NONE SO VILE

11: New World Order

Albedo, Rennaire, 1802.

The air had a freezing chill to it, misting Marshal Deuxmoise's breath before his muzzle. The Church of the One God blotted out the sky before him, the density of the structure seeming to drag everything else in the city in towards it. Around him Albedo burned. Bodies littered the streets, shopfronts were burnt out and destroyed, abolitionist slogans painted in bright colours across any walls empty enough to fit them.

Since the storming of the palace, the mob could be heard throughout the city wherever one went – fury and elation washing over one another in a red tide that slowly consumed the city. Rogue gangs went door-to-door in the luscious manors, ripping noblemen from their beds and stoving their heads in, hanging their wives, and destroying their homes. The mob had little mercy, and anything that hinted at a celebration of the old regime was quickly torn down and ripped to pieces.

The rebuild would be hard, Deuxmoise knew. But that was for tomorrow.

The jackal raised his sword to the air, pointing at the cathedral and ordering his men forward. As they drew near a priest came running out, falling to his knees and crying out.

“Please! Monsieurs, please, this is a place of God, and he shall deliver such vengeance on any who would defile it! I beg you to cease this madness!" Deuxmoise and his men ignored him, stepping around the priest as he begged them to stop. They were mostly veterans in his squad, good men, men Deuxmoise knew he could trust. Not everyone had the loyalty and wherewithal to follow Leon's vision, and the jackal knew the military was facing a schism in the coming months, as those still loyal to the old ways peeled off and fled, or were killed. The King was dead and all knew it, but that didn't mean that every man in the city had given up his allegiances.

The church doors groaned and creaked as he heaved them inward, soldiers and rebellers alike flowing around Deuxmoise like water, chanting slogans and rattling sabres.

He let them all pass first, and growled to try and shake off the old reverence that dogged him. The inside of the cathedral smelled of rosemary, and sage, a weak attempt to take Deuxmoise back to his boyhood days of prayer and penance.

The scriptures said that the One God of all Men hated his creations. His mother had found solace in the idea, wherein the One God became a catch-all for all misfortunes. That was where Deuxmoise had first seen the cracks. Nothing was ever her fault, it was simply divine vengeance. When she'd carried a bastard to term after whoring around on Deuxmoise's father – divine vengeance. When she'd gambled all their money away trying to get francs for more wine – holy vengeance.

His men searched the side-rooms and prayer closets for any priests or aristocrats they could find, hauling them back to the main hall and throwing them upon the ground. The prisoners were beaten and kicked, screamed at. Deuxmoise knew their fate already – the priests were bound for exile, the nobles for the grave.

As he passed through them, Deuxmoise caught the edge of a nobleman's plea. He'd tried to wear plain clothes, and was swearing up and down that he was low-born, a commoner.

“Like you, I want this, please, please you have to believe me!" He grovelled, pawing at the soldiers boots, even as they kicked him away. Deuxmoise didn't believe the lies for a second. The man was too well-spoken, too comfortable in his own hide. There was dirt on his face, but not on his neck, not beneath his fingernails. When you toiled as the common man did, the filth was inescapable, and they all recognised one of their own.

Leaving his men to search, Deuxmoise pushed into the grand cloister at the very back of the hall. It was a small, modest room, the walls laden with warm fabrics and bejewelled golden artefacts. A secret place, meant only for the One God and his most devout servants.

Cardinal Loïc stood with his back to the jackal, staring over a crib. Quietly, Deuxmoise drew his pistol, pulling back the hammer and levelling it at the deer's back.

“Cardinal Taine. By order of the new Triumvirate and the laws of the people, you are under arrest."

“Leon could not deign to save his nephew himself?" The Cardinal asked, glancing back. “Already he exalts himself. You are making a mistake, Marshal."

“Step back," Deuxmoise said, approaching slowly. “General Valoisier is injured, he's barely able to walk. I am his sword for now."

“This is an Angel," Loïc snapped, gesturing to the halo as if Deuxmoise could not see it. “It belongs to the Church! Surely you have heard the stories of these creatures raised without our guiding paws! They become monsters, wildfires, burning their way across the continent!"

“It's a baby, not a weapon."

Loïc laughed. “Fools. You make the mistake of thinking they are like us because they look as we do, and because they come from our women. If anyone bothered to read the scriptures, you'd see. The blood of the One God is in his veins." He reached down, taking the baby jaguar's paw and raising it to the light. “That blood is blessed with power, Marshal, and cursed with madness. Angels do not see the world as you and I do. They must be carefully managed and controlled."

“And the Church should always be the one to manage them, right?" Deuxmoise scoffed. He skipped up the crib, circling around it, pistol raised up at Loïc. The deer put his paws to the air, stepping backwards.

“Somebody should. When his power comes through, whatever form it might take, a mere tantrum could bring this whole cathedral down." The cardinal leaned forward, eyes pleading. “Marshal. I beg you, let me take the babe to the Holy City, as a sign of the new regime's good faith. I believe with this gesture, I could persuade them to acknowledge–"

“No." Deuxmoise's voice was firm, like iron. “Don't play piety with me, Cardinal." He knew all about Loïc Taine's corruption, everybody did – it was an open secret. Parties in his manor outside the city, serving girls, boys, whatever he wanted. Debauchery, all the while preaching what he refused to practise.

“Listen to me you fool," the deer hissed. “If this new regime wants a whore's chance in hell of living through the winter, Leon will need the support of the Church! It will legitimise you, cement you! You need us!"

Deuxmoise scowled. “And you need that baby, correct?" He looked down at the little jaguar cub. He was swaddled in green silks, that faint, thin halo giving off a warm glow. He had Leon's eyes, and fat little legs, his jaguar spots not quite discernable in his dark baby coat yet.

“You are making a mistake!" Loïc insisted.

Deuxmoise shook his head, holstering his pistol and seizing the deer by one of his antlers. He cuffed the man across the face, bloodying his nose as he dragged him out of the cathedral. “Take the babe!" He barked at one of his men, hauling Loïc through the pews.

“Stop, you brute! I am a man of the cloth!" Loïc beat and slapped at Deuxmoise without effect, crying out as the jackal tugged on his antler.

“My father joined the cloth as well," Deuxmoise growled, heading for the door.

“So… you understand the calling!"

“He abandoned us all for your fucking calling, Cardinal. Four children, with a drunken whore for a mother! We grew up alone, fending for ourselves. Is that the kind of calling you promote?" The old memories stirred so much anger inside Deuxmoise it was all he could do to look forward, pressing on. If he turned back on Loïc now, he wasn't sure he'd be able to keep from killing the man.

“You can't hurt me Deuxmoise! How do you hope to defend your borders without our support!" Loïc protested, as he was dragged towards the door. The people saw Deuxmoise and cheered him, already busy hacking the pews to pieces. “You– are not– legitimate!"

“We need nothing from you," Deuxmoise growled. He twisted, shoving Loïc forward so the deer stumbled, tripping on his own cloak as he fell on the cathedral steps – hard. Over and over he went, bouncing down the concrete until he slid to a stop. He raised his head, panting softly.

“Go back to your holy masters, you curr," Deuxmoise declared. “Tell them, let them know Rennaire is a free nation!"

Cardinal Loïc picked himself up, glancing around the mob as they gathered on the steps. They inched closer, eager for blood, but Deuxmoise waved them down. Seeing his escape open up behind him, Loïc shook his head, turning in place and running.

“Should we run him down, Marshal?" Asked a wolf to Deuxmoise's side.

“Let him go, orders from General Valoisier. Director Valoisier." He sniffed. “The Church and her servants are to be exiled from Rennaire. Let the cardinal be witness."

Can you do it? The thought repeated itself over and over in Margot's head, the crowd carrying her forwards, not giving her a chance to turn back. Can you do it? Really do it? Really go through with it?

The mob cried out jubilantly as the doors to the manor came down. Margot held her father's hammer to her chest, a confusing mix of emotions coursing through her. As the people behind her shoved her forwards, over the manor threshold, her stomach seemed to fall out, knees growing wobbly. They were here. In the master's house, Margot could scarcely believe it. How many times had she been berated for not polishing that floor enough? How many times had she worked herself raw, stomach growling from hunger, only to be denied even the scraps of food the master hadn't eaten?

Now she was here, again, shaking like a leaf, too frightened to move. Those old obediences were suddenly back, and even with the mob swarming around her destroying anything they could touch, Margot still half-expected the barking orders of Lord Léo to come echoing down the steps any second now.

Are you sure you can do it? Margot squeezed the grip of her father's hammer. She would. She was here to build a better life for herself, and for her pups to grow up in. They didn't deserve to throw their life away slaving for someone else like she had.

That hideous oil painting of the honourable Lord Léo stared down at her from the first landing on the stairs. Rich colourful paints slathered on canvas that cost more than Margot made in a month. The eyes always seemed to follow her, always watching.

You can't do it. She wanted to turn and run, to go home and lock the doors. You won't. Admit it. You know you're worthless, just like they said. Margot's arms shook from the thought. She wanted to turn and run, but a part of her knew she couldn't. You can. This was her chance, a chance to fight for a better world. You'll lose. She owed it to herself. You don't. To her pups. You can't. To fight.

To make sure that Léo never had a chance to order her around ever again.

You're weak.

She wasn't.

With a scream, Margot buried the sharp end of her hammer into the painting, right through Lord Léo's eye. She tore at it, ripping the canvas out and throwing it to the ground. Exultation swelled within her, a sudden and visceral sense of liberation making her head spin, her body feel light.

“UPSTAIRS!" Someone screamed hoarsely, and Margot was shocked to realise the voice was her own.

The mob flooded the upper wings, shoving into whatever room they could. They smashed vases, mirrors, ripped up books. Doors were knocked down with their bare paws, and windows shattered as their belongings were thrown into the street. Any servants or common folk they found were allowed to flee, or join the revelry as they saw fit. Someone screamed in the parlour, and Margot knew it was Léo's hideous son, the same spoiled brat that had felt her up once, and told her she would be a lot easier on the eyes if she just smiled at him more. Now he wailed like a little girl, the high pitch of his voice piercing through the noise of the mob as he begged them to stop, pleas coming again and again and again until there was a sick crunch and his voice abruptly stopped.

The rioters had stormed the bedrooms, and as she bundled past Margot saw they had lifted Léo's bed and carried it to the huge balcony, meaning to hurl it off into the street, probably to make into a new pyre. They were hunting for the master of the house, but Margot knew he wouldn't be in there.

She got to him first. The mongoose was in his office, cowering behind his desk, crammed into the back of the room. His head poked around the corner, eyes widening as he recognised Margot.

“Margaret? Is that you? Oh, thank God you've come!"

Margot hesitated, glancing back to the hall. The others hadn't reached her yet, but they would any moment.

Léo crawled towards her, paws wrapping around her boot. “Please, Margaret, you've got to help me get out, I don't deserve this! You know, you worked here in the house, and we were always kind to you, no? We never struck you, and-and last winter, during the frosts, Lady Boulin gave you her old dresses! You see!"

Margot sucked in shallow breaths, she didn't know what to say. How was she even supposed to address him? He'd always been My Lord or The Master of the House, but Leon said they were all equal citizens now, there were no more lords.

“Léo…" She whispered, the name felt wrong in her mouth.

The mongoose's eyes reached her hammer, and his mouth fell slightly. “Margaret, please now, let's get out of here, I could make you rich!"

She stared down at him. You can't do it. I know you can't. The doubts never ceased. No, he'd never struck her, and yes, the Lady had given off her old dresses… but Margot's children had been going hungry. She'd lost a babe because there wasn't enough food to go around. The absence of cruelty was not kindness. This man didn't know her. He didn't even know her name.

“Your money is no good anymore," she snapped, shaking all over.

“Margaret…" Léo leaned past him, some of the others had caught sight of him from the hall, and were rushing towards the office, calling out his name. “Surely you must see reason! I won't stand for this you know, when this is all put right, you wouldn't want me to say a bad word for you, would you?"

When this is put right? Margot raised the hammer, her limbs hollow. If the revolution failed, and everything went back to normal, would a man like Léo really stand up for her? What good would it do, when he couldn't even give the soldiers her true name?

“My name is Margot!" She screamed, smashing the hammer down into his face.

“Paul, what do we do?" Paul Vardé looked to his wife, swallowing. The door they'd barricaded before them buckled, the weight of the crowd crushing its weak brass hinges.

“Paul! Do something!" She screamed, pulling their son close. “You've got to!"

“I… I don't know," he said quickly, licking his lips. The people were saying the King was dead. Dead. A lie, surely? But the princes were nowhere to be found, the military had turned on them and Gardes du Corps Impérial were all executed. The law had crumbled. And Paul Vardé had been so close to getting out, he could see his carriage now out the window, surrounded by the ruffians as they rocked it on its axel.

“You're going to warp it!" He cried meekly, paw pressing on the glass.

“Open up your lordship!" The protestors cried, cackling away outside his barricaded door.

“I'm… I'm a good man, I… I did everything right!" Paul insisted, mostly to himself. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. God, he looked a mess. Why was he still wearing that stupid wig? His mane was filthy, and he was covered in mud from the chase back here.

“You're a minister, they can't do this!" His wife cried, shielding their son's eyes.

“I am… I am…" Paul shook his head. He was their better. There had to be order somewhere, surely. Prince Jules must be in the palace, he only hadn't reached Paul's ward yet. The people would see their folly, they would see… surely.

He looked back to the carriage, the doors hanging open as a fire started inside.

The door to his room cracked inwards, splinters flying as it fell to the floor. Paul's wife screamed and he immediately lost sight of her, the bodies of stinking peasants somehow instantly everywhere. Paul tried to go forward and he caught a blow in the stomach, the throat. He went down in a flurry of boots, spinning, rolling, crying out for it to stop.

When he blinked, he was on his back, dragged forward across his carpet. The rabble had trod mud everywhere, staining it completely. It would take forever to clean, when this was all over.

“You… you there!" He cried wearily, trying to point up at the man who was dragging him by the right boot. “Stop! I'm a nobleman, you… you have to obey me!"

“Piss on you!" The man sneered back. Paul gasped, he'd never been spoken to like that before in his life, never. They reached the stairs, dragging Paul down with reckless abandon, the steps biting painfully into his spine as he was jostled and pummelled by his own home.

Then they were outside. The bricks were freezing cold, and Paul shivered, surely they could give him a coat? People were everywhere. Cheering, dancing around fires like savages, waving flags. Paul didn't understand how they could celebrate, everything had gone so very wrong. Paul believed in the rules. If you followed the rules right, you got what you wanted. That was how the world worked. He'd done what they asked. He'd pleased who he had to, and spurned who he could. He was one of the hardest working noblemen in the city, even, certainly one of the most loyal!

“Trials! Trials! Trials!" The people chanted. He was shoved to his feet and something clanged loudly around his wrists – manacles, like some common prisoner!

“I can make you rich," he whispered to the nearest man, as he was hauled to his feet. “I have money, property, plenty in the banks!"

“Like that bank?" The man asked, pointing across the street. Paul's heart filled his mouth when he saw the doors hung open. The bankers were being dragged into the streets just like he was, contracts were being piled onto a huge fire. Loose francs littered the ground, no one even stopping to pick them up. “Usury! Your world is over, takers!"

Someone hit Paul in the stomach with something hard, and he nearly fell to the cobbles before they heaved him back up.

“Stay with us, rich bastard!"

“Where's my wife? My son?" How had he forgotten them? He glanced around, saw others in chains like he was, but nobody he recognised. In the rioters he saw madness, their teeth bared like beasts. He didn't deserve this! Maybe he'd not been perfect, but nobody was, surely.

The line pushed him around a corner, and reality began to sink in.

They had built a stage, in plain view of the palace.

“What is that?" He asked, staring at the machine they'd built.

“That's your trial, scum."

“T… trial?" Paul glanced around as he was shoved forward once more. The device had a rounded crevice for a neck, with a lockable top like the old stocks. But it was tall, and as he shuffled onto the stage Paul Vardé saw a massive gleaming blade resting at the top, attached to a winch. “Please, stop this madness, let's just wait a moment, let's just wait!"

“Trial! Trial! Trial!" The people chanted.

“This isn't a trial!" He started, suddenly realising what was happening. He went backwards but there were people there, and they pushed him in the back. Paul stumbled and someone kicked him in the knee, sending him down. “I haven't done anything wrong!"

“Ever gone to sleep hungry, taker?" A winnowy cat asked him, as two strong arms shoved him into the stocks, the wood slapping around his neck. He tried to pull back and was stuck, staring out forwards at the mob. They jeered, they hated him, spitting and cursing and throwing things. A piece of rotten food smacked into Paul's eye, stinging as it broke apart over his cheek.

“What is your name, nobleman?" Someone cried.

“Paul!" He cried, kicking his legs out uselessly behind him. He could not see the blade above, but it would surely fall any moment now. Any second. He looked down beneath the stage, and realised there were thick rivers of coagulating gore trickling between the cobbles. “Paul Vardé! I am a minister for the King! A servant of the crown!"

“A loyal man?" The voice asked, and the crowd laughed.

“Yes!" Paul insisted, buckling. “Yes, yes, that's right, never has anyone been more loyal, no, I am his man! I serve this nation well!"

“The King has been found guilty of crimes against the Rennairan people." Paul's heart sank, and all energy began to leak from his body. “Guilty!"

“B-but," he stammered, trying vainly to pull away from the guillotine. “I don't even have a lawyer!"

“Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!"

“I can make you rich men!"

Paul closed his eyes, and heard a twang. There was a thud, the world spun, and then it went black.

Alabaster stared down at the gruel in his tray. It was cold, lumpy, and grey. Barely food at all. He tried to reach for it, but his claws were numb and the slop moved faster than he could think. It was cold in the cell, and enough time had passed that the cold had gotten into his blood. The gaol had no fires, and the tiny grate was not wide enough to let in even a shred of sunlight. There was no way down here for Alabaster to blood warm, and so his body, slowly but surely, was shutting down.

Rennaire was a nation of furred, warm-blooded mammals. They were never truly that cold, and their clothing and homes reflected it. The nobles dressed in loose silks even during the winter, happily exposing their arms or neck to the chill. They complained about a nipping wind, of course, but clearly it didn't sting them the way it did him. Alabaster had no such luxury. His people were not built for this kind of climate, and there were no hot baths in the palace dungeon.

Unsticking his dry tongue, he groggily cupped some of the gruel and lifted it to his lips. It had no taste. It was cold, like everything was cold, numb, and slow. His mind fought hard to put him asleep, refusing to offer his memories, closing off his senses.

The guards had watched him closely, at first. They were wary that he would use sorcery to escape. They refused to meet his eyes or ever speak to him, but even if Alabaster had been able to hypnotise a man to release him, he was without any supplies, charms, or even his dagger. There were too many layers between the cell and the outside world, and if he even made it outside, what then? The mob filled the streets, always searching for more victims. A heretic lizard often seen by the King's side would make the perfect target for their revolutionary justice, he imagined.

And besides, thanks to his cooling blood, even his sorceries were now out of reach. He could not fight, he could not manipulate the other, he could barely think.

It was torture, but the funniest part of to him was that the Rennairans didn't even know what they were doing to him. What would foxes and wolves know of cold blooded beings like Alabaster?

Despite the fog, he chuckled dryly to himself.

Through the tiny grate in his cell, he saw fires. The warmth called to him, and at night he stared out longingly into their amber haze, barely able to remember what it was like to function properly. The people sang. At night they sang, and by day they butchered. The screams never stopped. Several times Alabaster had seen rows of shackled noblemen marched down the street, bound for a destination that would be their last. He could feel the murder in the air. More death than he'd ever seen in one place. His sorcery was out of reach but still he sensed the other, the threads of life unravelling too fast to count, all over Albedo. Any day now, he was sure his own would be joining them.

Eventually Bellamy found him too. The vulture would perch outside his little grate, cawing slightly. Poor thing didn't understand why his master had abandoned him. Sometimes the undead bird would even bring Alabaster a dead rat he'd found, continually mystified by the grates ability to stop it passing through to his friend.

“You should fly away," Alabaster croaked, hardly recognising the voice as his own. He felt like part of the wall, limbs made of stone as he fought not to slip away in reptilian hibernation. “Go far from this place, my friend. It was cruel before, and now it is no better."

You are what you eat, little slave. An owner had told Alabaster that when he was a child. The man had been feeding him rotten meat for his own amusement, but the point always stuck with him. The citizens of Rennaire were eating death; they were glut themselves on bloodshed and righteous vengeance, exalted by the newfound power Leon had given them over their former betters.

He wondered, absently, if the mob would be able to stop. Leon had freed this beast, but could he stop that hunger before it turned on its own flesh?

“Time will tell, eh?" He asked Bellamy, blinking away heavy lids. “Cannot take anything for granted, these days."

The vulture squawked, and Alabaster wanted to laugh at the absurdity. He had been many things, and overcome many obstacles. A slave-caste boy raised in the knife pits of Urdo. An apprentice to a half-mad, self-mutilating witchdoctor. The leader of a religious movement. Advisor to a neglectful King, healer of his son's leprosy. Alabaster had survived the politics of Rennaire, even his own assassination.

Yet this was what bested him. A cold cell, mammalian ignorance, and enough food to live on.

He wondered what it would be like when he did finally slip away. It was coming any day now, the blood in his veins was ice-cold, and his limbs were no longer moving. Alabaster had never known a dragon to let it happen; Urdo was a desert, and there were precious few of his own kin here in the south.

“Explain your motivation to me."

Alabaster stirred, each set of his layered eyelids opening one after the other. He looked to the bars of his cell, and saw Leon Valoisier standing there. The jaguar was leaning on a cane to support his injured leg, and dark bruises crowded his eyes, but the worst of the swelling had clearly eased. He was still dressed as a general, a sword hanging at his hip.

“What?" Alabaster whispered, struggling to force his jaw and tongue to move.

“Was it pure self-preservation?" Leon asked, fingers tapping on the grip of his cane. “You finally saw the way the tide was turning, and decided to throw your lot in with me after all? Or was it a true change of heart?"

“Phillipe was… a fool."

“Be that as it may, he would have killed me if not for you."

“Didn't… do it… for you."

“But still, you… Alabaster?" The dragon's eyes slipped and he slid to one side, arms refusing to go up and break his fall. Leon rattled the bars. “Alabaster? What's wrong, guard, guard! Open this cell at once!"

Alabaster groaned as the cell was unlocked and slid open, ungentle paws seizing him beneath the arms as his head lolled in the air.

“He's heavy as a corpse!"

“Is he sick? Is he alive?" That was Leon. “Have you been feeding him?"

“Yes, Gen… er, Director. He's just been like this, we thought he was just quiet."

They pushed Alabaster's arms over his head, locking his wrist in hanging manacles. As soon as the guard released him he sagged, the metal of his cuffs biting painfully hard into his wrist.

“What is wrong with him?" Leon's paw tapped against Alabaster's cheek. His eyes opened again, and he saw genuine worry on the jaguar's face. “Are you ill? I can send for a surgeon, talk to me, man!"

“Cold," Alabaster murmured, swinging in place. “Cold blood."

“What do you need?"

“Water. Boiling."

Leon snapped his fingers, and the guard ran off, leaving them alone.

“I spent too long hating you for you to die on me now."

Alabaster let out a single dry laugh, more a cough, despite the cloying numbness. Finally the guard returned, with a bucket of steaming water in each paw. Leon snatched it from him, stepping behind Alabaster and pouring it straight down his back. The heat was painful, but electrifying. Sensation prickled throughout his body, and Alabaster was finally able to wiggle his toes. He gasped, pins and needles shooting painfully hard through his legs, agony swarming him as feeling returned to his lifeless body. This is worse than dying.

“Another, give it to me!" Leon said, taking the second bucket and dumping it over Alabaster again. “Go back down the hall, light each of the stoves, stoke them high and feed them lard if you must, I want this block warm, damn it!"

Alabaster gasped, breathing slowly as the feeling inched its way back into his body. Unsteadily he managed to get his legs back under him, pushing down to take the slack off his wrists. He shivered, but the warmth was in him now, his body putting it to use. It was enough to get him going, at least for the moment.

“Why?" He asked eventually, looking up to meet Leon's firm gaze. “I have seen what's happening in the streets. Why am I still here?"

The jaguar took a moment to answer. “The Rennairan people are purging their home of the rot that infected us for too long. The noble classes, especially the uppermost rungs, are a plague. When it is finally gone, our wounds can begin to heal." He snorted. “But you are not a nobleman, are you, Alabaster?"

“No. I only served them, and their interests, at the expense of everyone else."

“Is that the guilt talking?"

“Reality."

Leon laughed, shaking his head. “If you insist."

“You're in control now, Leon. Tell me, have you crowned yourself King, yet?"

“I am the Director," Leon corrected. “Actually, I am a Director. Three sit to form the new Triumvirate. A crisis council for now, but in the coming years elections will be held. The people can vote on who they want."

Now it was Alabaster's turn to laugh, though with his throat still dry it came out more as a sharp hack.

“The city is still in chaos," said Leon. “The northern half is under our control, but the royalists have built barricades in the southern wards. We have arrested the Queen, but the two princes remain at large."

Alabaster had no doubt what would be in store for them when Leon's soldiers tracked them down. Jules, the side-lined stepson, was at least a grown man. But Gabriel… the leper prince that Alabaster had healed with his own two claws… the boy was barely fifteen. Would the revolution have mercy for him?

Stupid question.

“Why am I still alive, Leon? As attached as I am to my head, it is no secret there was no love lost between us. You do not know me and you despise the parts that you do. And, as you said yourself, I stabbed Phillipe not out of some sudden understanding, but out of pure self-determination. He held the losing cards, if only I'd seen that sooner I might not be in your gaol."

“I am not sure," Leon mused, as he studied Alabaster's features. “I have seen many people argue against themselves, for one reason or another. It betrays their true beliefs, if you can but listen."

“You think I care about your glorious revolution?"

“I think you might want to."

“Then you're still as big a fool as the day you returned home."

Leon stepped up closer, inhaling deeply. His paw reached out to Alabaster's face, fingers gently brushing the dragon's chin. He seemed fascinated by the scales. “There is an intensity to you, one that I recognise. You believe in something, Alabaster, it's only a question of what."

“I am not like you," Alabaster spat back, bucking slightly. He wished he could lower his arms and shove the jaguar away, but Leon was intent on examining him. “I see the world for what it is."

“Do you?" Leon replied, looking up. “You keep insisting on this ruthless outlook. Survival of the fittest, inherent corruption, but do you really believe that, or do you just think that you have to?"

“You aren't going to save me, Leon. I don't know why you would want to."

He saw then in the jaguar's expression that Leon had not realised it was Alabaster who discovered his nephew. Is he an idiot? Did he simply assume it was Loïc? Alabaster almost felt cheated out of that victory, he had been so close to pulling it all together.

“If any of what you said was true, you wouldn't be arguing with me." Leon gave him a smirk. “If it was pure self-interest that had you turn on Phillipe, then surely you'd be telling me how you've seen the error of your ways, no? You'd be claiming to love the common man, and already be swearing by my ideals."

Alabaster only grunted his reply.

“Something about you fascinates me," Leon whispered, leaning in close. His paw travelled down, ever so slightly brushing across Alabaster's waist, fingers travelling threateningly low. “Now I have you here… I can't help but want to study you."

“You've got it wrong," Alabaster growled.

“Oh?" Leon asked, closer still.

Alabaster swallowed, his stomach churning, neck tingling. “You are a regicide, Leon. Half the rulers of Midland are cousins to Phillipe, what do you think they're going to do when they learn you've killed one of their family? They'll send armies and Angels, then what?"

Leon grew still, pulling back sharply. “Determined to piss on anything that might go well, aren't you?" He turned away. “We have an Angel."

“I'm sure your infant nephew will put up a magnificent fight against Lazare Toussaint."

Leon's paws became fists. “Something about you, Alabaster. It is as if you were made to get under my hide." Alabaster took some pride in that. “But Angels are why I've come."

There it is. Alabaster tried not to look smug, but he'd known it was coming. They keep you around because they need you.

“Guard!" The guard reappeared, and at Leon's behest, unclipped Alabaster's shackles from the chain on the roof. “Follow me."

With no other choice, Alabaster obeyed, shuffling forward. He moved slowly, but the more each of his limbs worked the more his body was able to heat his muscles, if only a small amount.

“Unsurprisingly, Lazare has taken up with Prince Jules," Leon explained, as he led them out of the dungeon. They entered a nondescript hall, passing along through some of the back passages of the palace. Through the open doors, Alabaster caught sight of more wreckage, papers spilled, paintings destroyed, statues defaced.

“My nephew is obviously far too young to be of any use," the jaguar continued, ignoring the mess as he entered a stairwell Alabaster had never seen before. “I have captured the heart and soul of Albedo, but if I want the body as well, Jules and Lazare must die. I promised the people I would bring peace to their home, but I can only do it if there is no question about who rules."

Alabaster grimaced. After the massacre at La Tour de Sel, he would be glad to see that maniac Lazare buried.

“Here I was thinking you were the great Angel-killer," he said. “The flyers went to such lengths to remind us all how you ended Hashan, a mere man killing an heir of the One God."

“It was no easy feat. It had to be done and I did it, but that victory came at great cost, and only with great luck," Leon said. “Angels need to be exposed, but Lazare is protected in the royalist encampment. You saw him yourself, that is not something we can defeat without significant loss of life. The people have chosen me to help lead them, I won't take them straight into another slaughter if there is any chance of another option."

They reached the bottom of the stairs, and Leon reached up to take a small oil lamp from the wall.

“There's no light inside, nobody is permitted here but me."

“What is this place, Leon?"

The jaguar said nothing, unlocking a door with a key he fished out from around his neck. He swung it inwards, gesturing for Alabaster to step inside.

“Did you know that Angels do not rot like ordinary men?" He asked, gesturing with his lamp. Alabaster blanched as he stepped into the room, the light revealing a raised stone slab with a body in the centre. The scene felt almost sacrificial. The corpse was that of a deer, giant elongated fingers jutting from his chest and hanging limp by his sides.

“The Finger Mage, Hashan," Alabaster said, if only to confirm for himself. “You stole his corpse."

“I earned that corpse," Leon insisted. “Taking it was part of a secret clause in my treaty with Losaile, it was their Angel after all."

“Why did you bring me here?"

The jaguar stepped up to the body, the light glimmering in his eyes, an eager grin on his face. His paw slapped onto Alabaster's arm, squeezing tight. “I saw that thing you created at La Tour de Sel. A beast sown together from corpses."

“A golem. An abomination."

“I thought all that talk of mystic heresy was just idle palace gossip. The Church would have us believe that only God's Angels are capable of sorcery, but that day I saw what you are truly capable of. Necromancy." He pointed to the Angel. “Use this corpse, Alabaster, however you must. Make a puppet, or a golem, or some kind of weapon… just something I can use to kill Lazare and end Phillipe's lineage."

Alabaster breathed in slowly. He had always dreamed of what it might be like to work with the body of an Angel. They began life as ordinary men, but were transformed by the supposed divine blood in their veins. They could not be easily killed, and as time went on they grew more insane. Only the Church controlled them, and their methods were kept a close secret.

“I need this resource," Leon continued. “Rennaire needs this resource, and a part of me believes you want to give it to her. Please, will you help me?"

Everything in Alabaster wanted to turn him down. Wanted to tell him that his cause was doomed, but what other choice was there?

He's right about you. He didn't want to think about that. You turned on Phillipe because you knew he had to die.

And an Angel's body. Ordinarily the Church disappeared them, to do what with exactly nobody except their highest members truly knew. It was the ultimate study piece for a sangoma, and Fayez would have wept if he'd known his apprentice would be offered such a chance.

I'm doing this for me, Alabaster insisted, gritting his teeth. Because of what I can learn. It had nothing to do with Leon, the way he was looking at Alabaster… nor his ridiculous cause.

“Fine," he said eventually, feeling like it was somehow a defeat. “I'll find a way for you to kill Lazare Toussaint."