I stood in a stream that ran along the base of the hill. It was a wondrous experience.

The "skin" of my suit had all the awareness and sensitivity of my own skin, if I chose for it to. I could stand in the water as I rinsed the gore away and feel the chill and freshness run around my calves as vividly as if I were naked—maybe even more so. But if the cold became uncomfortable, I could simply dial back my awareness of it with a thought.

The voice said, "I know your type, kiddo. I've been around the block a few times, and I’ve seen it all go wrong."

I picked a fleck of blackened meat from my chestplate and said, "I’m not a type."

The voice replied, "Oh, nobody’s a type. Everyone’s a special snowflake. 'What happened to him won’t happen to me. I won’t wander down the path. I won’t make those mistakes.' For fuck’s sake, I can smell the synapses in your brain. Trust me, everyone’s a type. I’m a fucking type, dammit. You’re a special kiddo, make no mistake about that, but you’ll still conform to archetypes."

I sighed, rolling my eyes. "And what does it matter if I’m a type?"

"It matters because I want you to be around for a long, long time. I want you to level and level and level until, one day, you have what it takes to set me free. You won’t be able to do any of that if you get sucked into booze or drugs, lose the plot as you bury yourself in mountains of female flesh, or get yourself killed trying to build a legend."

"I thought you wanted me to build a legend," I said.

"There’s a difference between making something of your story and murdering yourself with glory."

"I wouldn’t do that."

The voice laughed thinly. "That’s who you are, though."

I scoffed. "Me? Have you met me? I’m the mouse that beat the lion. I’ve spent my life being afraid of my own shadow."

"Is that still you, though, chief? You sure you don’t have an appetite for making the big play in front of the crowd?"

It was a ridiculous notion. The entire Choosing had been an eternity of struggle. Every moment had been anxiety. I had only been there to serve my father’s goals, not my own. I had no goals. Well, aside from keeping and owning the suit, I had no goals.

The voice said, "I think dear old papa may have painted too many layers of his own ambition over a hungry little ego."

I shook my head, stepping out of the water and walking back toward the convoy. They were lining up again, readying to re-enter the Footfield.

"I just want the suit," I said. "I just want to make my own choices."

"Choices like using the Footfield just so you can take first place in a race? Regardless of whether it risked the lives of innocent bystanders? Choices like stopping a powerful veteran Gridlord from killing a dangerous fiend just so you could have the pleasure? Choices like dismantling the thing like prime meat just so the crowd could watch? Honestly, they’ll call you the butcher instead of the shopkeep after this."

"They won’t call me Butcher," I scoffed. I couldn’t say his argument was easy to dismiss. But I knew myself. I had no hunger for the spotlight.

As I neared the first wagon, one of the knights rode past. He saluted me with newfound enthusiasm. "Welcome back, Butcher! That was some display, my lord! They’ll be telling tales of you taking the limbs of that thing for some time to come!"

The voice said nothing as I walked past the knight. Still, I thought to it, Shut up.

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The voice said, "You need to decide what you want from this life. What you want from being a Griidlord. I just need you to fight and level while doing so. If you don’t choose a path for yourself, you’ll wake up in a hundred years, surrounded by empty wine bottles and naked women, wondering what happened to the last century."

I shook my head again. "You don’t know me."

Chowwick was approaching me, one of the Clan warriors walking alongside him. His huge body swaggered as he walked. He was a curious sort—brimming with all the bravado and superiority of a lord, but with a heart connected to lesser men. Even as I watched, he paused. He leaned over to where a merchant was frantically trying to repair his wagon’s axle, fearful of delaying the convoy or slowing us down. Chowwick’s visor blazed with POWER as he lifted the wagon with one hand. The merchant startled, looking up at the terrifying titan holding his cart, then bent quickly to his task.

The voice said, "I know his type too. Don’t think he’s such an enigma; he’s just another category."

I wasn’t listening. I watched as Chowwick held the cart. Lance would never have done that if he wore the suit. He wouldn’t even have noticed the commoner. The merchant would have been invisible to him. I tried to imagine what Lauren or Katya would have done—noble Lauren, aloof Katya. I wasn’t sure. Olaf, maybe I could see him pausing to help a peasant.

I went to Chowwick. The big man was laughing and joking with the merchant. He turned to me as I approached, his huge arm never wavering as he held the cart. Chowwick’s visor blazed with a steady light that seemed unending.

When his helm peeled back, I was shocked to see the glow of POWER continuing to pour from his eyes.

Chowwick said, "Ah, shit! There you are! I have someone here who wants a word!"

He pointed to the Pittsburgh warrior who had been walking with him.

"This here is Dirk Jaxwulf," Chowwick said. "Maybe you know him already. He’s the boss of the gang your butler hired to come with us."

I said, "I’m ashamed to say I haven’t met you yet, Dirk. I was attending to… important matters before the last round of The Choosing. I’ve met some of your men—they seem like good people."

Dirk was young enough. He didn’t seem much older than me, but he had the dangerous look of a man who had taken many lives and wasn’t overly concerned about losing his own. He was dressed like the others, in furs and mismatched armor, but his armor seemed more substantial. And unlike the others, his axe glowed with the inner light of a power weapon.

Dirk smiled. It was a disdainful, self-deprecating, yet oddly mocking smile. He said, "Oh, we’re not good people, my lord. We’re the kind of savages that even our society of savages doesn’t consider civilized enough to keep around. But when we sign a contract to fight, we’ll fight until we get paid or until there’s not a heart among us left bleeding."

Chowwick said, "The Jaxwulfs are from a long line of Griidlords. Axes. Nasty, mean fucking axes."

Dirk grinned savagely and happily at the description.

Chowwick said, "Dirk here broke some rule that the clans couldn’t let slide, so his branch of the family has been kicked out. That’s why they’re working for money. You’re lucky, lad. You won’t find a more capable band to hire for five hundred miles around."

I stood, considering the man. The clans of the Burgh were regarded with fear and distrust. Their society was savage. Their people vied with one another, clan against clan. They warred with each other as much as with anyone else. Just once, hundreds of years ago, the great War-Chief Thrax Bonesaw had subjugated all the clans. He had bribed, convinced, and beaten them all into one cause. What followed was a century of conquest that spread from the East Coast almost to the West Coast. It had seemed like the end of the independent cities.

Everyone feared a single Burgh warrior. But a hundred thousand Burgh warriors was an apocalypse.

I said, "You wanted to speak with me?"

Dirk said, "I did. We’ll be a few nights gettin' to Dodge. But it’s probably not too soon to be deciding how yinz want us to deal with the engagement when we get there."

I said, "The engagement? I thought we were moving in force as a precaution."

Dirk put his hands on his hips and looked to the sky, as if seeking guidance. He said, "There’ll be an engagement. Dodge was burned and raided by The Horde, but The Horde has to move with the storm. They take what they can. It’s never everything. They won’t leave a pretty young thing behind, and they’ve got a knack for snatching the best loot in the shortest time, but yinz' dad had a lot of loot there. There’ll be a fortune, an absolute fuckin' fortune o' shit to be had. When we get there, you can bet yinz' ass there’ll be others there before us. Might be wild fuckers, which won’t be a problem. But Kansas might’ve sent out a foraging party. Or worse, those Western Red Empirem bastards."

He looked at me. I was Griidlord, a fearsome figure to be honored and feared. Yet Dirk looked at me like I was a common man. When he spoke of fighting, his eyes dripped with hunger.

He said, "One way or the other, yinz better be ready for killin'."