Hutt’s temples throbbed, as if a rat had burrowed into his brain, churning his thoughts into a boiling mess. Waves of headache pounded at his already frayed nerves, igniting a violent urge to unsheathe his longsword and slash at something—anything—to quell his seething rage.
Yet he held back. Now more than ever, he needed to project calm to subdue his lieutenants and underlings.
Today’s battle had shattered the Brotherhood’s might rather than boosting its reputation. Over two hundred men lay dead, and the surviving hundred were all wounded. The entire gang was on the verge of implosion. The brothers who’d died miserably on Fountain Garden Street, butchered by Les’s band of petty thieves, hadn’t been alone—their siblings and families were now driven to madness by grief.
“Revenge!”
“Revenge!!”
They stood on chairs and tables, weapons raised, spittle flecking their lips as they roared. Their bloodshot eyes blazed with a hatred that even Hutt feared. Under such fury, he couldn’t fully rein in these near-crazed followers.
He knew this defeat had crippled him. Losing two or three hundred men had toppled him from the apex of Pramisburg’s underworld, a city of vice and chaos. Those he’d oppressed were now sharpening their blades, eager to feast on his downfall. His position was precarious.
The wisest move would be to retreat, consolidate power, and bide his time. But hatred, the most blinding of emotions, ruled his brainless followers—and he was their leader.
Under their hate-filled stares, Hutt suppressed his irritation, wearing a gloomy mask and leaning on past prestige. Meeting their gazes, a chill spread in his chest. Finally, he nodded, and the crowd erupted.
Revenge cries shook Pramisburg. Everyone knew the blood spilled today was just a prelude—the city’s once-mighty Brotherhood faced annihilation.
Hutt left in disgust, unable to bear these hate-addled fools. Summoning his lieutenants to a small room, he snapped, “Why didn’t the garrison come? Someone explain! We lost men today because those meddling bastards didn’t show up!” Free of pretense, he grabbed his favorite magical lamp and smashed it to the floor.
Shattered glass flew everywhere. Still enraged, he heaved a wooden chair onto the table, scattering its contents—all to vent his frustration.
Gasping for breath, he righted the chair and sat, sweat-drenched, head hung like a wounded wolf. “Who can tell me why the plan failed?”
In the tense silence, a lieutenant spoke: “Sorry, boss. We followed your orders and sent messengers, but Pulth refused to act.”
“Refused?” Hutt’s voice rose sharply. “Ten gold coins a year in bribes for that? And you idiots—couldn’t you attack the police station to draw them out? Must I spell every detail for you? Use your brains, rotting like sewer filth!”
A subordinate stammered, “What now? Negotiate?”
Hutt hurled a book at him, splitting his forehead. Blood poured down the man’s cheek.
“Negotiate?!” Hutt stood, arms flailing, barely controlling his renewed fury. “With what? Look at those mobs out there—say ‘negotiate,’ and they’ll tear you apart!” Marching to the subordinate, he poked his forehead as the man cowered. “Were you raised on shit, fool?”
Eyes turning icy, he paced, then exhaled. “Contact Harvey. I need to see him.”
Moments later, Hutt’s envoy found Harvey, Pramisburg’s slave-trade mogul, in his lair, reclining among naked female slaves. Scratching his chest hair, Harvey spat grape skins on the floor.
“Hutt wants an audience?” he sneered. Les’s men had just left, and with his 200-man slave catchers and hundreds of robust barbarians, Harvey was now the city’s undisputed power. Yesterday, he might have entertained Hutt; today, the balance had shifted.
Pramisburg was ruthless—no one threw a lifeline; they dropped stones instead.
Shifting position, Harvey waved a gold-ringed finger. “Tell Hutt to come back with something worth my time. Otherwise, send him to hell.” He shuddered in pleasure. “Toss this fool out—can’t he see I’m busy?”
After the envoy was thrown out, Harvey stood, dressing as slaves departed. Rubbing his chin, he mused, “Why would Hutt risk everything against Les? Only one thing: that million-gold deed.”
“Wait a little longer…”
No fool himself, Harvey analyzed the situation. To thrive here, brains were as vital as brute force. Turning to a towering subordinate, he ordered, “Book the best restaurant’s priciest meal. Invite Mistress Alma—polite, very respectful.”
It was time to ally with Alma, merge the Brotherhood and Les’s forces, and seize the deed. Her intelligence meant she’d not compete for it; even sacrificing his slave trade was worth it.
Harvey underestimated no one, not even a brothel madam like Alma.
Watching the earlier battle, he knew both sides were broken. Hutt and Les couldn’t control their men, hence begging his help. Now he’d let them destroy each other, then claim the spoils.
But he couldn’t ignore mercenaries or smugglers. Allying with Alma, a pragmatic force with little ambition, would bolster his strength to crush rivals.
Gripping his assistant’s collar, he hissed, “Pacify the barbarians: freedom and gold if they fight for me. Our rise to nobility depends on this.” Releasing him, he added, “Find why the garrison stayed silent—spare no expense.”
The battle had awakened every faction. They smelled opportunity—the chance to rise above.
Nobles by birth couldn’t fathom it, but these commoners would sell dignity, even souls, for a shot at nobility. Nothing was off-limits.
