Smoke and War

The Past

"Honor is a luxury only those with power can afford." -from First Principles by Ven Praxus

"There is no possible way a ten-year-old kid like you has that amount of wadegrass. You only find the stuff near the foot of Grey Mountain," said the middle-aged papermaker.

Her rough hands pushed thick fiber in a giant barrel of sludgewater inside her shop. She was all edges, her posture clearly saying she wanted nothing more in the world than to be left alone.

Wick ignored the nervous boy standing next to him and leveled his gaze at the woman. The boy was Trip, and if Trip followed the plan, he would finally have a home. Wick cleared his throat. "I'm not ten, Ramara."

The new year had just passed, meaning everyone in the nation became another year older. Ramara pulled her hands out of the water, letting the fibers settle. She would then pull them out on a flat screen to be dried.

Wick had seen her go through the entire process in their previous discussion. He rarely needed another conversation to close the deal, but she was particularly stubborn. Luckily, he had Trip with him to soften her sharp-edged heart. With a haircut, shower from the bathhouse, and new tunic, the boy looked more than respectable.

"Ten. Eleven. Either way, you're a kid. There's no way you got a full five barrels of wadegrass, let alone one. " Ramara dried her hands on the towel hanging from her belt apron.

"I had help," Wick said, trying to not roll his eyes at the obvious. In their last meeting, he had already explained how all of the orphans in Outlast answered to him now, how they picked the wadegrass on the outskirts of Grey Forest under Scout's guidance.

He wasn't annoyed by Ramara's resistance. When Wick had the time for it, he enjoyed a tough sale. But he had little time for small pleasures these days.

The woman lived alone, and it was clear she liked it that way. When Scout did his reconnaissance on her a few weeks earlier, it had been reported she was a stubborn recluse and the third-generation papermaker in her family.

Ramara chuckled, her eyes flicking between Wick and the nervous boy next to him. "And this is him?"

Wick nodded to the broad-shouldered Trip, who stumbled forward. Trip's eyes were glued to the floor. Ramara walked toward them and knelt in front of Trip, inspecting him as if he were nothing more than a mule. But Wick saw a glint of something else in her eyes.

She asked, "How can I know that you have five barrels?"

Wick snorted. "Because I've been making similar deals with most of the other craftsmen in the city, and gossip will reach even a hermit like you. You know I don't go back on my deals. You know I'm good to my word."

"You're a kid."

"I'm a kid who organized all the orphans to move out of the city. Or did you not notice how dogs stopped mysteriously disappearing in dark alleys? I'm also the same kid who took those orphans to help forage at least five barrels of wadegrass, which I know people of your craft value highly."

Ramara seemed annoyed by Wick's bravado, but he knew it was necessary to state the facts as they were. He needed to be seen for his accomplishments and not his age if this was going to work. She said, "I need time to think about this. Adopting a boy, let alone taking on an apprentice, is not an easy decision to make."

Wick rolled his eyes. "The grass fibers are tightly stored in the barrels. But, I've been told by some of the sailors at the docks a storm is coming in about a week. That's five to six days of high humidity, and I don't think the wadegrass will survive that."

Her nose wrinkled. She turned back to Trip and sniffed him. "At least you washed him up before you came here."

She could pretend to be the gruff loner as much as she wanted, but he saw the hint of a sisterly smile on her face.

Wick stayed silent. He knew he had her. The harder a customer demanded they didn't want something, the more likely it was they did.

Ramara continued, still talking to Wick as if Trip was just a product, but her voice had softened. Wick let her talk. It was best to let the customers sell themselves. "I've seen the kid around. He always looked a little gaunt for his size. But look at him now. A little chubbiness makes him kinda cute."

The entire while, Trip's gaze had been glued to the floor, just like how Wick taught him. Wick coughed into the sleeve of his jacket as the signal. On cue, Trip looked up and stared into Ramara's eyes, a faint smile on his lips. He whispered, "Are you going to give me a home?"

Ramara's hard features melted at Trip's chubby face. She nodded silently, holding back tears. Wick had to stop himself from breaking out into a fit of laughter. It was just too easy.

He walked over to her work table and placed the two documents he had been holding, spreading the papers flat.

Ramara placed a gentle hand on Trip's shoulder and said, "Wait here a minute, boy."

She walked over to the work table and examined the documents. Her eyebrows knitted together. "You're demanding a lot for five barrels of fiber, even if it is wadegrass. Did the others have the same contract?"

Wick was used to this. Customers always tried sneaking in doubts just before ink bled the paper. Most people were uncomfortable with change, especially if it cost them something. He sighed. "Of course. The details of each bargain is different since I'm dealing with different craftsmen, but the rules are the same."

Ramara picked up the first paper and read a part of it aloud, paraphrasing bits. "In exchange for five barrels of wadegrass, I must provide shelter, one hot meal per day, and training in my craft for the young boy until he turns sixteen."

"Trip. His name is Trip. And with your skill, you could make at least one hundred low-grade scrolls," Wick said, extending the pen in his hand to her.

"More like two hundred. My skills have always been damn better than the supplies I've been given to work with." Her bravado quickly turned to wariness as if remembering she was dealing with an eleven-year-old boy. "You're full of surprises, aren't you?"

Ramara took the pen, but kept talking. "Trip. Deepest Hells. Who comes up with Trip? I'll give him a better name. However, I don't have another bed for him, let alone a cot. That costs money."

Wick shrugged. "I'll take care of that."

She paused, crossed her arms, and inhaled a deep breath. Shook her head in disbelief. "You're still a boy. You should be awkward, full of pimples, and occupied with pretty girls or handsome boys, not brokering legal deals. Where in the Cursed Crawl did you come from?"

Wick frowned at that. He knew what love was, and could see it in others as clear as an open book. But he didn't feel any notion close to what she described.

He didn't bother mentioning how the documents weren't technically legal just yet. Why bother correcting her? Let Ramara believe what she wanted to believe. He'd been having trouble making the papers official by Outlast's notary. Lanton probably had something to do with that. The older boy had been providing neat little roadblocks for Wick since his return to Outlast.

Ramara hesitated, looked at Trip, flashed him a smile, set the paper on the table, and signed it. She groaned, "I just realized. He probably doesn't even know how to read."

Trip brightened up at that, and began to recite every letter in Merchant. Ramara stared at the kid like he was a dog playing the guitar. Wick chuckled. "If you read the third paragraph again, you can leave his reading lessons to me."

Ramara's bewildered look was now on Wick. "You taught the orphans how to read? Why?"

Technically, it had been Scout who gave the reading lessons, but Wick had taught Scout. But he wanted to wrap things up quickly. "I like to underpromise and overdeliver. You expected a roughed-up orphan with no manners, but you'll be getting a half-educated boy who is willing to learn and never piss you off because he is too afraid to go back on the streets."

He turned to Trip. "Isn't that right, Trip?"

Trip's back straightened, wonder and fear open on his chubby face. "Yes, sir."

Wick grinned proudly. It had been a long six months since he came back to Outlast, but every seed planted would grow into happy money-trees. Ramara shot a look at Wick as if he were a snake. She said, "I see that look on your face. You don't care about these kids at all. Why are you doing this?"

"Not true." They were his investments. He gave her a patient look. "I'll speak slowly since you don't seem to get the obvious, I have fifty grateful orphans at my disposal. I help them, they help me. It's that simple."

Ramara's eyes widened and her body shook. Wick had a good hard laugh at that. He folded the first paper she signed back in his side satchel, then pushed the second one forward. It was a list of names under a few paragraphs of text.

She took her time reading it once she collected herself. After a few minutes of silence, she said, "I get it. You're smart, but this is a ridiculous proposal. Don't get me wrong, I like what you're trying to accomplish. It's even noble, but it's never going to happen. You need a sponsor from a head member of a guild. There are no guilds around here, especially with Graves about."

"Let me worry about that," Wick said.

Ramara signed the paper. Trip ran up to her and hugged the woman at the waist. She held him as if he had been in her life for years. Despite how clear it was to Wick, love was still odd to look at. Wick let them have their quiet moment.

When Trip took a step back, Ramara cleared her throat and asked, "You'll bring the barrels of wadegrass tomorrow before the humidity rises?"

Wick grinned his dragon's grin and nodded to Trip. The boy hurried out the entrance to the shop.

Wick put the pen and paper away in his jacket, picked up his spade leaning against the worktable, and began to walk outside. "Why wait for tomorrow? The barrels are outside."

When they were outside the shop, Wick enjoyed the slack-jawed awe on Ramara's face shift quickly to suspicion. The ten orphans and Trip stood next to ten wooden barrels beside a nearly empty cart. On the cart was a thick blanket and pillow.

"You had the barrels here already?" she accused, realizing she had been played like a fiddle. "Where did you get the cart and barrels and blankets for all this?"

"Goods from my other deals," Wick explained. "You get five. I brought ten since I like to underpromise and overdeliver. But I'd hate to force my tired little street rats to put the barrels back on the cart and lug it back to our compound outside the city. It took us four bells to get it here."

That wasn't true. They had left the carts alongside the other merchant carts. No one messed with the merchant carts, not even the guards. That was Graves' territory.

Ramara let out a hearty laugh deep from her belly that reminded Wick so much of his own dad, it ached him. After another round of haggling, Trip was given a safe home and apprenticeship, and Wick's pouch was a few iron pennies heavier.

The sight of Trip gratefully clutching his clean pillow, blanket, and Ramara's hand was a nice feeling, but wasn't nearly as satisfying as the knowledge that Wick was closer to taking over Outlast.

He helped the other orphans push their cart through the cobblestone streets. People were now familiar with the odd sight. Wick had become a known entity, and he liked the attention. Being a curiosity to fuel rumors was just another shield to protect himself from Lanton's reach.

Now that people knew who the curly-haired boy with the spade was, his disappearance or direct harm would bring uncomfortable questions toward the mayor's mansion. From Wick's talks with Scout, it seemed Lanton valued how people thought of him.

Wick imagined the entire city of Outlast, and a detailed map that showed height along with width and length appeared in his view. Thymesia helped him visualize the city perfectly and was crucial to his plans. Never had his mind felt clearer.

He had brought the orphans together. That only took a few days with his promise of food and a plan to give them all a home. It took another week to convince them all to move outside the city and near Grey Forest. If hadn't been for Scout's surprising charisma, they never would have left.

Scout was now the head of the orphans. The fact that the boy was another greenhair like Pebbles had helped smooth the transition. Where Pebbles ruled with fear and strength, Scout guided with patience and intelligence.

Wick was fine with that. Scout was likeable, while Wick was seen just as the mysterious bodyguard who would cast a magical blade at those who misbehaved. Scout had filled into the role of a charismatic leader as if he was born for it. The greenhair obviously cared for the other children.

While Scout dealt with the orphans and kept them in line to carry out Wick's plan, Wick had spent the previous six months making deals with the craftsmen of Outlast. He had the orphans on his side, he could use them to get the craftsmen of the city under his influence. Slowly but surely, Lanton wouldn't be able to touch Wick.

At first, Wick wanted the merchants to take the orphans on as apprentices, but thought better of it. While Outlast was growing steadily, Wick had noticed most of the money wasn't in exports from the city itself. In fact, most of the money came from other places and sailed away from the city docks, leaving only whatever cut went to Graves' organization.

With Thymesia filling in the blanks, Wick had been able to see the odd pattern of Outlast. At the center of these transactions was one constant, Graves. The crime lord had his hands in all of the merchant businesses.

Wick envied the man's network and power, vowing he would have something even better in less than a decade. But he didn't want to step on Graves' feet. Not yet. Ants couldn't fell giants. So, he focused on the craftsmen of the city. Surprisingly, Graves had little to do with them.

"It's like the entire city of Outlast is a fence for black market dealings," Wick mused to himself, impressed. "The merchants are the funnel and the ships are the delivery. Everyone gets a cut."

So, he had struck favorable deals with the local craftsmen, securing homes and apprenticeships for the orphans in exchange for goods foraged near Grey Forest. The first few deals had taken real work, but after word got around about the charcoal-haired boy in the leather jacket, each deal got easier.

This accomplished a few things. Wick gained an army of forever-grateful orphans. Of course, he had to make sure the families or masters they were apprenticed to would treat them well. Scout and Wick had spent countless hours surveying the families and craftsmen from a distance beforehand.

Through the apprentices, Wick would gain relationships and influence with the local craftsmen without once stepping on Graves' foot. Any important information that passed through the apprentice's ear would eventually reach Wick. If any of the craftsmen treated their apprentices poorly, then they had fifty angry former orphans to deal with.

Wick used the money he got to help purchase supplies for his venture. Some of the supplies were used to build fences near Grey Forest. He had Scout order the orphans to catch as many rabbits as they could and encase the rabbits inside. Manna overflowed from Grey Mountain, replenishing the grass and plants nearly overnight for the rabbits to eat. After that, the rabbit population boomed.

It was self-sustaining and several times better than rat meat. That took care of the food for the orphans. Wick was pretty proud of that idea.

He offered all the orphans rabbit stew once per day in the evening around firelight at their homebase. The only catch was they had to listen to lectures given by Scout. Wick spent each morning teaching Scout letters, manners, survival skills, and whatever else he knew.

Scout had surpassed Wick's expectations, rarely needing lessons repeated. Now that the boy was no longer under Pebbles, he flourished in his new role as leader. The other orphans trusted him more than they did Pebbles because they knew the weakness of his body. From their view, Scout had been the worst of them, but somehow leashed Wick as a loyal servant.

The appearance of power was a kind of power in itself, and Wick was happy to let Scout walk in those shoes.

Even the children with apprenticeships would come to the afternoon lectures for the extra meal since their masters were only obligated to give them one meal per day. They chatted with each other before each short lesson, growing closer because of it.

Scout seemed to enjoy keeping the children still and engaged. It was a fun challenge for him, like an ever-shifting puzzle. If one of them ever got too rowdy, a stern look from Wick was all it took to get them back in line. They knew what Cut could do.

When the lessons were over and the stew was eaten, the orphans who didn't have apprenticeships yet would sleep in the underground homes they had dug out on Wick's instruction.

Some of the apprentices still opted to sleep with the orphans. Wick guessed they weren't used to a roof over their heads yet. The safety in numbers gave them comfort.

Moving the children to the outskirts of Grey Forest killed a few birds with one stone. First, it made them feel a part of something bigger than themselves. They no longer had a reason to feel alone.

Second, his investment would bring several skilled craftsmen under his influence in the future. Even if his plan with the signed list of names didn't work out, the work and money he put into securing homes for the orphans would bring him influence and power.

Most importantly, the orphans had all agreed to give five percent of their future income to him. Of course, they had no idea what that meant now, but that was a lot of money. More money for the hoard.

Wick had thought his dream of taking the wormhole to Glimmerrest was the peak of what his imagination could muster. That boy six months ago was an entirely different person, smaller in every way compared to who he was now.

"Above all Skills and Traits and ancient magics is the most powerful force which moves effortlessly with time," Wick had once stated in one of his morning lectures to Scout. "Do you know what that is?"

Ever the perfect student, Scout waited patiently for the answer, his eyes sharp as blades. Scout would spend the day digesting the lessons, figuring out ways to simplify the words so the other kids could absorb them.

"That force," Wick said, pausing dramatically, "is compound interest. Invest now for the future."

Scout had frowned, stretching his legs like Wick taught him. The half-breed boy would have to work ten times harder than a normal human to earn even an average physique, but he had followed Wick's training program for him diligently. "Where do you come up with this stuff?"

Wick shrugged. "Books from the Sprawler's Guild library mostly."

"It's been years since you've been to a Guild, right? How do you remember it all? I've never met anyone with your brains, not even adults."

"I wasn't always this smart, but my memory got better. After that, it was like the walls in my mind vanished." He had left it at that.

Wick reached the outer walls of Outlast with the cart and children when something odd caught his eye.

The guards were on the towers as usual. But they weren't lazying about as usual. Some looked nervous, casting their gazes toward Grey Mountain.

"Vein," Wick addressed one of the children pushing the cart. The girl rubbed the dirt off her face and snapped to attention. "Take the cart ahead with the others. I'll be right behind."

She nodded and took Wick's spot in front without another word. If it had been Scout who gave the order, a few if not all of them would have offered to act as guard. But word of Wick's mysterious powers spread quick as disease among the children. They knew he could take care of himself. Those rumors alone prevented any of the children from ever attacking him again.

He ran ahead of the cart and to the lone guard at the foot of the gate. The guard was stoic, but his eyes widened slightly.

Wick frowned. He recognizes me, he thought. Something was up. Thymesia helped him with information on the guard. After a brief moment of thought, he chose which angle was best for attack.

"Guard Sokol," Wick said evenly, stopping his jog only a few paces from the man. The guard was young. The reports from the orphans said the man was nineteen. Scars on his face suggested he was one of the few in the city to survive his mandatory military service.

Sokol gripped the pommel of his sword reflexively, then shook his head, probably reminding himself he was dealing with only a child. He was pointedly not looking in the direction of Grey Mountain.

His reaction spoke volumes to Wick. He would use that if he had to. The guard said, "You're the pied piper of orphans. Wick."

Wick asked, "What is happening outside the walls?"

Sokol's eyes darted away before looking back at Wick. "Not your concern."

Wick stopped his anger from snapping. He pointed at the smoke in the distance, rough edges in his quiet tone. "The rabbit fences and cages I built with the children didn't set themselves on fire."

"L-look, kid," Sokol stuttered. "It wasn't our idea. Most of us aren't like them. We were just following orders."

Wick stared at the scars on the guard's face, making it clear exactly what he was looking at. He felt his eyelids drop slowly, his spade tilting in the guard's direction. "You're what, nineteen?"

Sokol's face twisted into confusion. "Yes."

Wick nodded knowingly. "The law of our nation states that all able-bodied young men are obligated to serve in the military for one year. If you have one skill slot unlocked before you are sixteen, that is when you enter your service. The army will provide you a skill. But if you don't have a skill slot unlocked....You didn't have enough SP to unlock one did you?"

Sokol's mouth dropped open a little, but he closed it quickly and nearly snarled. "What in the Hells do you know?"

Wick knew a lot. He kept his heart steady, but he readied Cut in case the man decided putting a sword-shaped hole in a boy was better than reliving his memories of war. "The law also states that if you don't have a skill slot unlocked by sixteen years old, you will be forced into service on your eighteenth year, regardless of if you have a skill slot unlocked. It doesn't matter where you are, as long as you're in the country, you will be portaled to war by forceknights and do your duty. No exceptions."

Sokol was breathing heavily now. Silent.

Wick paused, and let pity glide on his face. "When the forceknights came to Outlast, they dragged you to the front lines didn't they? Right into oread territory. Since you didn't have your skill unlocked, you were a sheep in a den of predators."

The autumn air was cool, but Sokol was sweating. His gaze was both distant and close, Wick's words bringing him back to troubling memories like a drowning man to sea.

Sokol's fingers traced his scars. He whispered, "There was sorcery everywhere. Renley's face was burned off by one of our own, a girl who wasn't used to her skill. Bad aim was all it took to kill my best friend. The oreads made the ground swallow Qin. He was supposed to marry my cousin. My friends are all dead. And blood. More blood than I thought men had in their body."

Wick saw Sokol was in his own little world. He pressed the memory, shaping the guard's fear. "It wasn't fair, was it? Sons of rich merchants and powerful politicians never go to the front lines. They stay behind as 'strategists' or 'advisers', drinking themselves to sleep while you shed blood. "

Sokol shook his head slightly, his voice in disbelief. "No. Some do. Sorcerers from the Skillia come to fight the oread's heavy hitters. Some were younger than me."

Wick figured that was the case. The smoke from the fires lessened, but he stayed with the guard, pushing. He said, "You were just cannon fodder. But that wasn't the worst of it, was it, Sokol? It wasn't just the death of your friends."

Sokol's knees bent, shaking. He stared in horror at his own hands. "The oreads. They look just like us but with skin the color of red clay. We were told they were giant monsters, enemies of the nation. But they aren't. They're like us."

"And then what?" Wick already knew what. He had picked up rumors about what had happened to Sokol from one of the orphans.

"My new platoon stumbled on an oread village. Children. Women. Elderly. We were ordered to kill them. I didn't do it, but I didn't stop it from happening," Sokol whispered.

Wick was getting tired of the man's self-indulgent pity session, but it was useful for the moment. He had a point, and it was time to drive it deep into the man's wounded heart. "They were just following orders, just like the other guards. But you watched. You let it happen. They died, and you did nothing."

Sokol looked up from his hands at Wick, eyes red. "They were just orders. My mother and sister needed me alive, to get back to Outlast. My wages now are barely covering our expenses."

Wick watched the children stop pushing his cart, pointing to the smoke near the edge of Grey Mountain. The orphans ran toward their home. He was sure the other children were safe, but frightened for their lives.

Scout had probably rounded up the children already and moved them farther back. His eyes were sharp enough to track a fly several paces away. Guards with torches would have stuck out like mountains in the distance to him. He would be their hero.

But Wick stayed with Sokol. He saw the crack in all of the guards' faces, doubt slowly replacing their nervousness. Most of the civilians would see the smoke and assume a normal fire. The guards wouldn't ever get caught.

Wick fumed that someone had dared to threaten the tireless hours invested into the children's future, his future.

The other guards had peered over the wall, their sights on Wick. They were listening in on the conversation.

Wick knew who was behind this, but he wanted the man to admit his involvement. More than that, he wanted all the guards to face their shame. They wouldn't have hurt or killed the children, but what they did would add to their nightmares. More importantly, they attacked what was his, and he found a little pleasure in twisting their guilt for his purposes.

He asked, "What were your exact orders, Sokol?"

The guard breathed in heavily. "To burn the fences and rabbit cages you built near Grey Forest. We were told your orphans were plotting some kind of attack on Outlast. It didn't have to be all of us, just as long as the job got done. If we didn't do it, most of us would find our pay cut for not following duty."

He paused, adding, "It was just four men. They got themselves drunk before going there with torches. It's the only way any of us could do it. We were told to not hurt the children. I swear on Etheria's might, the four wouldn't hurt them. The grass near the mountain is filled with manna, so we knew the fires wouldn't spread."

Wick found himself not blaming the guards. Money was everything. It kept their families fed. Honor was a luxury for those with power. But he needed the men to face their decisions head-on, to cast more doubt in Lanton's direction.

He shot a disgusted look at the guards eavesdropping. "Pay? You burned the food supply of starving children and gave them nightmares for the rest of their lives to keep your job? Your duty is to protect. Deepest Hells, I've been told I'm greedy, but this..."

Sokol's face went white.

Wick asked the question to which he already knew the answer, but they needed to know who was the source of this mess. "And who gave the orders?"

"Th-the mayor's son. Lanton."

"And Mayor Kumen had nothing to say about this?"

"The man is bedridden and takes his son's word as gold. He lets the little tyrant do whatever he wants as long as he doesn't get in Graves' way."

Sokol and the guards stared somberly at the dying smoke. They were nervous before. Now, they looked ashamed, contemplative. Wick had planted more doubt in their minds while assuring the children were safe.

He didn't realize his shoulders were tense until he felt them relax. But his anger hadn't lessened with the confirmation that it was the mayor's son once again thwarting his path. His anger had now grown into an ocean of hate of fathomless depths.

Sure, the children were safe. Wick's assets were secure. But this would damage the children's hope for a better future. Their hope was his investment. The faith they had in him and Scout would be difficult to recover, if ever. Some would return back to the city in fear or Lanton for mercy unless Wick did something drastic to secure their loyalty.

This was also a message to the craftsmen of the city partnering with Wick. Besides the merchants and the docks, Outlast belonged to Lanton, and helping Wick was against their best interests.

The mayor's son was cruel enough to order Wick to be beaten and thrown in an amnestic zone, but he hadn't used the guards to do it. Had the orphans told anyone the truth, no one would have believed them. Lanton wasn't all powerful.

But to force the hands of grown adults into burning their homes and food source? That was a kind of power Wick couldn't have ever dreamed of having at that age.

Like all things that cast long shadows, the source of that power was money. The mayor was practically sleeping on a bed of money from the city's taxes.

Wick left Sokol to his own self-pity, walking toward the direction of the dying smoke. It wasn't Wick's job to heal the man. Truth was a razor, and it was up to Sokol and the guards to decide if that edge belonged to a weapon or a scalpel. Either way, Wick would wield the tools he forged from their guilt.

Dark specks in the distance informed him the children were far away from the burning fences.

He had the guard's word the children were safe and had widened the crack in Lanton's reputation with the watchers of the wall.

Wick thought of the four guards he would inevitably encounter on the way to checking the damage of the fires. They were ordered not to harm the children. That meant him, too.

The rage in him wanted to summon Cut on the guards a hundred times. He wouldn't kill them, just make them bleed until they wished they were dead. He was sure they didn't have skills of their own. They may have survived their year in the military, but the nation always took back the skills they lent.

Maiming the guards would send a message back to Lanton.

But his rage was cooled by his mind. The move was too obvious. Wick would look like a monster.

"Ah, clever," Wick muttered to himself. Lanton probably wanted Wick to lash out, to harm the city guards, and Wick was only a few stray thoughts from indulging Lanton's trap.

He reminded himself what the point of all of this was. It wasn't to hurt Lanton. It was to break him.

Wick would take everything from Lanton, his power, his money, and even the crumbs from his table before taking the table itself. But in order to do that, he had to spare the pick, the direct strike, and favor the spade, the long, patient work.

The children were all probably safe. But their faith in him had been crushed with only a single order from a mayor's son. He needed to salvage whatever trust he could with both the children and the craftsmen he had partnered with.

But after that, what could he do against Lanton? The mayor's son had money, and with it, power. Even with an army of children and the support of many of the city's craftsmen, Wick couldn't stand up to that. The mayor let his son do anything with Outlast as long as it didn't get in Graves' way.

Wick stopped his walk as four drunk, nervous-looking guards with torches stared at him in anticipation. He ignored them, turning around to stare at the city.

Graves.

And just like that, Wick had his answer.