'You'd be surprised how quickly a man soils himself in death. A whole day without food or drink, and it still comes out of him just the same.

'I cut the throat of a gibbet man once, been hanging for days. Days without even a crumb of bread. Still shit himself. Hard to believe we're always holding so much in down there. Always. Makes me want a bath just thinking about it.'

Wise words from Mikhail. One of the more unique members of their band. They called themselves the 'blackguard', courtesy of the hoods and dark cloaks they wore. But they hadn't given themselves the name officially. That name was given to them by a man. A dead man, now. Not by their hand – but someone else. One of the nobles, perhaps, who played the game.

Ghostly hooded figures in the night. 'A branch of the assassins guild... In our city!?' Dramatic claims that they were more than they were. Couldn't outlaw black cloaks in Haran, though they tried. Couldn't pin any involvement on Tyr either. As far as he knew, they thought him far too dull in the brain for such a task as rounding up such an effective band of cutthroats. Perhaps he was a member, at best. More like an errand boy in the minds of the nobles who might be aware of his participance in their activities.

It was they who were dull in the head. Beyond so.

The man, Mikhail, who huddled beneath the eve of an alleyway in the outer ring was not a criminal. Not truly. Instead, he had been a ranger constable well on his way to becoming an arbiter – a good one at that. A baronet had murdered a whore, and ran. Mikhail had found him, clapped him in irons – and found himself on the wrong side of the iron bars when it was all said and done. A whore could, in fact, be raped, and no woman deserved that whether they chose to peddle their own flesh or not. But a commoner arresting a noble too low in position to come within notice of the primus? Or too far away to fall under royal annuity...

A similar story. Something about injustice. It made them more amenable to the work that was required of them. Mikhail was something of a captain among them. Tiber refused to take part, but remained to keep an eye on the prince regardless. A queensguard was a knight, but a queensguard was no stranger to a cloak in disguise unlike the prettily plumed peacocks more at home on a tourney field than one of battle. As for the thrusting of daggers and hauling off of men, he left that to the others. As distasteful as it was, it happened and he stopped saying much in protest. Tiber had been that man with the knife once, but no longer – he had grown old and left that life behind him.

Samson and Tythas remained behind. They would come later, but the former was too large to pass unnoticed, and the latter? Tyr trusted him even less, now that he knew of his nobility. In fact, he was shocked the man had willingly revealed it. He checked, two thousand ducal crowns for that boys head, paid by the brotherhood. An equivalent of eight hundred or so gold credits – which was an insane sum of money. No wonder he escaped to Haran, the only country he might find himself safe from the bounty. The capital, too. Worth the risk. Maybe. Eight hundred gold credits was roughly equivalent to the same in imperial sovereigns, more than a lot of mid-tier nobles made in a calendar year.

In any case, Tyr wasn't an accountant. He knew of the annuities but as far as his ability and knowledge of money went... Eh... Everything, for him, had been paid for by his father. He grew up with a diamond spoon the size of the moon and took these things for granted just by default. All he knew was that it was enough money to live in relative luxury for a lifetime.

They rare spoke, those black cloaks. All hand signs and tapping. Masks on their faces and an urgency to their light stride carrying them over rooftop and beneath shadowed awnings. Two men visible on each accessible street leaving the city. Except for one. That was the point, the sheep dogs lit up against the horizon or under streetlights to push their quarry in the right direction. Men visible from a carriage, a window, or just by looking behind oneself. It didn't matter, the cloaks did the job. They saw it, they ran, they fell right into the trap.

Too busy watching for the men in the street to notice the cloaks above, well visible in the bright moonlight.

The same moonlight that pooled on the polished edge of Fennic's axe as it sailed through the air with deadly precision. A man died silently, only the dull crunch of steel caving in his skull. No battle cries, no godly oaths or 'for the kings'. This was the nights work, and they'd go just as silently as they'd come.

No time for a longbow in the city. Hard to conceal, frame riding up over a shoulder. Bait for the constables who would always come, albeit a bit late to the party. Better to rely on something a man can't see beneath the cloak.

Another died. Pierced through the neck by a half meter of steel. A short sword. Mikhail, leaping atop the carriage and killing the second man just as Fennic's axe landed. Well practiced precision. Both men had been killers of a sort before ever meeting the prince, now they were better at it. Muffled cries came from within the horse drawn carriage, courtesy of the easily spooked individuals inside. So quiet had they been that it was unlikely they had heard much of anything besides the feet of Mikhail hitting the roof.

Fast enough to avoid spooking the horses at the fore of the carriage. One of four identical steeds drawing the finely hewn exterior surrounding the man it carried. The other wagons were decoys, the man had thought the prince and his band stupid. Another lesson from Mikhail. Tyr might be stupid, but he watched, listened, and remembered. Most of the other carriages were so... Plain, but this one, this one was special if only for the obscenely gaudy accents of ivory and gold leaf. It had been easy enough that it had picked at his anxiety.

'If you're looking for the smuggler, always look for the wagon lowest on the bearing.'

Not a wagon, technically – more like a small house carted along by horses such was the profligacy of the nobleman within. Not a smuggler either, but a man with wealth and position. It was all the same, from the standpoint of common logic. Mikhail had a lot of those lessons for them, he was good at sniffing these things out. A real talent for it. And they'd left in such a hurry that dimensional rings necessary to keep the load light hadn't been sourced out by the proprietor of all this wealth.

It worked. Tyr could head the mans voice through the cracked shutter at the carriage window.

“What's happening?” Hissing, unsteady with the fear. It happened like this a lot whether through a bedroom door, a carriage window, or otherwise.

Tyr and Mikhail lifted the bodies as best they could to deposit them directly between the carriage wheels so as not the be seen from the shutters. The man with the knife through his throat was bubbling in protest, just loud enough for Tyr to feel a bit of concern, so he finished the job by wedging a loose stone on the cobbled street in the hole. All one would hear now was the faintest whistling of air, the gash bubbling with foamy blood.

“No worries, m'lord.” Tyr mimicked his best 'dumb peasant' voice. “Cat on the roof is all. Big thing, should've seen it! Caught me a fright I di--”

“Shut up, you idiot!” That always worked, too. That hissing voice, he knew exactly who it belonged to. “Get moving, now, you filthy peasant!”

Tyr was lucky the man had chosen to use commoners and servants to haul his lardy ass across the city. Knights might've been a problem, either before or after they were dead. Lords and ladies tended to know their knights by name and voice, but not so for the servants. All of the knights, as far as he knew – were with the decoys. Like most nobles, this man thought he was smarter than he actually was.

A handful of minutes later, and they entered the warehouse. Just off the large wharf separated from the city by the wall. Where fisherman brought their goods to land so as to not disturb the sensibilities of rich merchants with a voice. Less taxes here, and a larger marina for the smaller vessels as well. A place for business as raw as that same fish, of all kinds – free of the prying eyes of more scrupulous dock masters and busy even in the night.

The warehouse was quiet though. Until the door opened with a loud creek and the man emerged, panting with the exertion of dragging a large chest. One of many, if the low bearing of the carriage told the true tale. Full of gold, jewels, other trinkets near and dear to the mans heart – or more likely his pocket. Maybe they were one in the same given his reputation as a miser. Enough to get him out of the country and then some. He had known they were coming for him, and fled with all haste.

A mistake, and it had worked to the blackguards advantage. Hurried as he was, the man hadn't been able to properly plan his escape. Half a mess in his dressing, not looking the least bit noble in the way his paunch hung over his belt.

“Help me with this, you damn--” A catch in the throat. They could mimic the voices of the carriage guard, but not the dress of them. Not with the blood all over their outfits and the stink of their breeches. Not that they'd need or want for the disguise. This was a man caught in the jaws of the trap. In a now shuttered warehouse that few sounds could escape from, especially when Tyr dragged him down to the cleverly hidden basement. He'd get to that eventually.

“P-prince Tyr. Ah, what a p-p-pleasure. What are you doing here? Business, perhaps? Ah, I was just--”

He shut the man up with a backhand. A hard one. Unused to pain as a gentleman of high society was – it hadn't needed to be half as hard to send the man reeling. It did, and not a voice of complaint came other than a cry of pain. A woman who had yet to emerge from the interior of the carriage shrieked. Not the mans wife, she was too young for that, Lady Regis was in her 50's and was a bit plumper, like her husband. His sons, though, they were there. Dragged out by their lapels and cursing in their high pitched voices. Chubby and ruddy, with the face of children on the bodies of men.

Soft men. Both were quite young but they cut a decent figure, height wise if one ignored their frame too suited to sweet meats and not enough to training.

“Baron.” Tyr curtsied as a woman would, it made all of it funnier. “Tea? Refreshment of any kind? We've got some of this drink, it's quite good. Coffee they call it, bought it off a merchant from the rumway. Some place in the south, couldn't name it on a map though. You'd like it. Would you like some?”

“N-no. Thank you, your grace. Coffee doesn't agree with my stomach.” Bizarrely, the man hadn't seemed to come to grips just yet on the situation. Surrounded by black hoods and cloaks. You'd think one would find it self evident, they weren't exactly an unknown, especially to this man. “Actually, I was--”

'Your grace' sounded a lot different from 'mutt' or 'malamute'. Men were funny like that when presented with pain, death, or otherwise. It was easy to call the wolf a 'beast' until you saw the intelligence in the eyes of a pack as it bore down on you. It's too bad none of these so called philosophers survived to spin a true telling of the wild. Men were made to do a thing, born to it most times. Beasts were no different. Submit when control was torn from their hands.

“Actually, I was--”

Another smack. Not so hard. This time, the rattle in his brain must've adjusted something in the baron. He cursed, loudly and aggressively. Fast like, his tongue flapping at a speed which could rival the wings of a hummingbird.

'Do you know who I am?'

'When your father hears about this...!'

'My men will...'

'You may be a prince, but you're still a...'

Only when the kiss of cold steel rested on his flabby neck did he stop. Most men would. Tyr liked the men who didn't though, for that meant there was a steel of their own in them. Steel was good. In a blade, in a man, it didn't matter. He'd let a man live if they showed enough of it and circumstances allowed. Nothing this man did, though, would save him. All that was left was the process of putting him where he belongs. In the ground.

“Mind.” It wasn't Tyr, but Tiber who had drawn the blade. A man who had loved Tyr's mother like a sister, someone who had treated him right and honored him half a hundred times and more. A true queen who inspired loyalty beyond anything Tyr found himself capable of. Her son, though his deeds at times unworthy, was not a man to insult in his presence.

“Forgive me..” Now came the blubbering. The babbling. Begging for forgiveness and revealing every crime the man had ever committed. No steel in this one. Not the smallest speck of slag, let alone hard iron.

“So let me get this straight. And forgive me Baron, you're right – I never should've struck you. But you know my mind. A northern brute, it's in my blood. I'm soft here, see.” He pointed at his head, drawing even with the noble and helping him up with a steady hand. Soft in the face. An easy mask to see through, Tyr was never the best actor. But in a situation like this, a mans eyes were clouded. “Ah, my friend. My mothers friend, I've dishonored you. Please forgive me, I'm just of a mood. A compensation is due, I think. Right, lads?”

There was no answer. There didn't need to be. It was all a show, one rehearsed in action. They knelt, each and every one of them. Forty three, dropping to a knee before their commander, if a title need be given. In unison, too. A thing of beauty, that kind of solidarity reflecting back at him.

“N-no. Of course not, my prince. Never that. I can see that my words have wounded you as well. I beg your forgiveness, you've done no wrong.” That nervous smile. 'I'm going to live!' Maybe it was something like that. Men did that too, when caught in the game. Tyr liked it, in his way, but he hated it too. With the ability, he'd prefer to win all arguments as his father did. The only drama his father left in his wake was a field of broken bodies and tales of the rare man who lived to witness the deed. Some fractured concept of masculinity. That's what Tyr yearned for. But he was weak. Not weak in the sense of a man, but weak in the sense of his measure to expectations. Too weak. Worthless, but wily.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

For he listened to his brothers who guided and tutored him better than any powdered scholar in their flamboyant robes. Always. Tyr was lazy, in a way, but once a thing caught his interest there wasn't a diversion on the planet that could sway his dedication to it. He wanted what he wanted, any skill or knowledge necessary toward that end, he'd pursue viciously.

“I've been searching, baron. Do you know what I've been looking for all of these years? Do you know what drives me? Surely not a scrap or a brawl in court.” Tyr chuckled, eyes turned up in a crescent moon. The baron chuckled too. His eyes were wide, no shape to them other than the 'O' of a man so lost in his rampaging anxieties that he'd do anything to live. Pain was not always the most efficient device of torture, it was allowing them time to think when presented with the possibility. Pain could be ignored, but the fears of a man howl at him with an urgency most unpleasant. Let them imagine. For now.

“I've always liked you, you know. I know I just struck you, but it's the truth. The moment I saw you, I knew you had a quick hand for business. A good eye for it, too. A better man that I, at that. My father always told me, and this is perhaps his only lesson I've truly taken to heart. That the hearts of the Harani are worth ten times the strength of his limbs. For what is a primus before the weight of all mankind. His duty to protect and guide them, he said. Do you know what he meant?”

The baron shook his head. Well, Tyr wasn't sure what he was doing. The man made an oval with his nose, making it unclear if he was indicating in the affirmative or negative to the question. Then again, Tyr also had no idea what the fuck he was saying. Complete nonsense.

“I think he meant that if you surround yourself with talented men, you need no talent of your own. Other than a working mind, but that's just my addition to the rule. These men around me, I think they're all talented in their own way. Mikhail, he's a good man. Hard toward justice, thinks the commonfolk should be protected at all costs and why shouldn't they? Without them, our economy would fall to pieces. Who would grow our crops? Then we have...”

Tyr listed them all. Every single one of them. They heard it too, and that was part of the game. It took some time, some descriptions more elaborate than others. But they all appreciated it, perking up as Tyr came to their name and waxed on about their talents and personalities.

“Do you see my point, baron?”

Now, the man nodded. Solidly. In the time given, he was still nervous. More confused, though. They sat opposite each other at a drafting table present in the warehouse, conversing as old friends might.

“Of course, your grace. I didn't think you so wise, but I agree. Your father has taught you well, and what a sharp mind you have!”

Since his... Seventh winter, perhaps – Tyr hadn't heard a word of true praise from the court. Those nobles who served directly under royal annuity. Counts and barons and viscounts and marquis. Intermediate to higher class nobles, important people. The best they could say of him was that he was handsome, but only if he 'wiped that look from his face' or some other backhanded comment afterwards. He had filthy eyes, they said. Not in the color of them but in the disposition. Always staring, never wavering. Cold eyes.

“I appreciate that, baron. To hear such a word of praise from a man like you makes my heart sing!” Tyr laughed again. It sounded honest. It would. He wasn't the best actor – but the focus right now and for a long time had been the game. Bound to pick up a trick or two, here and there. Good enough to fool a man stuck in fear and too deep in that emotion to ask 'why' such a bizarre situation was unfolding. It was going well, this game. That baron had already wet himself twice. Tyr could smell it. “Baron Regis... Are we friends, do you think?”

“I've not had the pleasure of conversing with your g-grace previously. But now? Surely we're friends, yes?... Forgive me for saying so, I find myself in awe at your wit. If only my sons were half as able as you! Ha!” He laughed, and Tyr thought that sounded honest too. There was the game, and the nobles played it too. The man felt safe, now. Tyr needed no more introduction with Regis, it was the baring of the neck that any predator would seize upon. A magic show of sorts, to drop his guard, that of the psychological which even a soft man like this would keep. These soft nobles were too often cowards, but they were wily, and Baron Regis was absolutely no fool.

“Can I ask you a question?” Tyr asked. “It'll be an alarming one. Believe me, you won't be ready. But I only ask because I have a genuine curiosity. It's important to me, and I think you're the only man that can help.”

The shrewd merchant nobles eyes became just that, shrewd, conspiratorial. He knew what this was, or he thought he did. A transaction. After all, the prince was just a thug. They all knew it, whether he had surprised the baron with his apparent intelligence and silver tongue or not.

“Of course, my prince.” He rose then, bowing. It was crisp, or the man tried to make it thus. Perhaps it was, but his frame was not balanced for it. It looked like a dancing bear, close enough to the true thing to be called a 'dancer', but still just a bear.

“Did you kill my mother?” Tyr asked, more steel in his eyes than every man in the barons employ combined. Maybe more steel than the entire Imperial army possessed altogether. Unsurprisingly, the man did not answer immediately. They never did, not at first – and that had led him here instead of chasing the ultimate target. After all, Baron Regis was just a baron. Not wealthy or well connected enough to hire a 'scorpion'. The first man Tyr had ever killed. He could remember the assassins face, disguised as a knight in service to the queen, staring down at his own poisoned dagger before he'd even been given the chance to act. Tyr had seen right through him back then, but there were more waiting outside the carriage.

The thugs had done most of the work, he only acted as insurance. If it hadn't been such a convoluted approach that they'd all taken, Tyr would be dead as well. No man escaped the sting, and in a duel very few would escape a certain death with the Assyrian equivalent of a Sicario. He was lucky, and that was all. Lucky enough to hear a voice in the back of his head that he'd heard nothing from since. Screams ringing his skull like a bell, guiding his hand to find the gap in the mans hauberk to send that manticore venom through his veins. Before that, there had been no indication that the queensguard with more than a year of service was of suspicion.

Tyr got him, pieced him right through the gut and left a slash across the arm with the obsidian blade, looking down coldly at the man as he died. His blood turned to gelatin in his veins. It worked fast, that stuff. Divine intervention, the priests had called it. As if the gods existed at all, though Tyr had never let that suspicion leave his lips, if the gods actually existed this world would be a very different place.

“I...” Regis paused. He was caught again in the cogs of his own thoughts. His own game, or so he had thought that was what they were playing. Except Tyr was the wolf, or the malamute – with the kings neck between his teeth. Over forty pawns on the white, nary a one on the black. Regis' pawns were hired, Tyr's were chosen.

“It's okay, Regis. Do you mind if I call you Regis? Really. I know.”

I know. There wasn't much need to say more than that. It made a mans mind spin faster. I know. What does he know? How does he know it? Well, Tyr had seen to no less than seven nobles beforehand after he learned the way. Regis knew. That's how he'd gotten the mans name in the first place.

“I had nothing to do with--”

Tyr cut the man off. “I knew it. See, my brothers? We were wrong. Gods, I feel lucky. An asset of the empire like you would be a shame to lose. What say I give you a years worth of tax deferment in Hammondsport? No, no. You're right. Not enough compensation for your troubles. I did strike you, after all. Out of turn, it'd take more to forgive that.”

“Of course I require no gain, my prince. It is my honor to be of ser--”

“Fennic?” Tyr called out. “What say we give this man some compensation that he can taste today rather than waiting for his caravans to pass overland. Hmm?”

Without a whisper or word, Regis' ear was separated from his head. The ear of a pig what with the pinkness of it, bloody and wet, cut so clean it didn't look as unnatural as Tyr might expect. He wondered at it, staring at the wet crimson stain and wondering how a mans body could hold so much fluid. All while Regis' agonized howls fell on deaf ears.

“I'll ask again.” Tyr said calmly. “Did you kill my mother?”

It continued like this for a while. Regis cried, threatened, babbled incoherently. It was hard to get the truth from the man. Whoever had done it, that man struck more fear in the heart of the baron than the prince. This was a problem. It had been this way for some time, otherwise he'd have known the truth long ago. People knew, but they'd never say. Two years of this, and it went from man to man to man. Tyr had gotten better at the flushing out, but no closer to the truth.

“Stop.” Tyr sighed. This 'game' was over. Of course the man couldn't live, but there was no reason not to savor the experience of carving the concept of hell on his ruddy flesh. Two ears gone, a tooth too. But it was in the fingernails. In the fingernails, men talked. An odd location one wouldn't think to look. Another of Mikhail's lessons. Fingernails and the softer parts, the skin that connected one thing to another.

Fennic did as he was asked, as he always did. The nobles could look down on peasants all they wanted to, but the peasants feared the gods more than any man. Commoners. They saw the royals as the chosen of these same gods. Any god, all of the gods. God fearing. It inspired loyalty greater than a mortal deserved. Fennic was like that. A devout man. A man of the gods. Nobles on the other hand would curse the gods if it stood to benefit them. Profane them all they like. Perhaps there was some irony in the fact that a priest had given Tyr all the information he needed. Nobles. Rotten.

But a commoner? A mountain of gold and they would spit on it if their family patron deity told them to. Spit on it or kill the man who offered it. Greed was universal, but more often than not a common man would pick piety first. With Tyr as their 'face', faith of his own or not – it was an unspoken truth. Commoners could be trusted far beyond the nobility in all things, despite the rumors. Tyr liked commoners, they were honest.

“Stop.” Tyr sighed, unable to wipe the disgust from his face. “Bring me the women.”

It wasn't so large a warehouse, the brothers had heard his command. And they did. Two of them, faces painted beyond attractiveness. Some women were like that. They mewled and begged, incomprehensibly, thick tears staining their powdered masked. Mewling as women do, unburdened by the pride men were expected to have – expecting a mercy that was unique to their gender. Tyr didn't blame them, hated himself for doing it. His need to know overcame his fragile concept of honor.

“Who are you?” They couldn't answer, too lost in the madness of fear. Hyperventilating with bubbles about their unnaturally red lips. Their faces a mess, stained with mascara, or eye shadow, or eyeliner – whatever it was called. Tyr had never understood the concept of painting ones face like a clown, he preferred his women with as little paint as possible. Just to look at.

“Fine.” He concluded. “Kill the women.”

Now, they talked. But it wasn't in their words that he found interest, it was in the eyes of the baron. Almost relieved were those eyes. He cried out, still, trying.

“No! Please, anything but that!”

The man was weak, too weak to remain on his knees under another backhand. That was the true merit of hand signals. Something men outside their brotherhood would not understand. Tyr had never intended to kill the women. It took only the slightest indication to realize that they were just whores. The barons favorite toys, he did not love or respect them as he should. They didn't deserve to die, but they'd not leave this place just yet.

He gagged them with an apology and an oath before the gods that he'd not lay hands on them. Within seconds, relief shone on their faces. Confirming yet further that they had no great love or relation to the baron either. Removing the gag after they'd calmed themselves, Tyr heard what he wanted to hear.

Just whores. Promised a life in the south with riches aplenty, and Regis had the means to do it what with his large trading network. Tyr almost felt sorry for them, for stealing their dream. He figured few women wanted to participate in such a vocation, but could understand the need for it. Had purchased the night from a few such himself. He had this weakness, a craving the flesh, but never indulging in it. That was the way. To be touched and reassured by a woman, but never to have her. It was a job, and an industry, and therefore they deserved no ire for it. In a way, he valued them more than his own sisters that yet lived, perched as they were on their asses, doing nothing all day. Living pampered lives.

Most of them, in any case.

“Kill the boys.”

Now Regis struggled. A man should love his sons. Should. Tyr would know nothing of this compulsion, and figured he never would. A man should love his sons. That thought made him angry, every time it leaped into his mind. Full of rage. This time, there was no signal. One boy was opened from navel to sternum, his guts spilling out on the floor.

Still, the baron would not speak, would not admit complicity or sell out his master. He screamed, though.

“No!” This repeated a dozen times, and then the blubbering. He cared for his sons, this baron. Tyr hated himself for that too. To take a father from his loving sons, or vice versa... It was a crime, and he would pay for it. One day, but not before he saw to the truth of what had happened that night.

“Wait! Wait!” Regis howled, still blabbering on. Tyr had waited for this moment for too long, but he couldn't help but feel relieved that he could spare the younger boys life. Give him head of household of a line too insignificant to provide him much of value. Secure his loyalty, even. Maybe. To a fit boy, that boy could become a knight and earn his own way – but this boy was as soft and flabby as his father. No life by the sword and oath for him. Perhaps he'd make a good merchant. Tyr didn't know. Previously, he'd likely have been cast aside as soon as his now dead elder brother had an heir spat out for him. That's usually how it worked.

He wouldn't stop there. A flaying and a gelding should make anyone talk, staring down at a baron with his mouth full of blood, mewling and begging for mercy again. This time, for his last remaining son. In this, it would seem, men were most like to find their gods. Even if the prince had heard what he needed to hear, he'd give the man no easy death. Complicity.

He waited, and Regis started talking, as they usually did, with one major difference. Everything. Finally!

Finding out what he wanted to know, he cut the man from ear to ear even after a promise to do otherwise. He couldn't live. Enough had been said, and now he'd face the judgment of the divines. Or eternal oblivion. Tyr did not believe in gods. Too much injustice to believe in a god or gods who's very existence was predicated on the antonym. No purity here. No rest, no wholeness. No mercy.

Heavy. That's what he thought, watching the life seep from the barons eyes. Death was a strange thing, and it did things stranger. The soiling, all the blood. So many things. But most curious of all could very well be the weight of it. The weight of a dead body that would drag the arms down. A man you had carried a moment before would grow incomparably heavier in death. He didn't understand it. Didn't want to.

Killing came easy, but death had significance. The cooling of the eyes along with the body whether it be in men or animals. Tyr had never been able to hunt properly because of it. A fleshy body as a testament to a life well lived. Whether significant, goodly, or the opposite of both. It was still a life. Killing was easy. Death or the consideration thereof was... Perhaps hard. Tyr wouldn't fly into it willingly. Not yet, whatever came for him after his own death had to be terrible.

“The boy?” Mikhail snapped Tyr from his thoughts. 'The sins of the father'. Mikhail held to that creed, but Tyr did not not. This was just a boy, as the classification would infer.

“Leave him alive.” Mikhail breathed in relief as soon as he heard the words. For whatever reason, Tyr had chosen mercy.

Thus far, the plan had gone to just that. The plan. Unfortunately...

As a great writer had once said – the best laid schemes of mice and men. Allowing Tyr the briefest moment of regret that he hadn't peeled those fingernails off, the baron had given in too easy.