Pushing through the creaking door, Vallerian entered the warehouse. The entry space was large, at least ten paces in each direction. A single flickering bonfire sat in a dirt pit surrounded by broken plank flooring in the centre of the room. The fire cast warm light on the dirty sheets that hung between pillars used to mark out living quarters. Vallerian had seen this a few times, co-opted warehouse sectioned off into mini shanty-towns. Only the gang leaders tended to get their own room just for them. That was fine enough as far as Vallerian was concerned. It tended to make it easy to pick out his targets. What would Celeste say? The gods bless us in small ways every day?

Stepping into the room with clanging bottles did seem to catch some attention though. No fewer than two dozen eyes fell upon him. Sharp hollow faces looking for a target for their rage eyed him suspiciously. A uniquely mixed bunch, many of the gangs he had found tended to be of only one race. Here Vallerian found Korek and Khazimi beside Jöln and Fereni. It seemed they were too desperate to even be prejudiced anymore. Just misogynistic from their refusal to join Tabitha. Vallerian jostled his crate with a forceful push.

“Which one of you sorry louts could use a drink? Cause I know I sure could!” Vallerian shouted at them, and their faces turned from suspicion to appreciation. One by one the whole lot of them stumbled over, grabbed a drink, and wandered back to their seats. Not a single one mentioned not knowing him. The more of these idiots he met, the more an oddity the intelligence of Celeste and Kriss began to seem. Stumbling away, the men tended to fall back into the same groups of four or five. These members were likely some sorry collection of those left behind from his previous endeavours this week. The few remaining street thugs that had committed to this life and refused to join Tabitha or the Cult were all coalescing together it seemed. It was no surprise to Vallerian that every person here was a man. Tabitha seemed to be struggling with ingratiating herself to that half of the population.

Before long, people were drinking and shouting and cheering in their small huddles. Well, everyone save the two that guarded one particular section of the cloth wall. Vallerian grinned. They really did make it too easy to find where their leader hid. Looking down at the bottle in his own hand, not a single drop of it having touched his tongue, Vallerian shook his head.

“Any moment now…” He muttered under his breath.

One of the men slumped over. A few people tried to raise alarm over it, but they all were just too tired. “Good night.” Vallerian whispered with a grin. The Violet Eye plant of the Shaded Lands was famed for its rich pigments. More importantly, and less known, was its use as a sleeping agent. Quite a powerful one, judging by the fact that nearly everyone in the room was now slumped over unconscious. He’d have to remember to thank Lyleria for that tip.

“Y… You! What’s going on here!” One of the guards who had not drank called out. A beanpole of a Fereni man with gaunt cheeks and pointed stick he clung to like it was Feren’s own spear. Vallerian strode towards the two men, empty hands held out to the side.

“Obviously I'm looking to join your illustrious order.” He lied to them. The first man charged with a grunt, pointed stick aimed at Vallerian’s chest. He charged recklessly, thrusting his shaking spear out ahead of him. Vallerian side-stepped the panicked thrust and grabbed the haft near the head. Pulling the man forward by the stick, the guard tumbled, letting go of his weapon. Vallerian grabbed the spear tightly, twisted it around behind him, then swung it directly into the back of the man’s skull. With a loud crack the man collapsed to the packed dirt floor.

Vallerian looked to the other guard, a lean Khazimi man with the pallid features of kiyra leaf addiction creeping into his face. Vallerian held the now half-broken spear up towards the Khazimi. “Did you want to take a shot?” The man dropped the dagger he held and ran to the door. “Good.” Vallerian grinned, snapping the spear in half under his boot so he only held an arm’s length of sharpened wood.

Stepping under the cloth entryway, Vallerian entered into a smaller makeshift room with a solid wall on one side. A candle burned on a table in front of Vallerian, though most of the warm orange-light in the room was provided by the bonfire of the main room being diffused by the rough canvas. Across the table from Vallerian, sat a chubby middle aged Fershya man.

“What in the Chaos is going on…” He snarled at Vallerian, before trailing off at the sight of a stranger. “Who… Who are you?” His voice trembled. Vallerian rolled his eyes. With men like these it was easy to see how the Cult and Tabitha had garnered so much power. Even a half intelligent man could rule these streets if this was the standard.

“Your last sight.” Vallerian said coldly. The man's eyes shot wide, then he tried to scramble from his seat. Vallerian didn’t let him. Placing a boot on the table's edge, Vallerian pushed, lodging the man between table and wall. The Fershya struggled for a moment, squealing like a pig in a trap, before pulling out a dagger from under the table and waving it madly in front of him. Vallerian chuckled at the desperate display. With a grunt Vallerian stepped atop the table, then slammed his boot down into the man's dagger hand. The dagger fell away. And with a crunch, bone and flesh were ground into the table. The Fershya howled, but Vallerian cut it short by placing his sharpened stick against the man’s throat. Just as he was about to thrust the point into the man, Vallerian held back.

“ppp…. Please I’ll give you anything…” The man blubbered, but it was not the pathetic whining that gave Vallerian pause. He was doing the right thing. It had to be done, he had to kill these people. “I… I don’t… I don’t want to die.” He whimpered pathetically.

Vallerian slapped the wood across the man’s temple, shutting him up for a moment. This was the third one of these pathetic thugs he’d hesitated with this week. This was necessary, reminded himself. He could hear her voice whispering in the back of his head again. Imploring him not to do it. Whispering it was wrong.

“Shut up Celeste!” He growled. What if she saw him now? What had she said to him on the street after those thugs attacked them? His bloody hands? Vallerian looked down at his hands, strangling the wooden shaft. The soft calf skin gloves were clean. This was the right thing to do. He tightened his grip. His father had told him there was a necessity to violence. His teacher had taught him to channel that violence to use. All this disgusting crime, these pathetic lowlifes he was ridding the city of? They were wrong, and he was simply fixing it all. This was necessary. The world was not the peaceful place Celeste thought it was and…

“I have money. I have…”

“SHUT UP!” Vallerian screamed. “LET ME THINK.” Vallerian had to think. No, he had to not think. That was what his teacher had taught him. Don’t think about it. Just kill. Don’t think. Kill.

Vallerian thrust. The wood split the man’s throat. With a pathetic gargle the man's life flowed out. His desperate hands clawing at the wood in his throat. His fingers scraped the wooden shaft, ripping at it weakly. Only for a moment. Then he stopped.

This was what had to be done. With his actions, Tabitha could be controlled. With control of Tabitha, they had Southshore. With Southshore behind Celeste, she could rise strong. With Celeste's rising, Crysilla would be satisfied. He would be safe. Celeste would understand when she was older. She was just too young now. What had Celeste said to him the night they had met Tabitha? ‘Is a tree above the dirt in which it grows its roots?’ He had an answer now. Yes. Because he was the dirt, and he saw her far above him. The blood he spilled would feed that tree.

Vallerian lowered his gloved hands into the blood that seeped from the man’s throat. It soaked into them, staining the cream-coloured hide gloves crimson. He shoved the corpse aside and looked up at the wall. With a trembling hand he reached up. This was necessary. He was doing the right thing. With blood dripping down his arm, he pressed finger to wall and began to write.

Finished with his grim work, Vallerian took a step back. This would help, he thought. This could help against Celeste's other enemies. The blood now clung to his gloves, rivulets crawling up to his elbows. This would avoid more death. He could avoid more death.

‘X comes for all’ In crimson letters, written above the now cold corpse. It was right. It was necessary. He kept repeating that lie the whole walk home. Necessary. Right. With every step, with every clench of his fists, blood dripped from his hands. Necessary. The blood, now and forever, stained his calf skin gloves. Right.