping back from the glowing obsidian pedestal. "Don't scratch the paint. I just paid a million Soft-Hearts for this thing."

  Pontifex Malachia leaped into the oversized plush chair, her pixels buzzing with excitement. She grabbed the glowing steering-sphere.

  "Pixel-ponies, engage!" Malachia cheered, glitching a pair of oversized aviator goggles onto her head. "Next stop: The White Basilica! Hold onto your health-bars, old people!"

  The Aegis Cloud-Carriage glided smoothly forward. Despite Malachia's aggressive steering, the interior remained perfectly, impossibly stable.

  And thank the System for that, because the center of the carriage had been transformed into a massive, makeshift dining hall.

  The clinical, depressing diet of 'Emotion-Tea' and 'Longing Steam' was officially banned. Moro Milkwright, the burly, incredibly kind-hearted quartermaster of the Moonclaw forces, had commandeered a portable alchemy-stove. Beside him, his cheerful daughter, Melina Milkwright, was practically skipping as she handed out heavy, steaming wooden bowls.

  The smell was absolute heaven. Real, hearty food.

  "Come get it while it's hot, Your Graces!" Melina beamed, handing out platters with a sunshine-bright smile that could melt glaciers. "We have Silkspun Lamb Rolls, fresh out of the pan! And Papa made his famous Velvet Wool Stew!"

  King Brandan sat on a reinforced silk crate, holding a massive Ivory Thread Roast in his bare hands. Grease was running down his beard, and he looked happier than he had in months.

  "Now this is food!" Brandan roared with joy, tearing off a massive bite. He pointed the bone at Gutrum. "By the Gods, Gutrum! I thought if I had to pet one more jelly-ball, I was going to smash the table! Eat up! You look like a starved hound!"

  Duke Gutrum Falken sat beside his King, a rare, genuine smile cracking through his severe Northern features. He took a bowl of the Velvet Wool Stew from Moro with a respectful nod. "Thank you, Moro. It smells like home."

  I found a quiet corner on a velvet bench, leaning back against the plush wall. Melina trotted over, handing me a massive slice of Golden Fleece Pie and a steaming Moonspun Mutton Tart.

  "Eat up, Lord Merchant!" Melina giggled, pressing a napkin into my hand. "You look awfully pale!"

  "You're an angel, Melina," I smiled, taking a massive bite of the pie.

  The pastry was warm, buttery, and packed with rich, savory meat. The moment I swallowed, a wave of profound, physical relief washed over my exhausted body.

  I let out a long, shuddering breath. The freezing cold in my veins vanished. The dizziness faded. My body was completely whole again.

  I looked around the carriage. The warmth wasn't just physical. It was radiating from the people.

  Lady Olenka was sitting between Mary Berg and Gerald Falken.The formidable grandmother had completely dropped her sharp political edge. She was fussing over them like a mother hen.

  "Eat the lamb rolls, Mary," Olenka scolded warmly, pushing a plate into the Ice Queen's hands. "You are fighting Aether-Rot and Anunnaki. You cannot do it on an empty stomach. And you, Gerald! Stop sharpening that knife and use it to cut your meat!"

  Mary looked down at the hot food. A small, vulnerable smile touched her lips. "Thank you, Grandmother," she whispered, taking a bite. Gerald chuckled softly, sliding his whetstone away and pulling up a chair beside them.

  Across the aisle, Freyda Skullwarden was awkwardly trying to eat her stew with her heavily bandaged arm.

  "Here," a quiet voice offered.

  York Bladeblood slid onto the bench beside the giantess. The former hostage, who had been tortured and broken by Konstantin, didn't look afraid anymore. He picked up a spoon and gently, without making a big deal out of it, helped Freyda steady her bowl.

  Freyda looked at him, her stern face softening. "Thank you, York."

  "We broken things have to stick together, Lady Skullwarden," York offered a small, crooked smile, taking a bite of his own tart.

  Even Livia Whitefield had dropped her vanity. The porcelain knight was sitting cross-legged on a silk cushion, her beautiful dress stained with soot and now mutton-grease. She was aggressively tearing into an Ivory Thread Roast, entirely abandoning her table manners.

  "This is terribly unsophisticated," Livia mumbled through a mouthful of meat, her eyes shining with delight. "I love it."

  Baldur Stormsong sat rigidly near the medical hammocks, keeping a silent vigil over the sleeping soldiers and Astrid Falken. Melina bravely marched up to the terrifying Hand of the King and held up a Moonspun Mutton Tart.

  Baldur scowled at it. Then, very slowly, he took the tart. He didn't smile that was physically impossible for Baldur but he took a bite, chewed, and gave Melina a stiff, respectful nod. For the Wall, it was practically a standing ovation.

  But the most beautiful moment was happening just a few feet away from me.

  Vera Ironvine was sitting alone on a silk chest, her knees pulled to her chest. She was watching her chaotic, noisy, mismatched family with wide green eyes. She was so used to being ignored, to being invisible in Dankmar's cold keep, that she didn't know how to join in.

  Melina Milkwright noticed.

  The cheerful baker’s daughter walked over, holding two bowls of hot Velvet Wool Stew. She didn't bow. She didn't use titles. She just plopped down right next to the little Princess.

  "It's a bit loud, isn't it?" Melina laughed, bumping her shoulder gently against Vera's. She handed her a bowl. "Papa put extra carrots in this one. I told him you looked like someone who appreciates a good root vegetable."

  Vera looked at the hot stew. She looked at Melina’s warm, open, utterly uncomplicated smile.

  "I... I am not very good at... talking," Vera whispered, her voice trembling slightly.

  "That's okay!" Melina beamed, taking a loud slurp of her own stew. "King Brandan talks enough for the whole carriage anyway. You don't have to be loud to be here, Vera. You just have to be hungry."

  Vera looked down at her bowl. A tear slipped from her eye, but she quickly wiped it away. She picked up her spoon and took a bite. It was the warmest, most wonderful thing she had ever tasted.

  "It's very good, Melina," Vera whispered, a genuine, beautiful smile breaking across her face. "Thank you."

  I sat there, my HP full, my gold account empty, holding a half-eaten pie.

  I looked at the Bear, the Wolf, the Spider, the Scorpion in the hammock, the glitching Pontifex, and the invisible Princess who was finally being seen.

  We were marching toward a Cathedral of secrets. We were about to face the wrath of the Church and the combined military might of the Ironvines.

  The warmth of the Velvet Wool Stew was still settling in our stomachs when the world suddenly grew unbearably heavy.

  The Aegis Cloud-Carriage, a masterpiece of zero-friction levitation, didn't crash. It simply... sank. The ambient hum of the Anunnaki core sputtered and died. The glowing Starlight Unicorns didn't rear up or neigh in panic; their translucent manes flickered, and they bowed their heads, suddenly overcome by an unnatural, crushing lethargy.

  With a sickening SCREEECH, the undercarriage of the million-heart pavilion dragged against the cashmere road.

  "What happened?!" King Brandan roared, grabbing the edge of his silk crate as the carriage ground to a violent halt.

  I was already out of my seat, my hand flying to Cinderbrand. I checked my HUD.

  I looked through the silk-glass window. Standing in the middle of the pastel, fluffy road of Woolhaven, blocking our path to the White Basilica, were five figures.

  They looked like immovable statues forged from a nightmare.

  They wore heavy, lead-draped cloaks over plate armor that had been entirely sealed with thick, black wax. There was no shine to them. No golden crests. They absorbed the light, radiating a suffocating aura of absolute stillness.

  "The Order of the Rust-Bringers," Baldur Stormsong whispered, his face draining of color. "The Pontificate’s heavy inquisitors."

  The silk doors of our carriage weren't smashed in. They were simply pushed open. The magical hinges, stripped of their frictionless charm, screamed like tortured metal.

  The five knights stepped into the pristine, lavender-scented pavilion. The contrast was brutal. The air instantly turned freezing. The smell of warm stew was completely obliterated by the stench of cold incense, old ash, and oxidized, rotting iron.

  Pontifex Malachia pushed past Gutrum and Brandan. She was glitching furiously, her pixels turning a sharp, angry red.

  "By the authority of the Holy Code!" Malachia shrieked, pointing a tiny finger at the towering intruders. "You are boarding a sovereign transport! I am your Pontifex! You will step outside immediately!"

  The five heavy knights stopped. In perfect, terrifying synchronization, they bowed. The grinding of their armor sounded like gravestones rubbing together.

  The leader stood up. The visor of his helm was completely sealed shut he was entirely blind.

  "Blessings upon the Glitch-Child," the leader spoke.

  His voice didn't come from his mouth. It came from a brass Voice-Throttler bolted to his throat. It was a mechanical, croaking, horrific sound, entirely devoid of human inflection.

  "We acknowledge the Crown," the croaking voice continued. "We acknowledge the Pontifex. But the Edict of Purity supersedes all mortal travel. The presence of Holiness does not excuse the carriage from the search for Demon-Metal. We are the Quarantine."

  "You can't do this!" Malachia yelled, but her voice wavered.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  She looked at me, her pixelated eyes wide with frustration. She was the Pope, but she was trapped in her own bureaucratic web. If she ordered the King's men to attack the Inquisition, she would be declaring a holy war against her own church. The knights knew it. They had her checkmated in the name of piety.

  "Commence the Purge," the leader croaked.

  The knights unhooked heavy iron censers from their belts. They didn't swing them; they just opened the vents. A thick, heavy, slate-grey fog poured out, instantly flooding the floor of the carriage.

  "Don't breathe it!" Gutrum warned, pulling Astrid’s hammock higher.

  But the fog wasn't poison. Through my [Perception] stat, I saw what it really was. It was an electromagnetic reactant. To the blind knights, the fog painted the room in thermal signatures.

  And right now, the fog was swirling violently, pulling like a magnet toward one person.

  Mary Berg.

  The Ice Queen froze as the five massive knights turned their sealed visors toward her.

  "Active Demon-Metal detected," the leader announced.

  They marched toward her. Gerald Falken instantly drew his hunting knife, stepping in front of Mary. Brandan hefted his warhammer.

  "Stand down!" Baldur barked, grabbing his brother's arm. "If you strike a Rust-Bringer, you excommunicate the entire Coalition! We will lose the war before we even reach the vault!"

  The leader ignored the King and the Ranger. He reached past Gerald with a heavy, lead-gauntleted hand and snatched the leather satchel resting at Mary’s feet.

  "No!" Mary cried out, her stoic facade shattering completely. She lunged forward, but Olenka grabbed her shoulders, pulling her back with desperate strength. "Please! That is all I have!"

  The knight tipped the satchel over.

  A pile of glowing, high-tech Aurean gears, micro-chips, and Aether-batteries spilled onto the silk floor. It was Mary’s 'food'. The only thing keeping the Anunnaki Aether-Rot from turning her organs into dust.

  "Heresy," the leader croaked.

  He unhooked a weapon from his hip. It was a blunt, ugly block of rusted iron on a short handle. An Entropy-Hammer.

  He didn't swing it. He didn't smash the gears. He simply lowered the hammer and let it rest gently on top of the glowing Aurean technology.

  What happened next was horrifying.

  In a shocking time-lapse reaction, the brilliant, indestructible Anunnaki metal began to age. The glow died. The silver turned brown. Within three seconds, the entire pile of gears crumbled into a useless mound of red rust and powdery oxide.

  "Rust is Justice," the knight chanted.

  Mary let out a sound that broke my heart a choked, devastated sob. She fell to her knees, staring at the pile of red dust. They hadn't just destroyed metal. They had ripped the food out of a starving woman's mouth. Her lifeline was gone.

  "You bastards," Gerald snarled, his eyes burning with tears as he looked at Mary.

  The knights didn't care. They swept the rest of the carriage. They found two spare Aether-batteries in my inventory and 'purified' them into dust.

  Then, the leader pulled a heavy leaden tablet and a sharp iron stylus from his cloak. He began to carve into the metal with agonizing slowness.

  "For the possession and transport of active Demon-Metal," the croaking voice announced, "this carriage and all its occupants are hereby placed upon the Red List."

  Malachia gasped. "No! You can't!"

  "You are Unclean," the knight continued. "You are barred from all Holy Merchants. You shall receive no sanctuary within the White Basilica. And by the laws of the Pontificate, a fine of purification is levied against the Guildmaster of this transport."

  The knight held up the tablet.

  "The debt is Three Hundred Thousand Anunnaki Gold. Payable immediately to the Holy Treasury."

  My HUD didn't just beep. It screamed. A blinding, blood-red warning flashed across my vision.

  Warning: The Church of the Golden Ram now possesses Legal Repossession Rights to your assets, your Guild, and your life.

  I couldn't breathe. I was completely, utterly bankrupt. The Empire of Coin was suddenly drowning in a sea of holy debt.

  The knights didn't wait for a response. Having delivered their devastating blow of bureaucracy and starvation, they turned in unison. They marched out of the carriage, their heavy boots leaving tracks of red rust on the white silk.

  We watched them walk down the pastel road in silence.

  The moment they crossed the 50-meter threshold, the Aegis Cloud-Carriage jerked. The Anunnaki core flared back to life. The unicorns shook their manes, and the carriage smoothly levitated back into the air. The magic had returned.

  But the damage was absolute.

  Gutrum and Gerald were kneeling beside Mary, who was staring blankly at the red dust of her destroyed medicine, her pale hands trembling. Brandan was gripping his hammer so hard his knuckles were bleeding.

  And I stood frozen, staring at the flashing red numbers of my inescapable debt.

  We weren't just marching toward Dankmar Ironvine anymore. We were marching toward a Cathedral that had just declared war on us, armed with the two most terrifying weapons in the world:

  Time... and Debt.

  I stared at the blinking red numbers on my HUD. -304,000 Gold. I was the Crimson Broker, and I had just been economically executed by a blind man with an iron tablet.

  But before the panic could fully set in, a sound shattered the heavy silence of the Aegis Cloud-Carriage.

  It wasn't a clash of steel. It was the sickening, wet sound of flesh tearing.

  Followed immediately by Dr. Fenris Vulpine shouting, "Get away from her!"

  I spun around, sprinting toward the medical hammocks at the rear of the carriage.

  What I saw made my blood run cold.

  A Moonclaw soldier one of our own wounded men, wrapped in bandages had stepped out of his hammock. But he wasn't human anymore. His skin was actively splitting open, peeling back like a gruesome cocoon. Underneath, thick, iridescent green-and-black scales covered a hulking, hunched muscular frame. His jaw unhinged, elongating into a terrifying, reptilian snout filled with razor-sharp teeth. His eyes were slitted, glowing with a cold, cold-blooded malice.

  Fenris swung his heavy iron cane at the beast’s head. The Reptilian didn't even flinch. It backhanded the doctor with terrifying force, sending Fenris crashing into a cart of glass vials, which shattered into a thousand pieces.

  The creature loomed over the master hammock where Astrid Falken lay comatose, tethered to her blood-transfusion tubes.

  The beast drew a dagger. It wasn't steel. It was a jagged piece of dark, pulsating crystal that seemed to absorb the light around it.

  "The child saw the architecture," the Reptilian hissed, its voice a horrific, clicking rasp that echoed in the silk pavilion. "The Master's grand design cannot be unraveled by a snooping cripple. She must be excised from the ledger."

  It raised the crystal dagger high above Astrid’s heart.

  I was too far. Gutrum was on the other side of the dining hall. Brandan had his back turned, arguing with Baldur.

  But someone was close.

  Bastian Stormsong had been sitting nearby, calmly sipping his jasmine tea. The Velvet Strangler didn't wear armor. He didn't carry a broadsword. He wore a doublet of priceless, powder-blue silk and carried nothing but a sharp tongue.

  But as the dagger descended, the beautiful, manipulative flower of the Stormsong Court didn't hesitate.

  Bastian threw his teacup directly into the beast's slitted eyes. The boiling water made the creature hiss and blind it for a fraction of a second.

  In that exact moment, Bastian lunged. He didn't try to fight the monster. He threw his own body directly over Astrid, acting as a human shield for the comatose Northern girl.

  SHHHK.

  The sickening sound of the crystal dagger sinking into flesh echoed through the carriage.

  It didn't hit Astrid. It drove deep into Bastian’s back, tearing through the priceless silk and burying itself in his ribs.

  Bastian let out a sharp, breathless gasp of absolute agony. But he didn't let go. He wrapped his arms around Astrid’s small frame, pinning her safely to the hammock.

  "Get... away... from my Scorpion," Bastian choked out, blood spilling from his lips.

  With a desperate, vicious twist, Bastian pulled a long, silver stiletto hairpin from his perfectly styled hair. He thrust it backward blindly, driving the silver needle deep into the Reptilian's scaly thigh.

  The beast shrieked a deafening, unnatural sound. It ripped the crystal dagger out of Bastian’s back, preparing to strike again and finish them both.

  "BASTARD!"

  The roar shook the very foundation of the carriage.

  King Brandan hit the creature like a Storm. The Bear didn't even use his hammer; he tackled the eight-foot reptilian with his bare hands, driving it away from the medical bay and smashing it through a heavy wooden dining table.

  Gutrum Falken was right behind him. The Wolf’s broadsword flashed, slicing a deep, bloody arc across the creature's scaled chest.

  "To arms!" Gerald Falken shouted, drawing his hunting knife and vaulting over a bench.

  The Reptilian hissed, black blood spraying from its chest. It realized instantly that it was trapped in a confined space with the heaviest hitters in the Realm. It didn't stay to fight.

  With a powerful kick of its hind legs, the beast launched itself backward. It smashed headfirst through the reinforced silk-glass window of the carriage. The glass shattered outward into the pastel Woolhaven sky.

  The creature tumbled out into the valley, hitting the cashmere grass below and instantly breaking into a terrifyingly fast, quadrupedal sprint toward the thick Yarn-Trees.

  "AFTER IT!" Brandan bellowed, his face purple with rage. "DO NOT LET IT ESCAPE!"

  Brandan, Gutrum, and Gerald didn't hesitate. They leaped out of the shattered window of the moving carriage, hitting the soft grass below and drawing their weapons, sprinting after the assassin into the woods.

  "Bastian!" I screamed, sliding to my knees beside the hammock.

  The Velvet Strangler had collapsed onto the floor. The powder-blue silk of his doublet was completely saturated with dark, terrifyingly thick blood.

  Dr. Fenris scrambled out of the shattered glass, bleeding from a cut on his forehead. He dropped beside us, immediately pressing his hands hard against the gaping wound in Bastian’s side.

  "Hold pressure, Wilhelm! Press down!" Fenris barked, his usual sarcasm entirely replaced by absolute medical focus.

  I slammed my hands over Fenris's, pressing down on Bastian’s ribs. The blood was hot and slippery.

  Bastian coughed, his head lolling back against my knee. His perfectly styled hair was a mess. His face was ashen. But as he looked up at me, his blue eyes were completely lucid.

  He didn't look at his wound. He looked past me, toward the hammock.

  "Astrid...?" Bastian wheezed, his voice trembling.

  "She's safe, Bastian," I choked out, tears stinging my eyes. "The blade didn't touch her. You saved her."

  A faint, incredibly genuine smile touched Bastian’s pale lips. The manipulative, calculating courtier was gone. In his place was just a man who loved his found, dysfunctional family enough to die for them.

  "Good," Bastian whispered, coughing up another speck of blood. "A garden... a garden needs its scorpions, Wilhelm. To keep the pests away."

  "Don't speak," I pleaded, my hands slick with his blood. "Fenris, how bad is it?"

  "It missed the lung by a millimeter," Fenris grunted, his hands glowing with a faint, aetheric healing light. "But the dagger was crystal. There are shards in the wound. And he's losing pressure fast."

  Vasco Vane appeared beside us. The Master of Liabilities looked down at the bleeding Prince. For a man who had just verbally sparred with Bastian, subtly accusing him of treason, Vasco’s face was completely unreadable. But his hands were clenched tightly at his sides.

  "I... I suppose..." Bastian gasped, looking up at Vasco with a weak, challenging smirk, "...this proves... my blood is red, Lord Vane."

  Vasco’s jaw tightened. He knelt down, pulling a clean white handkerchief from his dark coat, and gently wiped the blood from Bastian’s chin.

  "It is very red, Lord Stormsong," Vasco said quietly, his voice lacking any of its usual mockery. "Save your breath. The King needs his most beautiful flower."

  Bastian let out a weak chuckle that turned into a groan of pain. He looked back up at me, his eyes starting to lose focus.

  "Wilhelm," Bastian whispered, grabbing my wrist with a bloodstained, trembling hand.

  "I'm here, Bastian. I'm right here."

  "The assassin," Bastian wheezed, his grip surprisingly strong. "He said... the Master's grand design. They aren't just hiding a ledger, Wilhelm. They are building something. Something terrible."

  His eyes rolled back, his hand going limp in mine.

  "Bastian! Stay with me!" I yelled.

  "He's passed out from the pain," Fenris said grimly, reaching for his medical bag. "I need to operate right now. Get me silk sutures, Wilhelm. And pray to whatever God you believe in that the crystal wasn't poisoned."

  I stood up, my hands covered in the blood of the Velvet Strangler.

  I looked out the shattered window. Brandan, Gutrum, and Gerald were disappearing into the thick, white woods, hunting the monster that had infiltrated our sanctuary.

  The conspiracy was deepening. Vasco was right there were monsters wearing human skin. And one of them was pulling the strings of the entire Realm.

  "I'll get the sutures, Doc," I said, my voice dead and cold.

  I wiped Bastian's blood on my coat. The debt didn't matter anymore. The Church didn't matter. I was going to find out who "The Master" was, and I was going to tear their grand design apart piece by piece.

  Bastian opens one eye the blue one that only moments ago had seemed so contorted with pain, so nakedly sincere. He fixes his gaze on Vasco as the blood seeps into his silk. The faintest tremor of a smile flickers at the corner of his ruined mouth, so slight it is almost a trick of the light.

  “I nearly died for her, Vasco,” Bastian whispers, so softly that only the broker can hear. “I cast my own life into the rift between worlds… Surely the scales have tipped now? Do you trust me at last?”

  Vasco Vane studies him for a long while. He wipes a fleck of blood from his cuff without altering his expression. His eyes are cold cold as the floor of an emptied treasury.

  “A prudent accountant does not trust a ledger merely because the ink is red, Lord Bastian,” Vasco replies quietly. “In truth, I trust you less now than I did before.”

  Bastian draws in a sharp breath, a hiss of injured pride. “And why?”

  “Because the scene was a touch too perfect,” Vasco murmurs, just as Wilhelm returns with the medical supplies. “You happened to have the silver hairpin in your hand at precisely the right moment.A hero moves by instinct. A stage-master moves by design.”

  At that instant, I step to the bedside, and the conversation dies without another word.

  Bastian lets his eyes fall shut and releases a low groan of pain every inch the perfect hero, at least to my sight.