A sizable wave of ghouls had abandoned the market, called back by some unheard command. With the Rahashelian numbers reduced, the crowd of angry Julleck citizens rioted against the remaining ghouls.

Sebastian Van Graif noticed with interest that the ghouls were becoming increasingly slow and lethargic. That was no doubt a result of their reaching the end of their time reserves. Despite the ghouls' torpor, the monsters still lashed out and struck down dozens of city defenders with frightening proficiency.

Sebastian heaved labored breaths but couldn't contribute. Soaked in sweat, the commandant could hardly lift his weapon. This was the limitation of being human. The fire continued to burn as he watched Nosmerians die, but his second wind had long since abandoned him. He pulled himself to his feet and forced himself on.

"Tear them apart!" He croaked as a rope with a looped slip knot tightened around a ghoul's forearm and pulled it into the mob. Isolated, the Jullecki people tore it to pieces with ferocity on par with the feral ghouls they fought.

Sebastian tried to force his body into some semblance of competence. He grabbed a rifle and sought a vantage point to fire into the compact ghouls. He had to save Julleck. He was the only one who would. No one else had heeded the call — just the shattered remains of Nine Fingers and an unpopular steward. Part of him wondered if they wanted to be saved, but as he watched the people of Julleck rip ghouls apart, he had his answer. Of course they resisted death. The survival instinct could slumber through torture and capture, but certain doom did strange things to a man. Just at the end, suddenly, there it was: the clear bright flame of courage.

Still, though, it would be nice if they’d roused themselves sooner. What use was a final stand, with numbers like these? Where was the rest of Nosmeria? Why were there no allies or friends? Were they doomed to fight alone?

In a world of immortal courts and boons, Mortal men were fascinatingly unpredictable. Most people could endure slavery indefinitely, unwilling to risk their lives for freedom. But introduce children and loved ones into the equation, and those same people who wouldn’t fight for their own liberation would throw themselves on their captors’ swords to secure a future for their descendants. How could this be, given humanity’s selfish nature? It seemed that the primal impulses to survive and reproduce were not equal. The House would likely argue that parents had a divinely appointed duty to their children. Was there a greater hierarchy in metaphysical genetics that made humans more than just biological sacks of impulses?

Another ghoul vanished into the mob, promptly torn to pieces in a display of uncanny savagery.

And what about retribution? Someone who lost a child might pursue vengeance at the expense of their other base impulses. Was vengeance a natural duty as well? Human minds could shatter when their perceptions clash with reality. Man’s cruelty could burn infinitely hotter than the empty programs of a ghoul.

Sebastian pulled himself onto the roof of the weaver’s stall and raised his rifle as he looked at the surrounded mass of Rahashelian killing machines. Okay. He took a deep breath. Even if they were the only ones who fought, he would continue. He lined his sights on a ghoul.

A buzzing drone cut over the din and a wire-thin whip of clear green light lashed down and cut six ghouls in half.

Sebastian jerked up in surprise. Three people in servant livery perched on a nearby rooftop clapped their hands together as they compressed Nyamarian light. Three more beams lashed down, shredding the mass of ghouls, and a new cry washed over the battle as dozens of valets, maids, and butlers leaped over the outer ring of the mob with luminescent green eyes in a feat that would have taken a regular man cranes and harnesses. They landed among the ghouls and tore into them with their hands.

Several dozen domestics rushed to the scene, many kneeling and putting their hands on the wounded.

Sebastian sighted a lower steward walking among the healers.

"Hey!" the commandant shouted. He awkwardly lowered his aching body to the cobblestone streets.

The lower steward looked up in acknowledgment.

"High Steward Gerrets is isolated on the outskirts!" Sebastian cried.

The steward nodded, then passed the message and instructions on to a footman. The steward dispatched the runner back in the direction Sebastian assumed the Julleck estate stood. The steward called two maids to them, and they jogged over to Sebastian.

"Are you in command here?"

"Yes," the commandant said. "A large portion of their force retreated. I suspect they're doubling back on Julian!" Stars swam in his vision. He forced his legs to stop trembling.

"High Butler Anton is going to the High Steward personally." The steward frowned as the commandant doubled over. "Are you okay?"

"Damn tired," the commandant affirmed.

The two maids stepped forward, black-gloved hands clasped before them. "May we administer to your wounds?"

The Commandant eyed them cautiously, but slowly nodded.

One maid put a hand on his face, covering his eyes with her forefinger and ring finger. The other one weaved her hands in the air, manipulating an unseen element in the air, and then put her palm on the commandant's chest.

Stolen novel; please report.

Sebastian gritted his teeth as a warm wash of vitality hummed in his bones. Sore muscles partially mended, and a wave of energy returned to him. The commandant staggered back in surprise. His body still ached, and he felt exhausted, but he lifted his rifle without risking falling unconscious.

"Amazing," he breathed.

"I apologize; we can't do more," one of the maids said. "We must save our talents for those who would die without them."

The commandant nodded in agreement to that logic. He scanned the crowd for the Dinnian. "If you could make a few minor exceptions to the rule, I have a few key fighters who I need to get back into the fight."

Julian ran, but the stampede of ghouls were faster. They encircled him in a brittle, pulsating mass. There had to be over a hundred of them.

Julian had successfully stuck one of the liches with the Incentiviser, but now they were using ghouls to surround him. Being lifeless objects, ghouls emitted significantly weaker surfing waves than living beings. A bullet was also lifeless, but when wielded with hostile intent, it projected an aggressive surge. In contrast, a slug accidentally discharged did not. Where ghouls did act as a manifestation of another's malice as literally as any weapon, they also calculated and solved problems independently, somehow diluting that connection.

If the ghouls surrounded Julian, it wouldn't matter if the ghouls sent out a full surfing stream.

Keep going, Julian. She urged, the distress in her voice spurring him on.

Julian watched the horde ahead of him, pincered in, and met, closing the loop. Some of the ghouls stumbled and fell, no doubt depleted of their fuel, but the majority would have plenty to tear him apart.

Julian stopped and spun in a slow circle as the ring of ghouls tightened onto him. Had he been wrong? Did he doom the House? He took a trained stance and raised the Druk. He had lost his falchion earlier. About six liches watched their hounds close in on Julian from a safe distance. He felt oddly calm as his inevitable end closed in on him.

Julian ... She sounded at a loss. Her grief tugged at him, and he could physically discern the emotion.

"Don't be scared," he said out loud. "Die proud, not afraid." The ghouls closed the distance and lunged.

Julian said the words but with hypocrisy. Why did he cling so desperately to life? For most people, the root of dread in death was the unknown. Not in Julian's case. He knew that if he was killed, his anima sequence would continue to exist, bound to his ethereal form. All things, even objects, had anima sequences and ethereal bodies housed in their flesh. When Julian clamped an object, he didn't physically move it, but he pulled its ethereal form, its physical vessel not designed to be apart, simply rushed to reunite with it.

Most of Nyamar's servitors and attendants existed exclusively on the subreal plane. Domestics who specialized in seeing could perceive them. He would probably work with his father again when he died. So why did he feel sick?

His eyes flicked from one patch of the ghoul's circle to another, desperately searching for an escape.

Death would hurt, but it would be fast, even if it were incredibly violent. Was this dread just a biological response, or did he still find the finality of death terrifying? He didn't want to be done with this chapter. The others needed him.

Was his fear somehow not self-interest? Did the idea of waking up from a nightmare those in his stewardship had to endure torture him?

He suddenly felt calm in this idea and sensed her feeding off that peace. The unmerited tranquility multiplied until Julian took a startled step back. The ghouls seemed to slow, the sound of the stampede filter partially muted through an imperceptible screen.

Julian, He watches.

A gravitational shift forced Julian back another step, and he looked up, trembling in a much more justifiable terror. He didn't see anything but felt Nyamar's eye on him. Why did the Master of the House watch? To witness his death? To scrutinize a disobedient servant who took too many liberties within his stewardship?

In the House, the standard teaching was that good servants did as they were told and completed their assigned tasks. Better servants fulfilled needs without being asked as they arose. The best servants actively sought ways to serve beyond what was expected. Nyamar praised attendants who exercised autonomy for the benefit of the House. More than anyone, Julian risked the most overstepping his assignment's scope. Why wouldn't Nyamar speak to him as plainly as he had to the previous steward? Didn't Nyamar understand the paradox between obedience and agency? Where was the line between initiative and disobedience?

"I'm trying!" Julian whispered. "Why would you choose me at a time like this?"

The ghouls continued their charge, brandishing weapons and fangs.

"I have to believe you knew something when you chose me," Julian cried at the sky. "I'll pay the price for my folly, but don't abandon the others!"

The ghouls closed in around the steward.

Julian screamed in defiance, but the ghouls slammed into the air around him, clear-green ripples buffeting them away. Julian looked at the pulse barrier dumbly before registering the buzz of the breach above him.

High Butler Anton Dekker dropped from the slit and dropped ten feet next to the high steward, his face drawn in labored concentration.

"Stay up there," the High Butler called up to his disciples as four more linear windows into the different Nyamarian estates opened above them.

“Anton,” Julian gasped dumbly. “You came.”

The High Butler produced a bulging pouch with a white-gloved hand and threw it to the High Steward. "Of course, I came," he growled irritably. "You may refuse to acknowledge our traditions and completely disregard our policy, but I'll always be the first to head Nyamar's call."

Julian shook several large chunks of veralumite from the pouch, laughed as they melted, and worked their way into his skin. A fortune worth of veralumite but one well spent. Cuts mended, fatigue vanished, and his bones roared with light.

Ghouls pounded against the barrier around them, distorted by the rippling wave between them. Beads of sweat dripped down Anton's brow as he focused on the continuous counter push.

"See the animal-headed liches on the berm?" Julian indicated with a nod.

"I see them," Anton affirmed.

"Fight your way to them. Let none escape."

"Cut us a path to that ridge with the liches!" Anton relayed up to the breaches over their head. Julian saw a head poking out of one bob in acknowledgment.

Julian tucked the Druk away and held his hand up.

"Ready?" Anton grunted.

"Go!"

The barrier dropped, and the Butler held his hands flat. The air around them rippled. The two domestics charged. Wire lines of pulse energy whipped down from the breach windows and cut dozens of ghouls to pieces. A few wide, less concentrated shockwaves blew ghouls behind them to the ground.

Julian crushed a ghoul's head in his hand as he passed, and Anton cut through two of them with his pulse blades. He had invented the technique himself. It took a formerly unknown amount of training to control pulses enough to shape them around himself. A spear deflected off of a ripple behind Anton as it approached.

"Go!" Anton cried. "I'll catch up!"

Julian nodded and shot ahead. While slamming, he was much faster than the High Butler.

Domestics expertly shelled the ghouls with a barrage of pulses through breach windows from the safety of several different estates. The breaches acted like an invisible tower supported by nothing but air.

The liches fled from the speeding Domestic as he flew across the plain, and Julian whipped out the Druk.

The House of Nyamar had gone to war.