Marching thousands of men through Woolhaven was a surreal, deeply unsettling experience. There was no thunder of boots on dirt, no sharp clatter of hooves on cobblestone. The ground was made of dense, tightly woven cashmere and heavy fleece. The entire Grand Army moved with a soft, suffocating thwump, thwump, thwump, completely swallowing the sound of our own advance.

  I rode Coin Biter near the rear of the vanguard. The scarred gelding hated the soft ground, tossing his head and chewing angrily on his iron bit.

  The Kings and the Dukes were riding far ahead, keeping their distance from the Bastard who had drawn steel on their hero. I was isolated.

  Until the air in front of me crackled with sharp, blue static.

  BZZZT.

  Pontifex Malachia materialized out of thin air, dropping directly onto the saddle right in front of me. She didn't look like a divine entity; she looked like a bored, rebellious kid. She kicked her small boots against Coin Biter’s shoulder and leaned back against my chest.

  "Move over, zero-balance," Malachia sighed, popping a glitching, neon-pink candy into her mouth. "My obsidian chair smells like dead guys and geometry. I needed a break from the weeping choir."

  "Holy Motherboard!"

  Marching beside my horse, Freyda Skullwarden nearly tripped over her own massive, armored boots. The giantess scrambled forward, her face draining of color as she looked at the little girl sitting casually on my muddy gelding.

  "Your Holiness!" Freyda gasped, immediately dropping to one knee in the deep wool. "You cannot ride upon a common beast! The... the ambient filth! The lack of sixty-degree stability! Allow me to carry you, or summon your palanquin "

  "Oh, stand up, Freyda, you're making my pixels itch," Malachia groaned, rolling her eyes. "If I have to look at one more priest carving a bone, I'm going to initiate a server wipe. I'm riding with the Merchant today. At least he smells like desperation and bad decisions instead of incense."

  I chuckled, wrapping one arm loosely around Malachia to keep her from slipping off the saddle. "Don't mind her, Freyda. The Pope is just cranky because she hasn't smitten anyone since breakfast."

  Freyda stood up, looking utterly horrified. She marched rigidly beside the horse, her hand resting nervously on her broadsword. She kept casting terrified glances at Malachia, waiting for the little girl to turn me into a pillar of salt for my blasphemy.

  "He is highly abrasive, Your Holiness," Freyda offered stiffly, trying to defend the Church's honor. "I can silence him if you wish."

  "Nah, leave him," Malachia giggled, a tiny spark of static jumping from her hair to my leather glove. "He's broke. It’s funny. Tell her how broke you are, glitch-boy."

  "I am currently three hundred and four thousand gold in debt to her exact organization," I told Freyda deadpan. "I am essentially riding a horse I can no longer afford, toward a war I am financing with imaginary money."

  Freyda’s brow furrowed in deep, literal confusion. "But... if you have no gold, how do you pay the Moonclaw beasts?"

  "With sheer, unadulterated audacity, my dear Freyda," I smiled, looking down at her. "And a very sharp sword. Besides, I have the supreme ruler of the Realm sitting on my horse. Technically, that makes Coin Biter a holy relic. We could sell his horseshoes to a pilgrim for a fortune."

  Freyda let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-snort. She immediately clamped a hand over her mouth, her scarred face flushing a deep crimson. The stoic, terrifying warrior of House Skullwarden was trying desperately not to laugh.

  "Did you just laugh, Lady Skullwarden?" I teased, leaning forward.

  "I did no such thing," Freyda said quickly, staring straight ahead at the wool road, though her shoulders were shaking slightly. "It was... a cough. The fleece irritates my lungs."

  "Liar," Malachia beamed, pointing a tiny finger at Freyda. "I saw your face move! You like him. It’s okay, Freyda. He’s an idiot, but he’s our idiot."

  Freyda’s blush deepened until it reached the tips of her ears. But as she looked up at me, and then at the glitching child sitting in my lap, the severe, defensive wall around the giantess began to lower.

  For her entire life, Freyda had been treated as a monster. A freakish, giantess fit only for guard duty and killing. And for Malachia's entire life, she had been treated as a terrifying, untouchable god.

  But right here, on the back of a cranky horse, they were just a woman and a little girl.

  "You know," I said softly, the sarcastic Merchant persona melting away into something genuine. "The Kings up there... they look at the three of us and see a broken sword, a broken code, and a broken bloodline. They think they are the heroes of this story."

  I looked at Malachia, who had stopped chewing her candy, her pixelated eyes looking up at me. Then I looked down at Freyda, who was matching Coin Bitter’s pace with long, steady strides.

  "But when the fire actually starts," I continued, my voice steady and fiercely protective. "When Dankmar Ironvine unleashes hell... I'd rather be riding with the freak squad. You two are the most valuable assets in this entire army. And I don't mean that financially."

  Freyda looked down at her heavy, armored hands. A profound, quiet warmth settled over her scarred features. She didn't say anything, but she subtly adjusted her march, stepping just an inch closer to the side of my horse, placing her massive frame directly between us and the rest of the world. A silent, unbreakable vow of protection.

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  Malachia smiled a real, human smile that didn't glitch at all. She leaned her head back against my chest and kicked her feet happily against the horse.

  "Alright, Merchant," the little Pope declared. "We're officially a party. The Bankrupt, the Glitch, and the Gargoyle. Let's go steal a Duchy."

  "Lead the way, Your Holiness," I smiled, snapping the reins.

  The Kings could have their honor and their silence. I had a giant and a god, and we were marching to Vineburg to break the board.

  The suffocating, muffled silence of Woolhaven finally came to an end. The ground beneath our boots shifted from woven cashmere to hard, packed earth.

  And then, we saw the edge of the world.

  Rising hundreds of feet into the bruised sky was the Great Wall of Vineburg. It was an architectural marvel of pale, sun-bleached stone, stretching as far as the eye could see. Beyond the massive iron portcullis, the true Duchy of Vineburg unfolded not a wasteland of fire, but an achingly beautiful paradise. Rolling hills of emerald vineyards, sparkling violet rivers, and the distant, shimmering expanse of the Azure Sea. It was a land of absolute, hoarded abundance.

  But between us and that paradise stood the Vineburg Garrison.

  Ten thousand heavily armored soldiers manned the battlements. Trebuchets were locked and loaded. Cadrons of boiling oil smoked above the murder holes.

  "They are dug in," Gutrum Falken stated, his tactical mind assessing the slaughter to come. "If we send the Moonclaw infantry against that wall, the beasts will tear the gates down eventually, but we will lose a quarter of our vanguard to the crossbow fire."

  "Then we bleed," King Brandan growled, hoisting Thunder-Fall. "Sound the horns. Let the beasts loose."

  "Hold the horns, Your Grace," I said, steering Coin Biter to the front of the line.

  Brandan glared at me, his eyes burning with lingering fury over Bastian. "You have no command here, Broker. This is a siege."

  "It's only a siege if you fight them, Brandan," I replied, adjusting the collar of my Shadow-Weave Coat. "Look at them. They are border guards. They aren't zealots. They are men with salaries. Let me buy the door."

  Before the King could stop me, I kicked my horse forward. I rode out into the open expanse of No Man's Land, completely alone, stopping just out of range of a standard crossbow shot.

  "COMMANDER OF THE GATE!" I roared, my voice echoing off the towering stone.

  A figure in polished, ornate plate armor stepped up to the battlements, looking down at me. "State your business, Bastard of the Storm! You stand before the sovereign borders of Duke Dankmar Ironvine! Turn your beasts around, or we will bury you in the dirt!"

  I didn't draw Cinderbrand. I reached into my coat and pulled out a small, leather-bound ledger. I opened it, pretending to read the pages.

  "I am Wilhelm Storm, the Crimson Broker, Master of Coin for the Crown!" I shouted back. "And I am here to discuss your Severance Package!"

  A murmur rippled along the wall. The Commander gripped the stone parapet, confused. "What madness is this?"

  "It’s mathematics, Commander!" I yelled, projecting my voice so every archer and spearman on the wall could hear me. "I am looking at the payroll ledgers of the Vineburg Garrison! An enlisted spearman makes, what? Three silver coins a day? A crossbowman makes five? A meager wage to stand in the sun and guard the Duke's wine!"

  I pointed back over my shoulder at the terrifying, thousands of strong Moonclaw army. The massive, mutated beasts were drooling, their armor clanking like a nightmare waiting to be unleashed.

  "Look at what you are facing!" I continued, my voice dripping with cold, hard reality. "Those beasts do not care about your stone wall! They will tear it down with their bare claws! And when they do, your three silver coins a day will not pay for the surgeons to sew your limbs back on! Your Duke is sitting comfortably in his high keep, drinking wine, while he expects you to act as human meat-shields against an apocalypse!"

  "We are loyal to House Ironvine!" the Commander barked, though his voice wavered slightly.

  "You are loyal to a lie!" I countered instantly, twisting the psychological knife. "Dankmar Ironvine has committed high treason! He has confessed to placing a false, incest-born bastard on the throne! King Brandan is here to execute him! The entire Realm is marching on this wall, and Dankmar’s supply lines are already dead!"

  I spurred Coin Biter a few steps closer, raising my empty hand high.

  "You are businessmen of the sword! So let's talk business! Dankmar views you as a loss on his ledger! You are already dead in his eyes! But I am the Crimson Broker, and I view you as an unnecessary expense of my time!"

  I paused, letting the silence hang heavy over the battlefield. The soldiers on the wall were no longer aiming their weapons. They were listening.

  "Here is my offer!" I declared, my voice echoing with absolute authority. "Any man who drops his weapon right now and walks away from that gate gets to live! You get to go back to your wives! You get to go back to your vineyards! And when I crack open Dankmar's private vaults by nightfall, I will personally guarantee every man who surrendered a severance pay of 1,000 coins! That is five years' wages to simply turn around and walk home!"

  I pointed directly at the Commander.

  "Die for three silver a day to protect a traitor who despises you? Or live for 1,000 gold to let us pass? The market is closing, Vineburg! Make your trade!"

  For ten agonizing seconds, nothing happened.

  The Commander drew his sword, turning to his men. "Hold the line! Nock arrows! Anyone who retreats is a deserter!"

  But he had lost them. The seed of logic had taken root. Why die a horrific, agonizing death at the hands of monsters for a Duke who viewed them as expendable?

  A single spear hit the stone courtyard behind the gates with a loud CLANG.

  Then a crossbow fell. Then another.

  "Mutiny!" the Commander shrieked, raising his sword to strike a deserting soldier.

  Before his blade could fall, his own lieutenant drove a dagger directly into the back of the Commander's knee. The armored man collapsed with a scream.

  The dam broke. The psychology of survival entirely overrode their military discipline. The Vineburg garrison descended into absolute chaos. Soldiers threw down their heavy shields, abandoning their posts, scrambling down the ladders to get away from the imminent slaughter. Some fought the loyalist officers; most simply ran.

  With a deafening, metallic groan, the massive iron portcullis began to rise. A handful of opportunistic soldiers were frantically turning the winch, opening the door for the invading army to secure their promised gold.

  I closed my ledger and slipped it back into my coat.

  I turned Coin Biter around and trotted casually back toward the stunned Kings and Dukes.

  Gutrum Falken was staring at me, his jaw slightly slack. Even King Brandan looked utterly bewildered by the bloodless collapse of a legendary fortress.

  "The gate is open, Your Grace," I said smoothly, not breaking my gaze. "Send the Moonclaws in to clean up the loyalist stragglers and secure the winch. But tell the beasts not to eat the men who surrendered. They're on my payroll now."

  I patted my horse’s neck, the cold, cynical Merchant perfectly masking the terrified bastard beneath.

  "Vineburg is ours. Shall we proceed to the capital?"