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Chapter Text

(Black)

Umbrasyl had been startled to return to Westruun, the dominion promised to him by Thordak, only to find a group of half-giants making themselves comfortable. It wasn’t that important, who was in the city, cities where tiny, fragile things, full of disgusting little creatures that liked to hide things that belonged to him. What was important was that the little pests were afraid of him, more so than any roaming band of barbarian goliaths. When they didn’t surrender on the moment of his return, he thought he’d have to exterminate them all. It wasn’t a task he particularly looked forward to, doing so would melt half the city and then he’d have to find something nicer to rule over.

Still, he’d been surprised, when their leader fell to one knee and dropped his axe to the ground. Most creatures were too stupid to understand when doom was approaching, until the teeth had already bitten into them. He'd been about to eat the giant brute when he’d seen the gleaming stone gauntlets which the enlarged goliath was wearing.

A weapon of forged by the gods themselves, a remnant of a more…enlightened era. He smiled then. Such gifts would find no purchase on his perfect form, for they were designed to supply strength to creatures unable to truly comprehend it. But they would make the warlord a tough foe to overpower. And they would fill the stupid brute with the kind of false confidence that he couldn’t resist. The idiot would go a step too far and then his men would learn to worship a new leader. One with considerably more tactical wit, than this over-sized oaf. In the meantime, he decided to let this new invasive species to have their fun tormenting the local populace.

He would need an army to maintain control over Westruun in his absence and these imbeciles were just boorishly cruel enough to suit his tastes.

(Blue)

Brymscythe had been given his moniker destroying farmlands in Issylra. He’d been content to watch the locals scramble to appease his ever-growing demands, just to see how far the little things would bend to save their own rotten little skins.

Then Raishan had approached, spinning him a tale as old as time. It was the tale of a category of being who had once ruled over all that could be seen and who now crouched in the darkness of caves, hiding from prying eyes and eager blades. It was a story about the imprisonment of the largest red dragon that Exandria had yet seen and about how reversible that imprisonment might be, with the proper help from the right place. It was a plan which involved patience and more than a little humility.

No proper dragon enjoyed disguising themselves as a lesser creature and crawling among the wailing populace. Still, the quirk to the green one’s mouth as she described to him the riches and territory to be gained, was intriguing. He knew that she fully intended to betray Thordak once she had what she wanted, the same as him. It was in their nature, after all, to destroy one another. To prove their strength and cunning, especially when they stood to gain so much. She wouldn’t be able to do it on her own, not even if she hadn’t been so obviously cursed.

But she might die in the battle between them, if he played his cards right. All he had to do was put up with pretending to be a human long enough to get what the information they needed.

(Green)

Raishan could have shifted to another plane once she got Thordak’s corpse. She had done it before, slipping between this realm and that of the Fey, whenever she grew hunted or bored with the material. But she had learned too much about the rabble known as Vox Machina to let them continue existing. They were creatures of impulse, bound by intractable rage at the world for their mistreatment. They would hunt her until her dying day. They would destroy all the research that could save her, just to spite her. And when someday she returned, her new form cured of this wretched weakness, she knew they would be there, ready to jump in, alongside their horde of idiotic allies.

No, they would have to die. She could have lived a few more years, perhaps, before the curse finally took her. But in that time, they would be prepared, ready for her vengeance. Better to let them come to her. Let the fools walk into the fire on their own, let them tear themselves apart on Opash’s snares trying to hound her.

The Goddess Melora had not stopped her, neither would these mortals and their rabid delusions.

(Red)

You’re still with me, aren’t you?

That’s good. They laughed, when we talked, the others. They're all dead now, all except Raishan.

That was funny, since she was the one who should have died first.

Yes, I wanted to kill her, once we had the city, but I couldn’t leave, not in my state. Not when it could have hurt the clutch. Had to protect them. Had to protect my city, so that they might have something to inherit.

Did you know, that when I first heard your voice, I thought I had gone mad? Then I realized what you were. Even the swirling conflagration has a voice. Even the screech of an immolated soul longs to be listened to. Silly Raishan. Thinking that she could turn these ants against me. She wants the clutch for her own. She wants the power that you offer. We should have killed her when we had the chance.

Oh, well. Live and learn.

(White)

THEY had killed his son.

THEY had carved out his heart and sold it to the highest bidder.

THEY had killed his daughter; on the moment she was finally released from her prison. THEY would pay. THEIR keep would be torn down, brick by brick if he had to. THEIR allies, the wizards who had aided them time and again, the rune child who’d dare to stand against Thordak, the mercenaries who had hired them to dispose of his son…all of them would pay for it. He would tear down the walls of Vasselheim himself, if it meant removing them from whatever hole they had crawled into.

THEY had killed his brood and compounded this crime by doing so without purpose or enmity, but merely as a means of advancement. Their repeated victories only served to make his bloodline look weak. THEY could not be allowed to survive such insult. He had seen the looks of fear in their eyes, when he arrived at their keep. He had heard the pitter patter of their tiny hearts and listened keenly to their desperate calls.

THEY were not heroes. THEY were not champions of any great purpose.

THEY would die and their legend would stand as a warning against all others who hunted his kin.

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Acceptance (Xanthas)

Xanthas had learned magic, because he’d wanted to be respected, to know what it was like to be feared. Now, he knew better. He had seen what true strength was, the strength to change the very world around you to suit your needs. That was power. The great Ninth level spells were basically parlor tricks, when compared to the magic which spilled forth effortlessly from a dragon as old and elementally charged as Thordak. He thought back to the fools who’d tried to seal the Arcana Pansophical during the attack. Colleagues, he’d known for years, reduced to ash in a few spurts of flame. The worst part was how little effort it had taken for the damn creature to do it. He hadn’t enjoyed their company; he’d always found more comfort in books than people. Still, it had been chilling to see them obliterated so easily. He’d sworn in that moment; that whatever Thordak required of him, he would more than eagerly supply. Xanthas liked to think that, by saving the massive libraries of the Pansophical from being reduced to ashes, he was performing a noble deed, certainly one his predecessors had failed to accomplish. A tiny bit of conscience nagged at him, but it was easily drowned out by the thundering voices of the giants, let alone the towering roar of Thordak. There were people in Exandria, who, when confronted with the third-degree burns caused by the attack, would have become angry. They might have sooner been incinerated themselves than serve a tyrant. But Xanthas knew better. It would have better get angry at the ocean or the sky for all the good it would have done you. Thordak was a force of nature, and in nature there was no evil. Only those strong enough to exist. Xanthas was not as talented as the wizards he’d seen seared to death in front of him. But he was good at knowing which way the wind was blowing.

Charity (Ripley)

Ripley liked to think of herself as quite giving. After all, the world of Exandria was rife with secrets. The elves and the gnomes had long memories, but they were tight-lipped about all they’d seen, leaving humans to scramble over the ruins of the Calamity in search of the truths of their ancestry. The wizards kept every scrap of magic they discovered close to their chest, only choosing to share their knowledge with a rival/colleague if it became mutually beneficial. And then of course, there were her patrons. The Briarwoods had many wonderful qualities, and Ripley had enjoyed designing the Ziggurat for them. But only because it was a feat of engineering to do so.

Their…“god” was a relic of a simpler time, when magic flowed more freely, and when archmages were unafraid to challenge the creators. She had no interest in their cult activity or their vast, over-arching plan. Religion waned and waxed with time, but war…war was forever. And a weapon, once discovered, was never truly forgotten. Not in the scars on the skin of its victims or the heaving wounds it left in the crust of the world. Things might go missing, be buried, left obscure, but legends and poems would speak of their cruelty. When she discovered the device that Percival had tried to kill her with, she had not been selfish, as she knew the fallen noble was. She had showed it to every alchemist and smithy she came upon, learning all she could about metallurgy and chemistry so that she might replicate its elegance and power.

Then she’d found Orthax. He had shown her the truth of the world, shown her how right she had been in all her resentments and suspicions. He had told her how mortal her once powerful enemies were and how utterly unprepared all their mighty wards and armies were in the face of black powder and a handful of shrapnel. She would liberate this world from kings and wizards. She would free the human race from the accursed creatures who pronounced themselves superior. The elves, the dwarves, the gnomes, the dragons...one day they would be a distant memory. But the guns would stay. And history would vindicate her.

Diligence (Kevdak)

Strongjaw was dumb as rocks. Not like Kevdak. Kevdak had tricked a great dragon. Kevdak carried the weapons of a god.

He would not let his idiot brother’s soft, puny son humiliate him in front of his men. The boy underestimated him, clearly because it had been so long since he’d last received a decent beating. That was alright. City folk were weak. They had probably been too weak and too frightened to give the goliath the thrashing he deserved. But Kevdak wasn’t. Kevdak led the Storm. Kevdak felt the strength of the mountains in his bones. He would carve the boy down and the example which he would make of him would convince Zanror which side he belonged on. And then Kevdak wouldn’t have to kill the stupid boy and his pregnant whore. It would take a while. Strongjaw’s body was coated in a sheen of scar-tissue. Kevdak would have been impressed, if he wasn’t so busy wiping the ground the little shit. It would take more than the usual couple cuts to bring the bearded fool down. But Kevdak would bring him down. He could already see exhaustion curling into his nephew’s attacks, see the blood pooling at the boy’s boots.

Kevdak would win. Kevdak always won. And when he was done showing his men what happened to those who disobeyed orders, he would wear his nephew’s belt as a trophy.

Hell, maybe he’d even hang the boy’s skull from it, just for good measure.

Humility (Saundor)

Saundor had once been beautiful. He had once been a shining champion of the Summer Court. He had roamed the wilds, slaying all that was ugly and unworthy of the joys of existence.

Then she had left him. Left him to be swallowed by his own misery, so that all that was good and light in him might rot and ooze and gnarl. So that all his good memories turned to the mush of a midnight terror. So that he might become a blight on the land he had once wardened. Now he was worse than nothing, a bad memory left to fester in the agony of every mistake he’d ever made. His elegance and grace had been stolen, leaving behind a suppurating corpse, unable to stem the swell of tar that pulsated uncontrollably from every orifice of his form.

His only chance for companionship was in one as broken and ugly as him. An orphan of destiny, left to wallow in loathing and loneliness. He reached out and touched the dreams of a little half-elf girl. A hunter like him. Surrounded by loved ones, but as lonely and hateful as he’d ever been.

She was perfect. Ugly and worthless. Just like him.

Kindness (Shen)

Shen watched the Despoiler of Flesh wriggle within its case. It had taken so long to craft it, so many tongues ripped from mouths to feed its power. It had all been worth it. The beggars, the whores, the drunks and the destitute. They feared the Clasp more than any crown, any law, no matter how ironclad.

This was the reason for it. The extra mile they went to. The others believed the Despoiler had been designed to be disturbing to look at, merely because it was intimidating. They had not seen what he’d seen. The endless whirling chains that crisscrossed creation and shackled all life with the hysterical need to feed. It was them which had inspired the Despoiler. Them that had inspired the Clasp, although the first Spirelings might not have known who or what had been helping them along all the while. The flesh was willing beneath the touch of the Despoiler, as willing as the mind was, under the gnawing hunger of the god who blessed Shen’s vastest visions.

And what better crop of minds and flesh might be fed to that most holy of oblivions, than the urchins of the city? Those poor wretched souls who were starved of all affection and purpose, and driven to the most heinous crimes, by the most basic want. Shen was their father and their mother, the keeper of their great orphanage of blood and chains.

And the kindness he offered was absolute.

Patience (Symphior)

Symphior was created to fix the land. To assure harmony after the destruction that had transpired.

He had never been told what that conflict was, only that it had been terrible in consequence and almighty in scope. He had not been told what the land had been like before this damnation. He had not been told what reparations might look like, when the day came for his hibernation’s cessation. All he knew was that when the soft skinned humanoids disturbed his rest and cracked open his egg, the light that shone down on him was evil. The air that touched his lungs was poisoned, poisoned by the fumes spewed from the earth, poisoned by the chemicals brought by the soft-skinned creatures to refine the metal they so viciously tore from the earth. They were sick creatures, sick with the need to ruin all that had been crafted in their honor.

And they needed to be exterminated.

Their infestation had to be removed, or else they would pervert and destroy, until there was nothing left worth saving and they turned on each other in a frenzy of cannibalism. So Symphior reached out and planted the seeds for the beetles. Beetles were much more proper creatures than people. Old and hardy. Hungry, but never cruel. And never ambitious. They would die and be supplanted and be hunted and still they would feed and breed and spread. And the land would be saved. And Symphior’s purpose would finally be achieved, so he might return to the Heavens from whence he'd been spawned.

It might take centuries to cull the soft skinned things, to return the land to the paradise it had once been. But Symphior was patient.

Temperance (Clarota)

The thoughtless things lived their lives alone. They were solitary, their emotions spawning from nothing and ultimately returning to it, their schemes desperate attempts to preserve their pestilent races. They had no way to comprehend the clarity offered by the Elder Brain. They took pleasure through primitive reproduction, bizarre ritual and stomach-turning meals, all the while completely ignorant as to how puerile their own lives were.

As Clarota felt the shard of iron shatter his cranial shell and tear through his brain, he felt no pain, no fear, no frustration at a life spent unwanted. For he had died having redeemed himself in the memory of the Elder Brain. He had lured these brutes here to save his people from K'varn's subjugation and corruption. And his memories and thoughts would live on in the neural network, used to instruct and protect the future generations, spawned from the Elder Brain’s pool. He had known the greatest joy that could exist, the most exquisite sensation, too fulfilling for any meal to compare.

Belonging.

Chapter Text

Yenk

Joran the Sea-Speaker was known along the coast for guarding its inhabitants from pirates, along with more spectral threats. She had not been prepared, however, for Yenk.

Awoken by a middling summoner who had mispronounced the rites of conjuring too many times to be allowed to live, Yenk had spent the past few weeks rampaging through the marsh, destroying every single lifeform he came in contact with.

His kind were not like the Glabrezu or the Succubi. They were spawned as shock troops of the Blood War, designed to be able to bring a castle down with their bare claws.

Still, as he shrugged off the lightning blasted from Joran’s staff, Yenk did not find himself in need of wiles. He merely grabbed the tiny creature and shoved her into his jaws, staff and all.

Hotis

All he felt was hate. Hate for the half-elf. Hate for the gnome and the goddess she worshipped. Hate for every single person they each cared for. He had nothing but time to plot during his re-constitution and was almost grateful for that time, despite the agony of the process involved.

He would return, stronger than ever. Perhaps a deal could be made with an old enemy or half-forgotten rival. He had read every scrap of information he could about them all. The gnome’s family were great liars, but easily fooled. A deal with them might force the god-groveling bitch to give up her soul, just to save her cousins. Meanwhile, the half-elf had a half-sister on another plane. She would make for irresistible bait. Perhaps he would even remove one of her ears, just to get the picture across when he sent the “ransom” note.

They were weak. And he was hateful. He would find them, and they would pay. But it wouldn’t be quick, not like before. Not like when he’d disguised himself and tried to assassinate the assassin up close and personal.

No.

He’d make it last this time.

Obann

Obann smiled at his family. They all hated him.

The Laughing Hand wanted to be rampaging through the countryside, destroying homes, forcing someone, anyone to finally just kill it. The Inevitable End could no doubt hear the whispers of her goddess, telling her that he, Obann, was next on her list. And then there was Yasha. She had been the first addition and the least powerful from a brute force perspective. Still, she would take up one of the spots that released the Shackle. She would bring glory to the Angel of Irons.

He’d thought he’d lost her, so long ago, and been worried about finding a replacement on short notice. But his god was a good one and had steered her in his direction. He stared at the mark of Kord he’d let her keep. It was a symbol of the god of Strength, a god too weak to break the spell placed on his own champion. A reminder of the strength of his own deity.

They all hated him. But when the Angel was free and they lived to see the new order (no more Abyss, no more Hells or Heavens) they’d thank him for everything he’d done.

Ipkesh

He grinned down at the stain which had once been his superior. Then he turned to the nearest bone devil, one of the several which had been informed not to show up for its post on this particular evening.

“The prisoners have escaped.” The creature said, a knowing look in its eyes.

Ipkesh lifted an eyebrow. “Utugash was a fool and so was Hotis for leaving his chamber unguarded.”

The bone devil nodded, having no choice but to agree with the statement of a superior.

“We have no cause to follow them back to their paltry planet,” Ipkesh said, rolling the tether of the contract which Percival De Rolo had brought with him back to the Material Plane between his forefingers. “They’ll make their way to us in due time.”

Ghurrix

Ghurrix liked slaves.

Who or what was being enslaved was of little consequence. In the Nine Hells, it was all about slowly corrupting someone, driving them into service for you until they lost themselves amid the bloodshed and bureaucracy. That was why he’d sought out his position as ambassador.

Things were simpler in the Realm of Fire. If you stepped out of line, you got squished. There were no needling contracts or wailing souls, just the taste of fresh meat delivered to the City of Brass every morning. Ghurrix liked to give false hope to the humanoids he returned to his home plane with. He liked to make them think that, just as his form was monstrous, so was his brain dull and easily distracted. He liked it when they thought there was a chance to escape, it made the chase that much more thrilling.

He liked slaves, because they gave an opportunity to play with his food.

Orthax

The 11789th Layer of the Abyss was dark.

Most Layers of the Abyss were dark, but the dimness which filled this one hung heavy in the air, in great sulfurous clouds. At its center sat Orthax, atop a throne of charred and shrapnel-torn corpses, his form having long swelled since his last manifestation on the Material Realm. He howled and crackled, his beak occasionally gobbling up the souls fed to him by powder-stained mortals. He was the originator of this place, its master and its crafter.

And as the secrets of gunpowder spread across Exandria, his domain would only grow.

Chapter Text

Lust (Cree Deeproots)

Cree had lived her life as a small thing, crawling through the cracks of the world, hoping not to be noticed.

Then she’d had a glimpse of what true power was. Not the endless bureaucracy and greed which ruled the crown and the army. Not even the vast, unspoken power offered by the Myriad. 
No, this was real power. The ability to re-shape their broken world and give it purpose again. She had not seen as much as Lucien. But that was alright. It was not her job to know, but to serve. To serve this greater cause and to serve Lucien. 

Her fur still stood on end when she thought of the city. The immortality it offered, the chance to shed this crapsack shell for something infinitely more sublime and irreplaceable. She and Lucien would finally be together. Their souls intertwined amidst the maddening buzz of voices, their faulty flesh re-purposed and made manifest in the court of the Eyes of Nine. 

They would be born anew. Together.

Gluttony (Vokodo)

Vokodo loomed over his hoard. HIS. Some were charms and totems carved in his image, or at least, in the image he projected into the minds of his flock. Others were trinkets that had washed up with the newest group of worshippers. 

But all were beautiful. Just like HIS ships. Some had made the journey undamaged; others had been carved by those who’d attempted to leave the flock. But all belonged to him, were created only to be pretty and to be his, because he was the god of this island. It was a bit of a step down from the position he’d held in the Astral Sea. To be the warden of a mostly uninhabitable waste, rich with idiotic and hostile creatures. But there was safety that came with seclusion and comfort in knowing he was the total and absolute ruler of this place. 

Everything on it belonged to HIM, anyone who lived within its limits was HIS worshiper. Whether they liked the idea or not, they always ended up being generous in the end. The little things needed something to worship after all. It might as well have been him. 

Greed (Lorenzo)

Lorenzo mulled over his most recent catch and the hangers-on who had tried to spoil everything. It had been a joy to watch them scrambling to defeat him and the rest of the Shepherds, but it had been by far the most enjoyable to watch that coward of a dwarf kneel before him. He’d considered beheading her then and there, just to send a message to the rest of her companions. But it seemed much crueler just to let her continue on.

His mind turned to the catch, who had apparently been so important that their frail little friends went running after them. The half-orc, the tiefling and the aasimar. It had been strange to discover that the half-orc was the least strong among the three, but the magic that Dwelma had sensed in him had more than made up for it. Magic users were always more difficult to keep in captivity, but the amount that a spell-casting slave fetched always made them worth it the extra effort. He remembered the looks of defiance on their faces as they’d been dumped at his feet a few days prior. 

Already, their bravery had been replaced with something more akin to desperation. He had considered taunting them with the death of their friend but doing so would have confirmed for them that someone missed them, that someone had been looking for them. That there was some kind of hope of escape.

Better to let them rot in their cells for the time being. There would be plenty of time to divulge that information after they were properly kicked in. 

Sloth (Isharnai)

Isharnai sat in her hut and listened to the squelching of the bog and the chirping of the cicadas. The swamp always had a story to tell, if one was willing to listen. 

She rolled her tongue across her teeth, as she allowed her vision to wander across the scope of the world. Ever since their little…arrangement…she had been keeping tabs on the little blue tiefling. Right now, she was sailing the Lucidian with her beloved, smiling and laughing and excited for her next adventure. 

Isharnai salivated at the thought of how easy it would be to shatter that storybook ending, to send that symbol of love and irreverence spiraling back into loneliness and desperation. 

She had considered for a long time, having the charming half-orc killed, and his body made irretrievable, a tragedy that would loom over the rest of the tiefling’s life and drive her into mirroring her mother's misery. 

But that would piss off the Wildmother, something that Isharnai, a creature of the Feywild, was not looking forward to. No, a far more subtle but just as agonizing misery could be promised, if only she remained patient.

Her time would come. Someone would come looking to deal and she would have the perfect little job for them. 

And the lovers would regret the day they stumbled onto her hut. 

Wrath (Dashilla)

How dare they?

How dare they come stumbling into her domain, upsetting the spirits on whose grief she fed, stealing from her and disrupting her most sacred chambers?

The only conciliation she received was the knowledge that the idiots had almost sunk their own ship out of blind curiosity.

Her sedentary lifestyle made revenge all but impossible, until the sea spawn had come along, bearing a message from their demi-god. Apparently, the entity which had sent those fools to her door had itself been betrayed by them. Now, it wanted revenge as much as she did and was willing to offer boons in exchange for getting the crystal orb that had been stolen from her back.

She smiled at the fish creatures, who stared back with lidless white eyes, illuminated slightly yellow from the power of their master. She was an expert when it came to deals, she made more than a few in her time.

The thing that now spoke to her had no intention of returning the crystal to her. But that was fine. There would always be more ships, more treasure. The Cloven Crystal had been nice, a shiny decoration for her collection.

But revenge...that was a much rarer delicacy. 

Envy (Avantika)

Avantika couldn’t die. 

She had been chosen by Uk’otoa. Well, that made it sound grand. That made her sound important. She had been the third choice, the final resort after Vandaran and Fjord had abandoned him. 
That was what made the situation so intolerable. 

When she’d woken up, in the grottos beneath Darktow, half-stripped to the bone by crabs, her throat snapped but her mind as sharp as ever, she’d been relieved. Relieved that she could still learn and grow and serve her god. 

Then Fjord had killed her again. And she’d woken up again, in another corpse, under another island. The yellow eyes whispering in her mind again, about revenge, about recovering the Cloven Crystal. 

That was when the nightmare had truly begun. She had lived a shitty life before Uk’otoa, a sailor desperate to prove herself to the hardy sailors who’d mocked and abused her all her life. Then Vandaran had shown it to her, that there was more, more than the endless nights of revelry atop the rock of the waves. 

She had been so glad, to bring its glory to the world, to bring down the Concord and the Revelry and all the other structures made by selfish and small-minded idiots to press the exceptional like herself down into the mud. 

She’d thought she’d found a kindred soul in the half-orc, a man who had felt the knee of oppression deep in his spine. 

Now he sailed the seas with impunity, able to command the waves in the name of his loving goddess, while she searched endlessly for the crystal in the name of her cold, heartless master. She’d thought she’d chosen him; she’d thought he would grant her protection.

But she saw now how meaningless the scope of her accomplishments were in his eyes. And now she could only hope that when he finally was freed, she would be allowed rest.

Pride (Ikithon)

Trent was indisposed.

Unable to speak, unable to move his hands. Locked in a dungeon, deprived of his finery, unable to access the arcane gifts he’d spent his entire life developing. 

That was fine. This was all part of the plan. Things had turned out…differently…than he’d intended. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t part of the plan.

He had…underestimated Astrid. He’d known she intended to supplant him but hadn’t thought she’d have the self-control to stop herself from killing him. That was fine, she’d visited him many times since her promotion. She’d bragged to him about how easily she’d torn down all he’d accomplished. That was fine. She had earned her position. He had taught her well.

She would protect the empire in the days to come, not only from the dogmatic fools of the Dynasty, but from the whores and merchants who ruled the Menagerie, and the naive academics who toiled under Yudala. Astrid would protect the Empire. She would raise the next generation of Scourgers.

He was unable to laugh anymore, but he smiled all the same. Bren had tried his hardest and he had failed. He and his new allies had squandered the chance to end him and Astrid and Edowulf. They would regret that.

He had seen the darkness in his prized pupil’s hearts. He would not have plucked them from obscurity if they had not known ambition. Ludinus was the same. The Assembly was the same. Astrid would surpass Bren’s capabilities. She already surmounted even his own cruelty.

In the meantime, he had nothing to but time to scheme and to consider where he might go and what he might set right when he was finally free.

Everything was going according to plan.