The Outwalls resembled a ghost town. The streets were empty, and the homes were deathly quiet. However, Grim could feel the eyes on him, watching from cracks in boards and from between shutters. The presence of life given away by the creak of a floorboard or the cry of a child followed by a smack. By far, the most noticeable noise was the marching of boots as Grim lead a contingent of fifty guardsmen through the streets. The men fingered their weapons nervously and held their shields at the ready, waiting for the telltale twang of bowstrings.

Kid was at Grim’s side, pointing the way through various back alleys and twisting roads. A pack of mangy looking dogs chewed on a corpse in the middle of the road. At their approach, the beasts bared their fangs in challenge but thought better of it and ran off. It was the only resistance they met on their march. Grim was utterly relieved when they arrived outside an unremarkable hovel and Kid told him that this was the place.

Grim turned to the men behind him. “Set up a perimeter and make sure we aren’t taken by surprise.”

He donned his helmet as he approached the door, remembering very well the arrows springing from the mansion yesterday. Before he could knock, a wooden slat on the door was opened, revealing a pair of eyes with black veins running through them. The dark lines in the man’s eyes seemed to writhe.

He waited for Grim to speak. “I’m here to see Marc.”

The man stared at him. “And if he doesn’t want to see you?”

“Then I’ll make my own entrance and return with your head as answer.”

The eyes didn’t even blink at Grim’s threat, only staring, considering. “You come alone.”

“Five men,” Grim countered.

The man considered. “Five men,” he agreed.

The slat snapped shut and was followed by a metallic click. The door opened, revealing a pile of torches and reinforced wooden bracings against the walls. Grim let out a low whistle. They would have needed a battering ram to get inside. Grim tapped five men on the shoulder and gestured for them to follow. They looked nervous and Grim shared the feeling, though he didn’t let it show.

As he led them through the door, the Son lit a torch, illuminating the dark room and revealing a pit dug into the ground and a ladder leading into darkness. The Son walked to the edge of the pit and looked at Grim. His eyes were even more disturbing behind the mask of a wolf.

“Follow me, if you would.”

Grim looked into the black pit and sighed as the man began climbing down the ladder. He grabbed the wooden rungs and followed, five guardsmen in tow. As the open door disappeared above him, Grim’s eyes locked with Kids through the doorway. The boy looked afraid. Then he was gone, replaced with hardpacked dirt that soon gave way to stone. The clack of boots below him told Grim that the Son had reached the bottom. Grim hit the floor with a metallic clank soon after.

He faced a long tunnel stretching into darkness. Grim shuddered at the thought of charging down it and hearing the rock give way over head. The Son led the way, telling them to follow his steps exactly. He led them on a zig zagging path down the tunnel, avoiding the obvious paths in favor of small side passages. Grim soon found himself hopelessly lost but he supposed that was the point.

The tunnel abruptly ended, giving way to a wider hall with wooden paneling and thick pillars holding up the ceiling. It seemed to stretch endlessly into the distance. The Son led him down the branching hallways of a floor plan nearly as disorientating as Bleakridge castle itself. It took ten minutes of wandering before the man stopped before a door and gestured for them to enter.

Grim opened the latch and pulled the door wide, revealing a small room furnished with only a single desk with a chair on either side. Marc sat on the far side, eyes a smooth carapace of black. the sight was unsettling and made it impossible to tell exactly where the man was looking. Was he looking him in the eye? Or over his shoulder at the man about to stab him in the back? Grim forced himself not to look over his shoulder as he approached the chair.

His gaze drifted over the ten Sons arrayed behind Marc, each bearing a mask. Kneeling before the Sons were a half dozen Greencloaks bearing the armament of officers. Gabriel was among them. The men were battered and bloody and Grim doubted all the bruises were from the failed assault yesterday. Gags adorned their mouths, but they looked up at Grim with pleading eyes. Grim tore his gaze from them, returning it to Marc as he took a seat before the man.

Footsteps behind him announced the entrance of Grim’s men then the door clicked shut behind them. Silence reigned, neither side willing to be the first to speak. Grim stared into the dark and as he looked into Marc’s eyes, the shadows in the corners of his own seemed to writhe. Unsettling was an insufficient word.

Grim told himself this was going nowhere but he knew he’d broke first. “You seem well prepared for my arrival.”

Marc folded his hands on the table. “I knew you were coming from the moment you left the inner city. Too few men to do any damage but too many to be easy pickings. And a suspiciously small man leading the way. How did he survive Thorne?”

Grim snorted. “He swam to where ships disappear over the horizon and came back. Just like you asked.”

Marc’s eyes glinted in the torchlight and his head tilted back. Did he just roll his eyes? Grim didn’t think he’d ever know for sure. “It doesn’t matter. I have doubts he’ll make it back to the castle with you. Anything can happen in the Outwalls”

Grim frowned. He’d expected as much. All it took was one well-placed arrow. Marc continued, “Enough about him though, what brings you here Thorne? I hardly expect this is a social call.”

“The Earl has a deal to propose.”

Marc snorted. “Let me guess, I should fall to my knees before him and beg for protection against southern retribution?”

“Don’t be a fool, there will be a reckoning not just for you, but for all the Rills for what you did.”

Marc grinned. “So, he does want to offer me protection. We seemed to do just fine without his protection yesterday.”

“And the people above your head? How will they fare without his protection while you hide in your hole? Those people you claim to protect.” Marc’s face darkened. Grim continued, “What happens to them if the Greencloaks decide they’re not worth the cost of keeping alive? If a legion or even two came to Bleakridge, all they would need to do to end you is close the gates and watch you starve. The Outwalls would tear itself apart within two weeks. If we let them entrench themselves here again, we will never dislodge them.”

Marc was silent for a long moment. “Let’s say your assessment is in the realm of possibility. What exact terms would the Earl suggest?”

“You leave the inner city in peace and don’t disrupt commerce. In return-”

Marc cut him off with a laugh. “I’m sorry. Is he asking me not to kill southerners in a negotiation about killing an army of southerners?”

“There’s a clear distinction between killing residents of your own city and an invading army.”

“Tell that to Greencloaks then. I think they missed that lesson in basic training.” Marc waved his hand dismissively. “And don’t pretend the Earl has a soft heart. It’s insulting that you think I’d believe that. I served with the man in the first war. I’ve seen what he’s capable of.”

Grim clenched his jaw. He’d been wrong to think this would be a simple matter to resolve. “If we were to let the southerners here be massacred, then every southerner with a title would be set against us from the onset. It’s hard to fight a war when your enemy holds every castle in your own lands.”

Marc paused to consider that. “If we start the fight, the people would rise.”

“And if they don’t, you and I are dead.”

Marc stared intently at Grim. “He would free us, only to have foreigners control half our country?” Grim grimaced. When he put it that way, it sounded less than appealing. Marc kept staring. “There’s more you’re not telling me.”

Grim didn’t answer.

“Why, after all these years, is he just now deciding to fight back? I find it hard to believe I helped him find his courage.” A slow grin spread across Marc’s face. “He’s been planning this hasn’t he?”

Grim gritted his teeth. That was the one thing he wasn’t supposed to let slip “And it would be very inconvenient if the king were to get word of that earlier than necessary. Things might be found to make such claims more than idle rumor.”

Marc looked over his shoulder at the Sons. “You will all speak nothing of this conversation.”

Grim sighed inwardly. The fact Marc felt the need to do that told Grim they were fucked, if not today then tomorrow. He fought the urge to finger his axe. It might be better to cut his losses and make sure nothing said here left this room. His eyes flicked across the Sons and reason crushed that flight of fancy. Even if he and his men could defeat twice their number, god only knew how many other Sons were lurking in the halls outside.

Marc rested his elbows on the table. “So, in return for my people’s restraint and helping you drive off the first Venaran assault, what do I get in return?”

Grim leaned forward. “You get to continue living free from the Greencloaks.”

“And if that’s not enough?”

“Just tell me what you want. This is getting tiresome.”

Marc’s eyes flashed and Grim didn’t think the man rolled them this time. It was a long moment before he spoke. “I don’t want to serve a Thorne King. I want the clans to be reinstated and the king to be elected as it was in the years before the war. Your father was given his position by Venar but, if anything that is a reason he shouldn’t rule.”

Grim could hardly believe the man. “And let me guess, you would expect to be named chief of your clan?”

Marc grinned. “Clever boy.”

“Then who would lead the other three in this scenario?”

Marc shrugged. “As to the legacy of Olg Ironclaw and Ralor Beastmaster I couldn’t say. But the legacy of Yerna Reapersdottir is already accounted for. The chief of the skulls still lives.”

Grim raised an eyebrow. “And how would you know that?”

“Because he’s one of my benefactors. Let’s just say that one of the legions who ventured into the great northern forest never came out. Speculation abounds.” Marc leaned forward. “So Thorne, what say you?”

Grim took a deep breath and released it slowly. Could he even say yes to such a thing? The whole point of this war was to return to how things once were, wasn’t it? Grim never thought the course of history could rest on the tip of his tongue. His breath ended. “The electing of a king will happen one year from the day the clan chiefs are named. Until then, my father serves as regent and the Sons will be subjects not allies. You will follow his command without question.”

Marc stared. “Six months. God knows how long it will take to name the clan leaders, let alone decide on a king.”

Grim considered his words, his eyes drifting to the Greencloak prisoners behind Marc. “What do you plan on doing with them?”

“I was hoping you’d be so kind as to deliver their heads to Longreen for me.”

The men began writhing in their bonds but the Sons behind them held them in place by their shoulders. “No. I won’t,” Grim stated simply.

Marc raised an eyebrow. Grim continued, “If I accept your terms then you are subject to my authority as well as my father’s. The bloodshed will cease.” Grim’s eyes locked on Gabriel. “And when the war begins they may go free to decide what side they fall on.”

Marc snorted. “You’re a fool to think this will matter to them, they have no sense of gratitude or honor.”

Grim shrugged “Six men matter little in the grand scheme of things.”

Marc snorted. “Unless they’re the ones who stab you in the back.” He rose to his feet and extended his arm.

Grim followed his example and clasped Marc by the arm. The man’s veins writhed beneath his grip. Marc bared his fangs in a grin. Grim matched it.

Marc released his grip. “I await your orders.”