Lichos’ snuffbox was ready already, pressed to his nostril and drawn on with a deep inhalation. He felt the arcstock disappear down his throat, break apart, diffuse magic through his very being. It was good.

The stuff of life, blinking just for an instant before giving way to the void within.

But the magic’s death meant his strength just as fresh meat did to a lion. Lichos felt the world slow around him, moved limbs seeming a mere fraction of their previous weight, and threw himself into the fight.

His opening rifle shot took a quarter of the first man’s head off, ripping it from the rest and painting the pavement with his blood and brains. The attacker fell gibbering and thrashing as ichor pooled around him, but the rest kept coming. Desperation making them near-fearless.

There was no time to reload, Lichos knew, so he met their charge with his own.

Surprise was the last thing he saw in the eyes of one man before his bayonet disappeared through their gut, twisted and wrenched free amid a mass of worming entrails. He fell too, but not before Lichos had leapt forth again and cracked the butt of his weapon across another man’s jaw.

Something snapped with that impact, but two men still remained, both wielding vicious cleavers and cudgels, both lunging in with madness burning bright behind their eyes. There was no time to get his gun back around, so Lichos dropped the masterpiece and drew a knife instead.

It seemed the final enemies had learned, for they lunged two at once. Not letting his speed take either of them off guard and turn the battle into a singular one.

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They kept Lichos at bay with wild swings, both closing in and cursing as their cleavers raked the air so fast he thought rust might fly off. There was no choice but to cede ground, and they kept eating it up as he gave it.

Soon Lichos was nearing a wall, but still he remained calm. Still he watched, waited, bid his time. And the reward for his patience was not long coming.

One of the men’s boots caught on a stone, sending him staggering for half a moment. It was just barely time enough, for Lichos. He hurled himself into the fray with a viper’s speed and put his knife through the man’s eye, then lashed back into a roll as the last man’s cleaver sought to bite him in his attack.

Terror had just time enough to sprout in the enemy’s face before Lichos was up again. Second knife plucked from his boot, body moving with a mechanical haste.

He didn’t hesitate as he closed in, didn’t second guess himself, or doubt, or worry. It was only killing, and Lichos had never gone wrong by killing.

Gurgling and spluttering marred the man’s last words as Lichos snatched the knife from his throat, then he straightened and turned to look at Pyrhic. He saw the woman pressed flat against a wall, eyes wide and face pale, trembling with the spasms of fear as she gazed upon him.

Not meeting her eye, he wiped the blood from his gear carefully and methodically before unsheathing it, saving the rifle for last. When he approached the woman, she seemed calmer than he’d expected.

“That was well done.” She managed, voice a croak. Lichos shrugged in answer, unsure how to take such a grizzly compliment.

“I’m a Wrathman.”

The two of them took off in their walk again, subdued in the carnage’s wake. Still Lichos studied his companion, turning events over in a new light.

He was a fine killer, and Wrath was to thank. Pyrhic was a cleverer, wiser, quicker woman than he, and he didn’t doubt she could have been a merchant queen if she so sought it. Instead she was the handmaiden to a girl younger even than her. No matter what Lichos saw of the world, the bottom line remained unchanged.

One’s station was an absolute.