Each Warlord took their pound of flesh.

“Hello, fox,” said Zek.

Quill pointed the scythe at him. It was long enough for the blade’s breadth to block the doorway. “Why the hell are you here?”

“What does it look like?”

“You really could’ve picked a better time.”

“That’s the whole point of an ambush, ain’t it?”

The King deepened his breathing. He needed to keep calm. He needed to buy time; for Vein, and for the others. “So you’re after the throne.”

“Picking up some prototype Priam tech is a nice bonus.”

“Has a good old gang war gone out of style?”

“Victorious warriors win first, and then go to war,” Zek quoted. “Sun Tzu, the Art of War.”

“Fine. It’s a smart play. But how did you even know we would be here? I made sure to keep this close to the chest.”

“Oh, Quill.” He shook his head. “We both know you’re smarter than this. If you're going to stall, you should try harder.”

Zek pounced, flying over the blade. As he landed in the corridor, he reached behind for his weapon: a Cerafex axe. Quill’s scythe was too long to pull back in time, and the axe-edge drew a gash along his shoulder.

Vein’s voice came through his ear. “Quill, I’ll come help–”

“No!” The King dashed back, drawing his weapon close. “Keep working the vault!”

He twirled the polearm. It was so tall that its blade scarred the roof as it swung. He brought it down and Zek met its arc with his own. The orc’s strength matched his namesake. The clash of their Cerafex shook the floor, its echo thundering down the hallway.

Quill snapped the shaft under his arm. He dug his heels in and spun. This time, Zek dived low. The scythe flew over him, digging into the wall. Zek shot up. His axe came slow, but it came crashing. Quill caught its neck with the scythe’s shaft. The rod, steel and adamant, creaked under the force.

The orc brought the axe back, raised high. His muscles braced as he brought it down again. With that much power, he must have been planning to break right through the shaft. Quill wouldn’t give him the chance. There would be no winning in a contest of brawn.

The King thrust hard, and the scythe came loose. With the momentum, he swivelled out from his spot against the wall. Zek’s missed swing blew a hole in the floor where he had stood.

Quill drew the Cerafex back around. It made a clean whistle as it twirled across the air, and ended with a wet splat when the blade sliced Zek’s back. His coat’s fabric parted to reveal a crimson gash. If he was in pain, he made no motion of it. He only turned around, face as stoic as ever, and readied his weapon again.

Their Cerafexes clashed over and over. Sparks flew with every collision. There was a fair exchange of blows; Quill would nick a wrist, only for Zek to scrape an ankle. In this business of pain, each Warlord took their pound of flesh.

Then, Zek tripped. It was a tiny notch in the floor. A piece of wood that one of their weapons must’ve knocked crooked. Small. Inconspicuous.

And now, it was going to cost Zek his life.

Quill stepped in. His scythe came lashing in an underarm swing. The weapon was poised to cut the orc’s chest, only to find something else in its place. Zek’s axe whipped out, but this time, instead of Cerafex hitting Cerafex, the axe-head hooked into the neck, where the scythe’s blade met its shaft. Their weapons were ensnared.

He never tripped. The realisation came too late. They were already in motion.

Zek heaved. The scythe flew out of Quill’s hand and clanked harmlessly behind his opponent. The King drew his pistol. It was barely out of its holster when the axe stopped at his neck.

“Be subtle, even to the point of formlessness,” Zek recited. “Be mysterious, even to the point of soundlessness.”

“Thereby, you can seize your opponent’s fate,” Quill finished for him, dropping his gun.

❖

“Everyone always assumes I hate cats.” Chase brought the cup of coffee to his lips. “People think it’s because I kinda look like one. Quill says I’ve just got one of ‘em resting faces; the sort that look like you’re bored and a bitch at the same time. The thing is, it’s not like I don’t like cats. They clean themselves, they take care of themselves. You can leave them alone for a day and they’re pretty self-sufficient. If I had to own a pet, I’d probably pick a cat.”

His eyes took to the tiny creature, with fur like burnt bone. They followed it from its spot atop the server terminal, down across the room, and up the legs of its owner. It stopped at his eyes, the same colour as his familiar’s coat.

“I realised something very recently. You know what that is?” Chase put his cup down. “I don’t hate cats. I hate cat people.”

Vynn bent down to stroke the animal. He made a tender caress along its nape, then hefted it up and placed it upon his shoulder. “But you just said you’re a cat person?”

“And that’s exactly why I hate cat people. They’re always assuming shit.”

Vynn glanced over to the other person in the security room. He had to crane his head back to meet his gaze. “And you, MP? Dog or cat person.”

“Are we really doing this now?!” cried the half-giant.

Monitors covered the walls from floor to ceiling. The chaos found on one, the workers running away from Arc and the security guard, spread like a virus unto the others. Those workers came tumbling down the stairwell, inciting the next floor’s residents to escape too. Floor by floor, screen by screen, the mayhem spread.

“So” Vynn stuck his head into a cigarette box and rose with one between his teeth. “You two want a ciggie?”

MP had a hand on his holster. “What kind of trick is this? Poison? Or lulling us into a false sense of security.”

“Mate, you are as OG as they come. You gotta chill out once in a while.”

“I’ll take one,” said Chase.

“See? Chase is chill. I’m not here to fight.”

“So y’all just ambushed us to hug and drink tea?” MP pointed at the monitor where Quill and Zek fought. “And what do you think they’re doing there?”

“They’re going at it because they’re Warlords. Like birds and shitting on cars, it’s just what they do. Me? I’m just here to collect a paycheck. The less work I have to do to get it, the better. So, as long as you two don’t leave this room, we’re dandy.”

“How convenient. And if we resist?”

Chase watched MP lift his weapon.

“I don’t know,” Vynn shrugged, unsheathing his rapier. “What do you reckon is stronger: your Misery or my Iseult?”

As with men, God did not make all Cerafexes equal. Depending on the quality of the material, its modifications, and most importantly, its constructor, their strengths could scale from the lethal to the godlike. The strongest Cerafex, those forged of myth, held the title of ‘grade four.’ Even the seven Crowns that held the majority of Minerva’s power between them, had only two grade fours.

Both were in this room.

“If you want a fight,” said Vynn. “You’re going to have to throw the first punch.”

The two men stared each other down, and Chase held his breath. He had seen this scene many times before. It was a common one in Minerva, where gangsters had shoot-outs like Paris had tourists. Albeit, they were usually with pocket knives and handguns over rocket launchers.

Chase kept waiting for that silence to break. It never did. Eventually, a minute passed, and MP lowered Misery, his hatchet.

“You say you’re just in it for the money. If that’s the case, we both know Vulpes pays the best.”

“Could it be that I care about the money as much as the person giving it to me?”

“Then you wouldn’t have betrayed Khan.”

Vynn conceded the point with his silence. He shrugged. “I like Zek. I trust him. Above all, I want to help him.”

“Well, I’ll be. Loyalty and love. The worst poisons you can find in a soldier.”

“At least that makes two of us. Who knows, maybe three.”

Chase put up his hands. “Most people don’t value my services. Quill does. That’s all.”

“And if Zek values your services just as highly?”

“Hey dude, you wanna poach me, send me an email. Don’t do it in front of the right hand man.”

“I’m just saying,” said Vynn. “Maybe your skills could go to better hands.”

MP perked up. “What’s that ‘upposed to mean?”

“Quill’s smart as shit, we all know that. Smarter than Zek in many ways. But at the end of the day, he’s a gambler.”

“The best. How else do ya think he became King?”

“I’m not saying the man doesn’t bet well. I’m saying he’s a gambler, and at the end of the day, he’s stricken with the same folly as all gamblers: you can’t win every bet.”

“He’s won every bet that counts.”

“Yeah, like Astri?”

Chase felt MP’s fury peak. He flinched, as if the emotion had a sound. It was a booming thunderclap; the kind that made your bones shake.

“Laugh all you want,” said MP. “There’s one bet he’s not losing.”

“And that is?”

The half-giant clicked down on his hatchet. Blue streaks whipped out from its axehead, shattering all of the monitor screens with a sharp crackle. Darkness swallowed them whole, one screen at a time, until only Misery remained. A sheath of electricity coated the Cerafex like bottled lightning. It stood unwavering against the invading shadows.

MP brought the hatchet to his face. The electricity lit his beard and hair azure. His voice rumbled when he spoke.

“This one.”