Whether due to the unique cocktail of emotion born from a near-death experience, or simply having spent more time in his presence, Flint found Pyrhic was considerably more talkative on the way back. It seemed she had no small number of questions for him, and much to his own surprise he found a similar curiosity bubbling up within his own mind towards her.

As a Wrathman, he appeared something of a legend made manifest to the woman. Of course Flint had been around for many reinforcement days, he knew full well that most Wrathmen were criminals, disgraced nobles or simply those who could take starving no more.

He’d never imagined how the colony might seem to the people back in Dewlz, though. The ones who watched the backs of those sent off to fight in the front lines, and in all likelihood die.

Being born in Wrath, there was apparently much about the world he’d never quite considered. Pyrhic had apparently grown up as a merchant’s daughter, something which would have been quite impossible in Wrath due to Gol’s tendency to digest travelling groups smaller than a company.

Her father had been an arsehole, though, and when he’d fallen upon hard times his slightly-magical daughter had been sold off to pay his debts. After finding her way through no small number of masters, most cruel, she finally ended up under the employ of Karma Alabaster.

The fervour with which she had praised the princess had unsettled Flint, and he’d steered the conversation elsewhere as quickly as he could.

By the time the two of them reached the spot their carriage was scheduled to meet them at, Flint reckoned they’d become quite familiar. As familiar, at least, as he was with most squadmates. As the vehicle arrived, however, he saw the woman re-enter the state of serious inexpressiveness she’d seemed to perpetually occupy when they first met.

The journey was spent going over the information they’d gleaned from the encounter, with Pyrhic seeming rather interested in Flint’s insight, though he could offer little.

When they finally came to Alabaster’s quarters, the tension had grown so thick it almost matched the atmosphere of the agricore. Flint caught himself fidgeting, stopping just before the door opened.

Alabaster was strewn back on a piece of furniture, her eyes closed and her face aimed towards the ceiling. She made no indication that she’d even noticed Flint and Pyrhic’s entrance, however as they came to the centre of the room she spoke.

“What did you learn?”

Pyrhic spoke quickly and clearly, conveying the key points in so little time that Flint expected Alabaster to bid her stop at any moment. The Princess did not, however, and in under a minute she had been briefed on the entire series of events at the agricore.

“I see. Well, it seems your next destinations are made clear.”

The woman sat up, eyes opening and face falling to a troubled frown.

“What is troubling you, lady Alabaster?” Pyrhic asked, surprising Flint by the unmasked concern in her voice. Alabaster didn’t look at the woman as she answered.

“It would be foolish to take her at her word, but if the leader of the Guillotines was telling the truth, then it sounds to me as though there’s a Demigod in the city pulling the strings of its criminal underworld.”

“Would the organisers not have noticed such an Immortal?” Pyrhic asked. Alabaster merely shook her head.

“If they didn’t use their magic? No, not with so many other mystics providing interference. It’d take a Deity to sense even a Demigod in this mass. Still, you’ve produced several high-value points of inquiry. Excellent work, Pyrhic.”

The assistant nodded politely at the Princess’ words, yet Flint was sure he caught a glimpse of her grinning as her head was bowed.

“Are there any other forces of comparable size or organisation to the Guillotines present near Bermuda?”

“Not that I know of,” Pyrhic answered. “Though there are several which also have large masses of mystics working in conjunction.”

This seemed to trouble the Princess.

“Hm, I see. Very well, I have no further questions. The two of you are dismissed.”

It may have been the off-handed way she said it, or perhaps that the turn of phrase was so reminiscent of his own past superiors. Whatever the cause, something about those words sparked in Flint a sudden and intense rage at Alabaster.

As Pyrhic left, closing the door behind her, he remained where he was and spoke.

“We ran into some trouble, you know. A bunch of gangers. Your assistant saw men die with her own eyes, from metres away. And judging by her reaction I’d say it was for the first time. What do you think of that?”

His challenge was clearly not lost on the Princess. The woman got to her feet before answering, drawing herself up to her full height- greater than Flint’s by a hand- as she spoke.

“I think that it’s an unfortunate risk, and an unfortunate event, but one that Pyrhic will not fail to grasp is necessary. I would have thought that you of all people would know better than to protect others from their duty, Wrathman.”

Flint felt the anger redouble inside him.

“It’s not her duty though is it, she’s an assistant.”

“And today she assisted me, completing a task precious few had the opportunity and skills to complete, and gathering vitally important information which may well prove instrumental in bettering the world.”

“And did she sign up for that duty when she agreed to serve you?” He snarled, then continued before she replied. “No need to answer, I already know she didn’t- because she didn’t ever get the chance to decide whether she would work under you, did she? I was being too nice calling her your assistant. Slave is the right term.”

Alabaster’s voice grew quiet.

“I have given Pyrhic six opportunities to be freed over the years, you know. She turned all of them down, saying she was quite content to continue serving me. And every time she did, she assured me that she’s willing to do anything for the betterment of Olympus.”

That struck Flint dumb, but only for a few moments.

“Why in the name of Dagor would she refuse the offer of freedom?”

“Because she knows full well that if I were to be discovered violating the ancient customs set down by our Ancestors and elevating a slave, it would reflect poorly on Olympus as a whole.”

“Don’t be so stupid,” he snapped. “It’s because she knows it’d reflect poorly on you, she doesn’t care about Olympus.”

That drew anger from the woman, bringing it to boil free of her stoic exterior like pus frothing at a wound.

“Watch your tongue. I would expect you of all people to recognise a sense of duty in others, Wrathman.”

To hear her say such a thing sent Flint laughing out loud.

“You can’t be serious,” he gasped- awed by the sheer naivety of such a woman. “Do you honestly think we sacrifice our lives by the score because we want to? Out of loyalty for some fucking nation across the ocean that cared for us so little, it’d happily shit us out into Gol?”

Alabaster stared at him with pure venom.

“Watch it.” She hissed. Those two words were more than enough to let Flint know he was stepping on dangerous territory, and the curling of her fists let him know exactly what kind of danger it might be.

And yet Flint couldn’t help but carry on, compelled by some sudden madness born from a lifetime of toeing the line with idiotically patriotic officers.

“Piss off, you stuck up bitch.” He spat. “Don’t think that just because you’re happy to send as many people as you need to into the pit while sitting back and living in the lap of luxury, they’re fine going along. Wrathmen don’t fight for your shitty notion of a perfect world, we fight because if we don’t, it’s our friends who pay the price. Of course you wouldn’t know anything about that. Your specialty is sending others to their deaths from afar, not marching alongside them.”

She moved so quickly, Flint barely had time to react. His null field erupted around him, yet felt no resistance in the form of magic to extinguish, and Alabaster’s fist struck him like a hammer. He saw stars dance before his eyes as the blow landed, his head flooding with the hazy numbness he’d become well accustomed to experiencing after great impacts.

Stumbling away, he threw up his hands to fend her off- desperate to buy the seconds he needed to form a proper defence. Alabaster grabbed his forearms, her fingers closing around him like vices, and continued barreling forwards.

Alabaster was a woman, a teenage girl, and yet she stood four inches taller than Flint, and she’d been moving impressively fast. He found himself entirely unable to remain rooted as she forced him backwards, and a moment later his shoulders slammed painfully against the wall.

His arms went to splay themselves reflexively, and by the time Flint stopped them they’d already given way enough for Alabaster to move her hands past and close them around Flint’s neck. He gagged as she squeezed, then felt hot breath on his face as she moved her face in close to speak with gritted teeth.

“You know nothing about me, you ignorant piece of filth.” She murmured. Her voice was quiet and low, yet practically quivering with barely-contained fury. Her every word sent specks of spittle to fall on Flint’s face.

He tried to pry her hands apart with his own, yet found he didn’t have the leverage to break her grip. She was incredibly strong, even for her size.

As though she weren’t even aware of his efforts, she continued speaking.

“You don’t know what I’ve sacrificed. What it took for me to get to where I am. You have no fucking idea what I’ve been through, or what I’ve seen, or what I need to do each day for the betterment of Olympus. You’ve never had your entire body rendered a slab of meat for thousands, you’ve never had to wake up knowing that if you aren’t at your sharpest, men could die for your shortcomings. You’ve never had to live month after month being force-fed books and flogged if you couldn’t recount every word.”

Flint heard his heart pounding in his ears, and he raised his elbow to bring it down on the woman’s wrists- no longer concerned with hurting her. No longer concerned with anything, save preventing himself from dying.

He was Flint Locke, best marksman in Wrath. He wasn’t going to get strangled to death two thousand leagues from the front line.

And yet just before he could finish the motion, snap the girl’s joint like a twig underfoot, he caught the look in her eyes and froze. Her lip trembled as tears streamed down her cheeks, eyes brimming with a seemingly endless mass of them and warped by anguish.

Her whispered words cut into Flint more keenly than any bayonet or orc shiv.

“You’ve never been strapped down, taken apart and put back together in whatever shape people thought would be nicest to look at.” She said through barely-suppressed sobs. He couldn’t tell whether her tears fell from anger or simply the memory, and he had no interest in finding out.

Just as he was about to let his elbow fall, Alabaster’s arms dropped down of their own volition. Flint gasped at the sudden lack of constriction around his throat, taking in deep gulps of air as he stared at the woman. She stepped back a pace, then another, her eyes never leaving his.

As they stared, he saw her face return to a state of control. The tears stopped welling up, her jaw stopped clenching, her lips became still and stable. He’d never have doubted what he saw, though. Not with the clear wetness of her cheeks, or the veins clearly visible across the whites of her eyes.

“Get out,” she said. Flint didn’t move, simply remaining still- stupefied. Her voice came again, this time clearer and louder.

“Leave, before I have your throat cut by the Kin.”

And Flint knew he’d broken a taboo. Seen Alabaster in a state of vulnerability, forbidden to all. The danger of the situation, made keenly evident by her stare alone, was not lost on him, and without hesitating another instant he turned and began walking out.

He was only halfway to the door when his walk turned into full flight.