The gang of bandits sped down the road, then ascended a ramp towards the elevated highway. Just as planned. They thought the open highway would free them from the Order of Broken Chains. Little did they know that they were speeding straight towards Terran himself. The Dark Lord stood atop a skyscraper which rose a story over the elevated highway. He leaned against the edge, grinning. Over the past few days, Terran’s tactics had changed little. Yet the mafia still fell for his traps. They truly were idiots.

  At last, the head of the caravan came within striking distance. Terran leapt into action, strengthening his legs as he fell. He landed on the car, denting its hood. Next, Terran strengthened his arms and put them against the front. He hopped down to the road. His legs burned against asphalt as the car skidded to a halt.

  The driver leaned out the window. Terran shot him. Two men came out from the back guns in hand. Terran shot one then moved to avoid the other. His dodge was clumsy, and the shot skidded along the armor.

  Terran stumbled. His metallic foot was now misaligned. The fall must have put it out of place. He’d have to bear it. More bikers rode his way. Three motorcycles remained. The drivers were out for blood.

  Terran staggered ahead, gun at the ready. He picked up another gun from one of his fallen enemies. He aimed the guns for the front motorcycle. Not that he expected to hit a moving target. But it looked fearsome, him unwavering with a gun in each hand. The caravan grinded to a halt.

  The lead biker was close, perhaps less than ten feet away. The fool glanced at his men, who had stopped farther back. Then he trembled as the realization dawned: he was the sole person within striking distance. The first one Terran would kill.

  “Give up now,” Terran said. “The Order approaches from behind. I am here before you. You do not have to die. Join us, and together we can save this city from the chaos which engulfs it.”

  The lead biker spat on the ground. “The chaos you caused?”

  This was one of the mafia. Terran recognized the accent. “There would be no chaos if it weren’t for your stunt. You fools are lucky to still be standing.” He marched towards them, though it was more of a stagger due to the bad foot. Great. He could not afford to stagger, especially now of all times.

  The men aimed their guns. They yelled, “Not one step!”

  “Try your best,” Terran said, not stopping. “Your bullets are useless.”

  They opened fire. Terran lifted his forearm to block his head. Shots pierced his armor, but it was a pain Terran was used to. The metal fused with Terran’s flesh. So much metal. There may have been more of it than flesh now. It didn’t matter. The Dark Lord was immortal.

  They stopped, realizing the futility of it all. The lead biker rode for Terran, coming at him with a broken pipe of all things. A broken pipe! Their effort was laughable. As if a pipe would work after bullets failed. Terran sidestepped the bike, and pulled the man off before slamming him into the ground.

  Two remained. They sat on their bikes, mouths agape. They could not process his immortality. Terran’s cavalry arrived in full, surrounding them, but still these men gaped at Terran. His grunts ran out of their cars, rifles aimed at the bikers. “Cuff them,” Terran ordered. “See to their wounds. We’ll let them join us after they serve their sentence.”

  The men cuffed the prisoners as ordered. The rear motorcycle had a box strapped to the back seat. A grunt checked it. “There are goods in here,” he said. “Perhaps thirty cans.”

  Thirty cans? Terran sighed. Barely enough to feed one family for a week. Their gains dwindled with each run. Still, there was something to celebrate here. The mafia was no longer close to base. The order owned the skyscraper district. He couldn’t look happy though. Not before the starving men. “This will have to do. Let us return to base.”

  Terran marched for the head car of his caravan, which stood idle before him. It was a cheap van, one stolen from some random street. Pisk opened the side door, “It almost looked like that took effort.”

  With a grunt, Terran climbed to the roof of the car. He locked eyes with the van’s driver as he did so. The man trembled at the sight of Terran, and seemed to be holding back the urge to gag. A few days ago, this man had been a pitiful deli store clerk. The anarchy had forced him to join his movement. An improvement, Terran considered. This oaf shouldn’t be so hesitant. At long last, his miserable existence contributed to something.

  Many had been forced to join the Order of Broken Chains. The rich who hadn’t fled were dead. This was the one silver lining to Karl’s stunt. Only the mafia, and other trace bandits opposed Terran now. And they were destroying the competition, one by one. Soon, there would be no one to oppose them.

  The caravan sped off. They exited the raised highway to avoid the buildup of abandoned cars further down the street. They traveled through silent roads, soon passing a decrepit restaurant. Its windows broken and much of its interior stripped for all valuables within. Across the street was an apartment block Terran recognized. Two months ago, he had stood there on the first night of his new life. This had been a chaotic scene then, with many youths enjoying their so-called music. Now there was only silence.

  A few blocks past this diner was the wealthy section of the city. Towering skyscrapers, once radiant like jewels, were now dull and dim. Windows were shattered, concrete support had cracked. Much of their radiance was gone without electricity, though their sheer scale remained impressive.

  Terran had explored little of this region before the takeover. There was little room for fear in streets so radiant. But power had since changed hands. The Order of Broken Chain’s official headquarters was the Cylindrical Tower. It was the tallest skyscraper in the land. It had been home to some oil company once, but all its employees had fled. Terran had chosen the new base himself, a symbol of their domination over the city.

  The caravan rode into the lobby. The first floor was wide and open, meaning there was plenty of room for all five cars. They followed a predesignated roadway, for much of the space was occupied by makeshift tents. Families were huddled in the space’s center, those who had lost their property to the fires and the riots. These were the ones better off, the sick and uninjured who could stay in the lobby. The room was filled with bodies.

  They gawked at Terran, at his hideous form. Children clutched their parents, whispering quietly. Even the parents looked to the ground. The fear was obvious. They were not here willingly, but out of desperation. The streets were too dangerous. It was unknown if Raven Blackwell lived. These people had to accept the Order. They had to accept Terran.

  The caravan halted at the left end of the lobby. Zolin was waiting for them. He sighed, “How many you got this time?”

  “Two prisoners,” Terran said. He jumped off the top of the car. “The rest refused to comply.”

  “I meant food.”

  “We got two car fulls,” Pisk called out from within the car. He hopped out, a wide smile on his face, as he strode towards Zolin. “Better yet, we got the district secure. We’re doing it. We’re taking the city.”

  Zolin flinched at the word taking, but was otherwise stoic. “Maybe we could move some folks out then. We’ve got patrols on the streets. It should be safe enough. The apartments down south are just begging for people. What do you think?”

  “Perhaps,” Terran said. “We shall see.”

  Zolin frowned, but rounded to the back of the caravan without protest. He helped unload various canned goods which they had looted from various stores during the run. It totaled to a few dozen boxes. Without Karl’s provisions, they were forced to supply themselves. It was pitiful. These runs, while successful, could only do so much. Worse, they distracted the order from more important things.

  Terran marched through the crowd. People parted as he passed them, leaving a large empty bubble around Terran. Zolin separated himself from the group, delivering cans to those he passed. One can for every ten. They accepted with blank faces and without gratitude. Terran looked to his people, and nodded to a scared man. A child cried. More of the peasants scooted back.

  Terran sighed. It was the numbers. Yes, the numbers. Between this floor and the others, there may have been just under a thousand peasants. That sounded good, but in a city of millions a thousand souls was nothing at all. Even then, these were a thousand souls he had saved from Karl’s treachery. They should be in awe. They should be worshiping his strength and cunning. In these dark times, Terran fed them and gave them hope.

  It shouldn’t be like this…

  Terran and Pisk soon reached a stairwell. They stared at the rusted door in silence. “I would like to go up alone,” Terran said. “Do your rounds with the people, count our resources, and give me a report when you’re done.” Pisk nodded and marched off humming. Humming. As if this whole situation weren’t flat out depressing.

  Terran entered the drab stairwell. It was dark due to the power outage. No windows either. Terran could hardly see his own reflection on the metallic wall. His thunderous footsteps rattled the stairs, even though they were stone and fused with the foundation.

  At some point, he made a misstep. His metallic foot chipped, sliding further off its main support. Curses! Not now. No. No. It was not a big deal. Derik could come by to fix it. The blacksmith was here, though Terran had hardly seen him in this flurry of events. The past few days had been a lot. First they took the cylindrical tower. That was four days ago. And now, they had the entire district, and the lacking resources therein. Incredible progress, though the refugees slowed things. Spoiled refugees who did not appreciate all that Terran had done for them.

  Terran glanced to the wall. His form reflected in the steel. His frame was sleek. His eyes glowed red. He was hunched over. Bits and pieces of armor were chipped away, exposing flesh, but other than that there was only metal. Bits of metal where bone should be. Terran was beyond human. They shouldn’t just fear him.They should be in awe. They should worship him!

  Why were their reactions so blank?

  “I told you it wouldn’t be enough.” Terran’s reflection faded away, replaced by Gratia. She was dressed the same as when Terran had last seen her. The sword in her hilt dripped blood.

  Terran punched the wall, and continued on. But Gratia followed. She matched his movements, though enacted them in a far more elegant way. Her posture was straight, and her glare was set on Terran. “It will never be enough, Leon.”

  “Do NOT call me that,” Terran yelled. “I am no man. I am more.”

  “Are you?” Gratia asked. She smiled, and in that instant looked just like her blithesome descendant. “Look at those people outside. That is a far cry from your cult. Aren’t they the same peasants you once deemed ‘too impure for a nobel Empire.’”

  She was quoting him now. No, she was quoting Leon. That man was a different being entirely. Terran clenched his fist. Gratia continued, “How long until it comes crashing down, Leon? How long until the walls cave in? You cannot run forever. The world will know you for the weak thing you truly are!”

  “Shut up,” Terran yelled. “I am no weakingling.”

  Gratia stopped in her tracks, and eyed Terran directly. “There are multiple ways to be strong,” she said. “There are multiple ways to be weak. You have physical strength. You have loyal followers… for now at least. But you own one building. You need the armor to keep living. You’re barely even human. Weakness will show itself. It’s only a matter of time.”

  Terran slashed at Gratia. Then he did so again. And again. He slashed until his fingertips chipped away. There was no blood. Bits of bone and metal were on the floor. But Gratia was gone. That’s all that mattered. There was only his reflection, warped and smeared beyond recognition.

  ***

  Terran looked down from the third floor balcony which overlooked the lobby. The scattered masses resembled a color sea as they all sat upon the floor. Yes, sitting. Not chatting or planning, just sitting and wallowing in their collective misery. It was pathetic. Sure, these people could not go anywhere in good conscience but that was no reason to just give up on it all. There was always more one could do. At least act like you cared about any of this.

  “I knew I’d find you here.” Zolin said. He walked up to Terran’s sighed, then leaned against the railing with a sigh. “Observing your subject, Terran?”

  It took Terran a moment to realize that Zolin was being sarcastic. It was always hard to tell with him. He’d grown accustomed to being the de facto leader. Zolin should be in line now. There was no time for emotion. And yet, Terran found himself confessing. “It’s not much,” he said. “Not even a block. Barely even a building. Our Order should be city-wide by now. The whole city should be prospering. It shouldn’t be like this.”

  “Maybe that’s a good thing,” Zolin said. “We’ve already ruined everything.”

  “Ruined?” Terran laughed to himself. He extended a hand out to the sorry sight before him. “This is progress. Our Order is progress. You said so yourself, things with the Blackwells could not stand.”

  “Progress?” Zolin shook his head. He stepped away from Terran, as if that could help him at all. “We both know that’s a lie. This is wrong. Our order is twisted. We’ve tossed aside what we’ve stood for. We had our union. We could have spread that. We could have done anything, but we burnt it all down!”

  “Mere words change nothing,” Terran said. “The system must change. And that only happens by force.”

  Zolin hit the railing. It rattled in place. “Maybe so,” he said. “But we lost ourselves. Got lost in your jargon. Too lost in idealism. We paid no heed to reality. Now half the city’s on fire. We’ve got starving families down there. Children! All because…”

  “...that twisted Karl betrayed us.” Terran finished for him. That was the crux of the matter. Zolin was complicating things with his morals, as usual. If Karl hadn’t destroyed the foodstuffs, Terran would be lord of the island now. It truly was that simple.

  “No,” Zolin said. “It’s ‘cause of us. We did this. We worked with the mafia. We planted the bombs. We got the guns. All this bloodshed is our fault.” Tears were in his eyes. Actual tears. From a grown man. Terran growled. Zolin was softer than he thought.

  “Cease this coward,” Terran yelled, pointing at him. “Do not regret. Do not let emotion blind you. Our Order must be ironclad. There is no weakness. We cannot stop. Not when our enemies still roam the street.”

  “What enemies?” Zolin asked. He stepped towards Terran. “All I see is a bunch of desperate workin’ folk. And you, Pisk and the rest are gunnin’ em down and taking prisoners! This is not what I fought for. I won’t stand for it. You’ve pulled us along for too long.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Terran stood over Zolin, matching his glare. The idealist’s expression did not waver. No, his scowl only deepened. He wasn’t scared of Terran. The fool. The actual fool. One did not mess with a Dark Lord!

  BANG!

  Zolin gagged, then felt his chest. His hand was soaked in blood. Redness spread across his chest. The man collapsed. Behind him was a hooded figure, gun out. Terran put himself in front of Zolin, saving him from another shot.

  Leaping ahead, Terran grabbed the assassin by the throat. “Who sent you?” Terran marched to the edge of the balcony, holding him above the chasm. Terran roared, “Tell me. Or you will die!”

  His roar alerted those below. Refugees screamed. Soldiers aimed their guns. Terran let the hooded man go, allowing him to drop a good foot, before catching him by the shirt. “It’s a long way down.”

  “No one,” the hood said. His tone was sure, but his watery eyes betrayed him. “I serve the people. I serve freedom. Freedom from your treachery.”

  Terran groaned. It was an idealist, one who saw the world in simple terms. Best not to humor him. The man likely acted on his own accord, so there was no use in keeping him alive. Terran threw the would-be-assassin over the edge. The splat was followed by a choir of screams. Terran ignored them as he rushed back to Zolin.

  The man bled but was alive. He tried speaking, but managed just a gurgle. Terran scooped him up in his arms, then leapt off the balcony. Wind rushed past them. Strengthened legs softened his landing. People leapt back. Terran placed Zolin down by his feet. “I need a medical expert. Are there any doctors? Step forward. Now!”

  All eyes were on him, yet the people did nothing. Terran paced around the gagging Zolin, trying to find a doctor in the crowd. The people retreated when he approached. Terran showed his claws. They screamed. “I said step forwards. I will not ask again!”

  The seconds crawled into a minute. Nobody approached. Nobody dared even take a step. Many glanced at the assassin, who was lying face down in the center of the lobby. Parents covered their children’s eyes. The rest were distracted by the blood dripping from Terran's hand. Terran hid the appendage behind his back. But still, the blood pooled at his feet. The Dark Lord could not escape his horrid acts. Some troops pushed through the refugees, with Pisk at their head. They paled upon seeing the convulsing Zolin. Pisk neared. “Woah. What happened?”

  “That man there was an assassin,” Terran said, pointing to the corpse. "Get Zolin to safety. NOW!” Pisk whistled to a nearby soldier. The two whisked Zolin off to the medical bay. Terran was left to address the people.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  “This will NOT happen again,” Terran said. “From now on, everyone will be accounted for. Nobody leaves or enters. We will do a headcount each night. Our Order will not end this day. I’ve worked too hard for this. Some meager assassins can’t take this kingdom away from me!” It wasn’t until the word was out that Terran realized his mistake. Even his own guards hung back. The word Lord popped up amongst the murmurings.

  “Hey!” Someone called from above. A youthful guard was on the balcony. “We have a situation.”

  “It’s been dealt with,” Terran said, gritting his teeth. He tried very hard to not raise his voice, or to say anything else which could incriminate him. Best not to give the people another reason to throw him out.

  The boy looked at the body. He hung back for a moment, that same fear in his eyes. Then he shook his head. “Not that,” the guard said at last. “It’s worse.”

  “Worse?”

  The boy was off before Terran could ask for clarification. Just great. First the people were starving. Then came the assassination. And now Terran’s own loyalty would surely be questioned. Everything was already falling apart. What could possibly be worse than this?

  ***

  Derik kept his head down. It paid to look like a nobody, especially with how heated things had become. He and Ema were near the center of the refugees. They were desperate vagabonds, just like everyone else here, and not privileged in any way. But that was how Derik wanted it.

  Other families surrounded them. Stranger’s shoulders and elbows pressed against them. The elderly, disabled, women, children. All those who could not fight. This made the broad thirty-year old blacksmith stick out. Not that he cared. Derik would never fight for Terran. He’d had done enough for that tyrant already.

  The packed lobby was dead silent, save for Terran’s men who chatted it up as they did their patrols. Most were out to keep the peace, but a small crew was always here to ensure the populace never got any ideas. No civilian dared speak to them. Not since the assassination attempt. Even Ema was quiet.

  Zolin remained in the med bay, which was on the opposite side of the room. Derik hoped the man was okay. That shot had been bad, and then Terran threw the injured elder around like a ragdoll before Pisk dragged him away. The demon stormed out after that. Not a good sign. When Terran got angry, someone wound up regretting it. Derik had the scars to prove it.

  “Here you go.”

  Derik whirled around. It was Zan. He ambled about, humming a tune to himself, even as he passed cans out to skinny orphans and half-starved elders. His clothing — once tight — now hung loose on his boney form. Zan handed Derik a can of corn. He motioned to him, and the surrounding people. “That is your ration for today. Should be good for ten.”

  “Are you serious?” An old woman asked. “There’s at least three starving families here!”

  “It’s the best I can do,” Zan said, sounding far too casual for Derik’s taste. He scratched his side. “It’ll get better soon. I promise. We have the district, but still don’t know if it's safe. We can only do so much.”

  “It’s ‘cause of that thing up there,” a teenaged girl said, standing tall. She pointed to the broken balcony Terran had leapt off of before. “That’s the reason nobody helps us. That’s why fear fills the streets. Why, I bet that guy wasn’t even an assassin. It must’ve thrown that poor sap down. Why are we even keeping it here?”

  “That thing is Dark Lord Terran,” Ema said. She sat there, arms tucked beneath her legs, rocking. “Some coworkers of mine theorized that he had returned. I didn’t believe them, but it's clear now. He was responsible for the Historical District murders. For that coal plant attack. For all of this.”

  “Are you serious?” The teen asked. “That thing is our leader?”

  “No…of course not. Except, for… maybe. Er, it’s complicated.” Zan switched between these choices. His voice wavered, and his hand trembled. People surrounded the kid, and his statements devolved into gibberish. A cringing Derik wanted nothing more than to slip away to someplace very far. It took an eternity for Zan to get his argument back together. “Look: It doesn’t matter who leads us. The point is things outside aren’t safe. You have to wait here, while we recover food. We’re not hoarding anything. I can promise you that.”

  “Some plan ya got,” the old woman yelled. “Blow up the government then starve us all!”

  This caused a vicious uproar amongst the crowd, and the teen pushed Zan. A brawl nearly happened, but Derik put himself between them. “Easy there,” he said. “This…this man is right. I hate to admit it, but he is. It’s unsafe out there.”

  The teen crossed her arms. “You can’t be serious?”

  “I forgo my ration for today.” Derik handed it to the teen. “Divide it how you will.”

  Derik sat back down. The teen started opened the can while many others surrounded her like vultures around a carcass. Zan patted Derik on the shoulder, gave a nod of thanks, then moved on. Derik watched as nine fought over this one can of corn, arguing about how many kernels to distribute to people. His stomach growled in desire. Derik put his head low. He shouldn’t think about taking their food. This order had stolen enough already.

  “Derik,” Ema said. “Derik, are you okay?”

  She stood with him, but she was blurry. Derik felt a dab of moisture on his cheek. Only then did he realize that he’d been crying. “I-I’m sorry,” he stammered, lowering his head. “You don’t deserve any of this. You do-”

  “Hey, hey, hey.” Ema fell into Derik’s arms and hugged him tightly. “It’s okay. We’re going to get through this. Dark times pass. They always do.” Derik hugged Ema back, letting the tears leak from his eyes. Warmth swelled in his chest. He breathed in, then out. In then out. His worries melded away… .

  “Hey!”

  They turned around. Pisk was close by, hands on his hips. There was a rifle strapped to his back, the tip a fine gold. “Sorry to interrupt your fun,” Pisk said. “But you are the blacksmith, right? From the Historical District.”

  The man smiled. Zolin’s near-death experience hadn’t affected him in the slightest. He truly cared for no one. Pisk only played along because Terran had ordered him to do so. His cover was safe for now. With some caution, Derik nodded.

  “We’ve got a need for you,” Pisk said. “If you’ll just follow me.”

  “No,” Ema said.

  Pisk gritted his teeth, “No?”

  “I know what you want,” Ema said, standing upright to meet Pisk head on. “You saw Terran leave here, right? He was limping. You want Derik to repair his armor. I won’t allow it. We aren’t working for murderers!”

  “Easy girly,” Pisk said. “Who said anything ‘bout murder?”

  “It’s aiding and abetting,” she said.

  “Woah there,” Pisk said. He crossed his arms. “Big words we’re using, ain’t we? Look, it ain’t aiding if you’re fixing. That’s just plain fixing.”

  “That thing is covered in blood each time it comes back,” Ema said. “Terran may be killing someone right now for all you know.”

  “You’re probably right,” Pisk said as he scratched his clean-shaven chin. “That don’t change a thing.”

  They stared at each other head on, and Pisk tapped at his holster. His holster. The actual mad man. Was he threatening her? Derik got in front of Ema before things could escalate further. “Okay. Okay. I’ll do it.”

  “Attaboy,” Pisk said. He tried to ruffle his hair, but Derik stepped back, and the man missed. Grunting, Pisk pulled Derik close. He winked. “Think I’m gonna like you.”

  They started to walk off, but Ema grabbed Derik’s hand before he could get too far. “You can’t. You do realize what they’re having you do?”

  The disappointment in her eyes. How great would it be if she knew the truth? Derik sighed. He did not deserve her. “I have to do this,” he said. “I’ll try to learn more about the situation while I’m up there.”

  He let Ema go. Pisk patted him on the back and cheered him on. Derik was forced to march on, though he soon glanced back. Derik could no longer see Ema. She had sat back down, becoming but one in a sea of many.

  ***

  From the executive floor of the Cylindrical Tower, Terran could see much of his overcast city. The office had a wide-open window which let in a lot of light. Even the harbor was visible, dull and distant. Normally bustling, the distant seas were now undisturbed save for a gray military frigate floating in the distance. Its side deck was loaded with guns. It proudly displayed Pansfinre’s striped banner. Another two circled the coast. No troops had been sent. No propaganda had been spun. They simply went around the island in circles. Terran had seen this particular frigate thrice already. Everyone on the island doubtlessly knew of this blockade by now.

  They were mocking him. That’s all this was. That’s why they weren’t setting troops on the island. They squeezed at Terran, letting him suffer, all for their own pitiful amusement.

  The door opened. It was Pisk, Derik, and one of the random soldiers. They had to walk twenty meters to meet Terran , for the room was long despite only containing a desk. It resembled a throne room, but Terran’s seat did not have the same grandeur of a throne. Instead, he was on the same level as the peasants. That made him vulnerable, though Terran tried to correct for this by straightening his posture and sitting with arms on the rests. No one would try anything if he looked powerful. "What is the progress on the ports?”

  “It is going good so far,” the soldier said. “Half are destroyed. We should-”

  “Half?” Terran stood tall. “That is unacceptable. You must-” He staggered before falling back into the chair. That’s right. His artificial boot had been further misaligned. Walking was now a chore. That’s why he had summoned Derik here in the first place.

  “Soldier,” Terran continued, quick to recover from his embarrassment. “Tell the others to triple their efforts.” The man nodded and was off. Not that he was loyal. Indeed, the soldier seemed rather quick to leave.

  Pisk and Derik came closer. The wound Terran had given Derik in their last meeting had already healed considerably. The bruise had faded by quite a bit. There would be no scar. Without a word, Derik grabbed the welding stuff from the corner of the room and got to work. The smell of metal diffused through the room. There was no pain anymore. Just the mildly unpleasant odor. Even Pisk didn’t seem disturbed. The second-in-command approached the window. “Fleet’s still here, I see.”

  “It doesn’t make sense.” Terran whirled around in his seat, having no care for Derik who had to manically follow to avoid ruining his progress. “Why would they show up now, after a few days of anarchy? Why not right away? And why aren’t they taking the island? What is their goal here?”

  “Maybe they don’t know—” Derik covered his mouth, trembling with a strange mix of fear and guilt. The regret was clear. Terran snapped his fingers. A metallic clank echoed across the room.

  “Don’t know what?” Terran put a claw on the man’s throat. “It’s okay, you can tell me.”

  “Maybe they don’t know what’s going on,” Derik said. He gulped, “They don’t know who’s at fault here.” He said that with a monotone voice, and head hung low, as if helping Terran with this was equal to shooting a child in the face. Maybe it was in his eyes. If so, Derik was as much a monster as he. A monster he needed.

  “You make a good point,” Terran said. “Our actions were quick. Few have reached the mainland. Pansfinre is likely awash with rumors. So, they are keeping a lookout on the situation, but they won’t interfere until they contact their allies.”

  “An ally?” Pisk asked. “You don’t mean…”

  “I am, of course, talking about Raven Blackwell,” Terran said. “The chaos out there keeps her occupied. But the moment she contacts Pansfinre, their armies will know what we do. They will invade. Our Order will not last long then. For our survival, we must kill her before she gets the chance to talk.”

  “I know where she is.” Pisk said. “Blackwell Manor is all up and running.”

  A brief silence. Derik backed away. Terran’s finger twitched. “What?”

  “I heard it from the patrols,” Pisk said. “There’s a whole camp by their mansion.”

  “And you didn’t mention this before?” That was more than simple negligence. A fact like this was of utmost importance. Withholding it was an intentional act of treachery. Could this man desire power over Terran? Is that why he hid this crucial fact?

  “The soldiers thought it better you didn’t know,” Pisk said, stepping back. “Scouts are keeping an eye on the place. They have no plans, as far as we can tell. It’s a refugee camp, for children and families. They feared what you’d do if you knew that Raven was running it.”

  He said they, not we. Pisk wasn’t exactly one to care for others. If he withheld this information, it must have been for his own reasons. Could it be that he too was questioning Terran’s sanity?

  Terran growled. Only the danger of the streets kept his people in check. If Raven’s fortress were accessible, the people would flock to her. The moment order was restored, Terran’s rule would end. He had to keep the people scared. Terran had to keep this hardship going, for as long as he could. In the meantime, he’d come up with a permanent solution. Prosperity would come… only later. It would be for his people too, not Raven or her allies. “There’s still a way to win here.”

  “Really?”

  “Indeed.” Terran stood up and limped towards Pisk despite Derik’s work being half finished. The blacksmith stayed by Pisk’s side, watching Terran as he explained. “Pansfinre does not know what happened. Few outside our order do. The mafia is being dealt with. Our biggest threat is Blackwell. If we destroy her camp, there will be nobody to oppose us. We can control the narrative. The mafia attacked the city center, and our Order — led by you, Pisk — opposed their takeover. Your rule will be validated, as you ascend to temporary dictator status.”

  It would have to be Pisk. The world would know Terran. He’d rule from the shadows for a time before taking the throne himself. Pisk would rule as temporary dictator until order was restored. Which would be never, of course. There’d always be some gang to beat, some economic crisis to solve. The dictator could easily rule for life this way, while Terran remained the true one in charge, leading from the shadows for all time.

  Pisk hopped from one foot to another, unable to stand in one place. It seemed he already knew what this plan entailed. “I reckon this is a ‘secrecy’ kind of thing.”

  “Yes,” Terran said. He began to pace the room. “The less information people have, the more we can control the narrative. Raven has probably told her people everything. I will have to go for her alone, and then kill all her allies when I’m done with her.”

  “You can’t!”

  Derik stood. Terran faced him. He’d forgotten all about the blacksmith. He marched on him, backing the man into the desk as he stammered. “Didn’t you hear what Pisk said? That manor is a place of refuge! Families. Children. You can’t kill them. I-I-It’s not right. You can’t seriously believe people won’t suspect? You’ll be found out! The truth is always laid to bear!”

  Terran showed his claws at his side. Derik yelped, then fell back onto the desk. He scooted back before falling to the ground. Terran threw the desk over him, letting it crash through the window. “It will not matter,” Terran said, crouching down to meet Derik at eye level. “Not when we control the narrative. The mafia will have killed Raven and the rest of her allies before moving on. Their deaths will be quick and with mercy. Bullets to the head. Not something a Dark Lord would do.”

  Terran put his hand on Derik’s head and forced him to meet him in the eye. “I take it you won’t interfere,” he said. “That’s not just for your sake.” Such a statement was redundant. Derik allowed himself to be ruled by fear. He was simple that way. An ordinary blacksmith could never oppose a sacred being such as he. Still, it was important to remind Derik of his proper place every now and again.

  Derik nodded, tears streaming down his check. Terran let him go. “We will finish our work later.”

  The blacksmith ran off, tripping over himself a few times, blinded by tears. He bumped straight into Pisk, who yelled, sending Derik into a tizzy. He ran out, screaming like a child. “Ah Derik,” Pisk said with a chuckle. “Almost feel sorry for the chap. Almost.”

  “Keep men close to his girlfriend,” Terran said. “Make it very clear that she will die if he tries anything. Be bold. Be fearsome. If he glances at the exit too much, threaten him.”

  “With pleasure,” Pisk said, smiling broadly. His glee was obvious. Too obvious, as a matter of fact, almost as if Pisk were trying too hard to please him. Terran cast the thought aside. It was paranoia. Best to focus on the here and now.

  “One more thing,” Terran said. “Have nobody stationed at the northern entrance at eleven tonight and at three in the morning. I plan to sneak out tonight to do the deed.” Indeed, it was best to get it over with fast. Every wasted second made Raven stronger. Yet it would be easy. Terran now knew that standard Gifted were vulnerable to bullets. Raven would fall as fast as Boris had.

  “I’m on it,” Pisk said. He shuffled in place. He seemed poised to say something, but made his leave instead. The room was barren now, especially without the desk. The harsh winds made a noticeable uproar which chilled the room. The wind suited Terran. With his eyes closed, he could picture himself leaping from rooftop to rooftop as he had before. Those were simpler days. Ones he had moved beyond.

  “It’s not going to work, you know.”

  Terran sighed. Gratia was in the window. Its cracks distorted her, making her eyes slightly misaligned and her curled lips the slightest bit too wide. “The people will see right through it,” she said. “They’re smarter than you think.”

  Terran turned away from Gratia. She was merely an illusion. A phantom of the past he had left behind. That glorious, glorious past. Ignoring her was best. Yet she continued, “It doesn’t matter how many goons you slay. How many innocents you slaughter. You still fail. You remain weak.”

  Terran gritted his teeth. It was best to say nothing. Gratia spoke only lies. “You won’t even be remembered. Your armies will join Pansfinre. They will betray you. Raven will shoot you in the head. They’ll put you down like the mongrel you are.”

  “Which is it then?” Terran yelled, whirling around to face her. “Am I a mongrel monster? Or am I a weakling? You cannot be both. These insults contradict each other. You speak nonsense!”

  “Do I?”

  Terran threw the chair at her reflection. The cracked piece of window shattered, glassy ribbons flying everywhere. A piece cut Terran’s side, embedding itself in the plates between his armor. He ripped it out. There was no blood.

  “You will soon be a footnote,” Gratia continued, appearing further back at an undamaged part of the window. “You probably have less than three days if we’re being generous. Your people — if you can even call them that — are starving. Your soldiers do not respect you. And then there’s Pisk.”

  Terran approached Gratia but kept his distance from the window. “What about him?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” She asked. “He’s so eager to please, and yet his care for others is lacking. He hasn’t even shown the slightest interest in Zolin’s state. Unlike the others, Pisk’s talk about the wealthy has always been talk. The sadist wants power. Your power. Your plan is rather beneficial to him, is it not? That’s why he’s going along for now. The second he becomes dictator, we both know what will happen.”

  “Are you saying that he’d kill me?” Terran asked. He laughed aloud. “He will not. He doesn’t even know how. He’d be a fool to even attempt it.”

  “Karl told everyone your weakness,” Gratia said. “Said it aloud if memory serves me right. Pisk was there. He can kill you with ease. One good shot to the head, maybe even hire a goon slit you under the helmet. That’s all it would take…”

  “No,” Terran said. “It would take far more than that.”

  “If you say so,” Gratia said. “But I wouldn’t count on it. Your days are numbered, Leon. You will join me soon enough.” She faded away, leaving only a demon behind. It was Terran’s husk of a reflection. A thin and wiry demon, more metal than man, hollow eyes aglow, and a helmet which hid all expression. There stood a soldier behind this demon.

  Terran turned to face him. “You! What’s your business?”

  The man swallowed. There was silence, save for the winds. “Pisk sent me, sir,” he said at last. “He wants you to know that we’re sending more men out to the ports. They should be destroyed by sundown.”

  “Good,” Terran said. “Tell him I said good. Now GO!”

  The man ran off. Terran looked back at his own twisted form. He sighed. He had come a long way from his time at Zvela. It couldn’t all be for nothing. No, it wouldn’t. Terran could still rule. He could still be fearsome. Nobody would doubt his strength. He’d show them. He’d show them all.

  This modern world was no place for heroes.