29th of Manas, 1018 N.F. (w.y.)
“Sorry, but I don’t need any,” Gael grunted out, shifting boxes around his storefront. The middle-aged cobbler hefted a box of bootheels and hauled it the back of the storefront, sweat staining the back of his shirt.
Necrem wrung the wide brim of his hat while he stood in the middle of the emptying cobbler store. The windows were boarded to block out the suns and keep some of the heat in. They certainly kept in the heavy scent of tanned leather and wood. The few shelves were empty, no samples of shoes or boots to catch a needy or working man’s eye.
He’s going with the army this season, Necrem surmised. Armies always needed more camp workers than they did soldiers—cooks, cobblers, laundry washers, doctors.
Blacksmiths.
It took a host of other people simply to get the fighting men to the fight. If they ever fought at all.
“I’m sorry, Necrem,” Gael said, walking back in and raking his wet, stringy hair out of his face as he squinted at Necrem, “but no, I don’t need any more nails.” He walked over to his stool in the far-left corner and picked up a board with sheets of paper tacked to it. He flipped over a few of the sheets and squinted again.
“Are you sure you have enough?” Necrem asked half-heartedly. “Campaigns can be . . . hard to plan for. You can never be too certain you have everything.” He choked back the bile he felt from repeatedly having to asking. He was thankful his black cloth mask hid his discomfort. It felt too much like begging than trying to sell his wares. Asking people to buy his work had always been difficult for him. Everything was so much easier when people came to him to fix things or make something new for them.
He had to do this, though. He was running out of time.
“I’m pretty sure,” Gael replied, flopping the pages back over. He sat the board on his knees, and then his face lit up like he had a thought. “Now, if you had a shipment of hides, or knew someone selling hides, that would be something I could use.”
Necrem shook his head. “I only have metal.”
“I’m sorry then, Necrem, but I really can’t help.” Gael sighed and looked Necrem up and down, slumped in his stool. “It’s this year’s campaign tax, isn’t it?”
Necrem grunted.
“The tax nearly got me, too.” Gael folded his arms. “If I hadn’t shown that collector my permit as an army cobbler for this season, I’m sure he’d have turned my name over to the press gangs. But you—”
“Thanks for your time, Gael,” Necrem said, turning for the door and putting his hat on. “Hope I wasn’t a bother.”
“No bother, Necrem. No bother at all.”
Necrem opened the door, flooding the room with blinding Exchange light. He angled his hat’s wide brim to shield his eyes.
He was barely able to make out twenty feet in front of him.
“You’re a friend of Daved’s, aren’t you?” Gael called when Necrem was halfway out the door. “Surely he can help you.”
Necrem’s grip tightened on the doorlatch until the wood gave a protesting creak.
No, he told himself, closing the door. A man shouldn’t go begging to his friend.
31st of Manas, 1018 N.F. (w.y.) ~ 1st of Petrarium, 1019 N.F (e.y.)
Necrem huddled in the narrow shadow of the building’s eave. He held his arms tight across his chest while the steam of his breath spilled around the edges his mask like mist. He shivered.
The Exchange must be halfway over.
He wasn’t certain how many days had passed. It could have been four, could have been five. The constant light was disorienting, and Necrem couldn’t trust counting the number of times he had slept.
The sudden cold was the only true measure of time. It defied all logic with both suns bearing down on the world, but the world grew colder halfway through the Exchange. Necrem had heard tale of water freezing under the suns in the far north. The cool air dried out his skin, and his facial scars pulled and shriveled tightly on his cheeks, threating the exposed portions of his gums.
When it got warm again, though, that announced the Exchange was ending.
I’m running out of time.
“What do you want?” the squat, stockyard manager demanded. Sunslight reflected off his bald scalp, tanned deeply, like leather. The two, gray tuffs of hair above his lip failed to pass for a mustache and looked more like hairs growing out his bulbous nose. Especially from how he was scowling up at Necrem with his fists on his hips.
“Good Exchange,” Necrem grumbled, reaching for his hat.
“Savior damn the Exchange!” the manager snapped. “What do you want?”
Necrem pulled back, keeping his face muscles as still as possible. Even frowning threatened to split a scar, causing it to bleed.
He took his hat off to be respectful. “I’m looking to sell nails and horseshoes for the campaign stock,” he replied. “I was hoping you were still buying.”
“What would I do with them?” The manager spat off to the side. His right eyebrow twitched.
“For the campaign,” Necrem stated pointedly, thinking it obvious. “For wagon repairs and replacement for the horses.” He gestured out in the yard. Half of it was full of wagons, both loaded and unload, lined up in columns and waiting to be hitched up. The corrals for the horses and cattle, though, were empty. They had already been moved to barns and stables to be kept out of the suns. Necrem knew the campaign would call for hundreds of horses and even more heads of cattle for the army.
“That’s a waste of space,” the manager said dismissively.
“What?” Necrem grunted.
“Have you never been on campaign before? If a horse throws a shoe, then one of the armies’ blacksmiths just makes another one. And if a wagon breaks down, they just leave it. No one’s got space to haul around a bunch of nails and horseshoes, and I’m not going to waste any deberes, either. You just get out of here and stop wasting my damn time! Idiot!” The manager grabbed the latch of his door and slammed it shut. A faint click followed as he locked it.
Necrem stood there, staring at the door. He balled his fists until his hat’s leather bit into his palm, ground his teeth together, and his cheeks started to sting. He breathed heavily through his nose, puffing out wisps through his mask. His vision suddenly blurred, and he gasped, snapping his eyes shut.
Don’t get mad, Necrem urged himself. Don’t get mad!
His arms trembled, but after a few deep breaths, he finally calmed down. He took a deep breath and put his hat on.
Home. Necrem shoved his broad hands into his pockets and walked out of the yard with his shoulders slumped.
2nd ~ 3rd of Petrarium, 1019 N.F (e.y.)
“Didn’t mean to bother you,” Necrem said as another door slammed into his face. His shoulders fell, and he sighed heavily.
He walked off the steps and back into the street, the gravel crunching under his feet. He headed to the next squat, clay plaster house, yet he found little strength or willpower to knock on the door when he got to its steps. This was too much. Too desperate. Even for him. So, he kept walking.
No one needs any nails. No one needs any horseshoes. No one needs a new skillet. Necrem’s head hung lower, the wide brim of his hat providing blessed shade for his whole face. No one needs anything.
The small line of sweat running from his hairline down his jaw made everything worse. Warmth was returning quickly. Soon, the Westerly Sun would fade back, and the Easterly Sun would become dominate in the sky. Night would return, and everyone would get back to their lives.
And the tax collector will come back to collect.
Lifting his head up, Necrem’s world was still an unsettling glare. Most of the houses he passed were clay plaster and shingled houses, sturdy and closely built together. The slums were quiet, as if everyone had boarded up their homes and buried themselves underneath to get out of the suns.
Farther down the street, Necrem just barely made out Manosete’s high stone walls, sticking out in stark contrast to the pitiful dwellings outside them. Beyond that loomed the Hand of the West—a towering structure of marble, granite, and black obsidian, each clashing design built together to resemble a hand stretching up into the sky with five towers branching off it.
Legend told it was built on the site where the founding head of the Desryol family, the family who had led humanity west, died. It was said he died with his hand stretched out toward the suns because his only desire was to go ever westward, as for as he could. Yet, here he died, and the Desryol commemorated the spot with a gaunt monstrosity at the center of their kingdom.
The story was stupid. Necrem knew any story the nobility made up was stupid, but that one was a special kind of stupid. Nobles might be morbid, but they weren’t that morbid.
Sweat slipped under his mask, and the salt seeped into a scar and stunned his face.
Actually, some are. Necrem squinted, though he could see the Hand of the West trying to grasp the Easterly Sun. Starting to see things. Might as well head—
A woman’s soft crying made him stop. Peering from under his hat’s brim, he saw a door ajar three houses down. He turned on his heels, away from the house, but the crying got louder.
Just walk away, he told himself. Nothing good will come of it. I can’t help anybody.
The crying persisted.
Gritting his teeth, Necrem turned back and headed toward the house. The Exchange could be a dangerous time. The constant sunslight did strange things to people, turning those usually calm and gentle into raving animals from the delirium. It was especially hard to get help if anything went terribly wrong, too, because everyone was hunkered down until the Exchange was over.
Necrem cautiously walked up the steps then hesitantly knocked on the door. Despite trying to be gentle, his knuckles pushed the door farther in, its hinges creaking.
“Hello?” he called. “Is everyone all right?”
“Who’s that?” a stern man’s voice demanded.
Necrem took off his hat and stopped at the threshold, abiding the rules of hospitality and not entering unless he was asked.
The door creaked open wider to reveal a small common room filled with clutter, shelves with knickknacks and old family heirlooms, an empty fireplace with an iron hook to hold kettles and pots over the fire, and a pair of worn rocking chairs.
In the corner sat a man and, presumably, his wife at a table. The homely woman’s face was buried in her hands. Her sweat-soaked shawl threatened to come loose and spill her hair out.
The man grimaced at Necrem. Although his face was weathered and in need of a shave, he didn’t look no older than Necrem. He sat with his right leg stretched out, unnaturally straight, under the table. He held up his walking cane as if pondering whether to throw it or use it as a club.
“I beg your pardon!” Necrem said, throwing up his hands. “I heard crying and thought something might be wrong.”
“There’s plenty wrong!” the man spat. “But nothing you can do about it. And if you’re one of those Exchange house robbers I’ve heard about; just so you know, I was once in the Marqués’s own First Company, you hear!” The man held his cane higher above his head and waved it about, but he stayed seated.
“Hush, Rego!” the woman snapped. “You were not! Put that stick down before you make things worse.”
The woman sniffed and rubbed her eyes before turning to Necrem. “Forgive us, but there is nothing you can do … unless you can bring our son back.” She hung her head, and tears dripped onto the table.
Her husband, Rego, begrudgingly did as she said and lowered his cane.
Necrem felt the urge to say his condolences to whatever had happened and leave, but he felt suddenly awkward standing in their doorway. His feet were so stiff he couldn’t move.
“Has something happened?” he asked. “Do you need a doctor?”
“Doctors are no help,” Rego replied. “They ain’t got no cure for tax collectors and their press gangs.”
Necrem perked up. “Press gangs?”
“Aye,” Rego said. “Tax collector came in, bold as he pleased, and demanded the campaign tax early. Gave him every last damned deber we had, and it still wasn’t enough.” The man sneered. “So, his men took our eldest.”
The woman burst out crying again. Her face slapped down into her palms, and her shawl came loose, spilling her dark hair about her shoulders.
“Jeorjio’s only fifteen!” she cried. “Only fifteen!”
As the man consoled his wife, rubbing her shoulders and keeping a tough expression, Necrem felt cold.
They’re demanding the tax already! Necrem shivered. And they’re taking men.
The image of the tax collector coming back to his forge while he was away, with only Bayona and Eulalia there, made his blood turn cold. He took one step back without thinking, but then he remembered the open door and crying couple beyond. He reached back for the door latch and gave them one final look.
“I’m sorry,” he said then pulled the door closed.
He stuffed his hat back on his head and strode off down the steps in a single bound. He turned directly for home, his long legs carrying him several blocks before he slowed to a stop.
I still don’t have the money.
If the tax collectors were already resulting to bringing men along to press young boys into the Marqués’s army, it was unthinkable they would let a big, non-Union member blacksmith who couldn’t pay off. He needed deberes. And it didn’t matter how he got them.
Swallowing whatever pride he had left, Necrem walked to the end of the street and turned right instead of left. Gravel crunched under his boots as he determinedly marched with his fists clenched tight to keep his nerve. And go beg to a friend.
~~~
Sanjaro’s Butcher Shop was still open. People had to eat, even during the Exchange. Butcher Lane was a wide side street skirting the northern corner of Manosete’s outer wall. Despite being part of the outer slums, these were the best houses and shops outside the city. Several even had two stories and brick foundations that could easily pass for inner city lodgings.
Sanjaro’s shop was a large, two-story, brick building with a clay shingled roof. A sign in the glass window read, “No fresh poultry until after Exchange. Only smoked red meat available.”
Necrem raised an eyebrow. The poultry, he understood, but not the red meat.
It’s between summers and campaign’s about to start. How does he have any red meat left?
Although, if Sanjaro did have red meat to sell, maybe he was able to help.
Necrem ducked his head and stepped inside. A long, wooden counter divided the shopfront. The counter bore a smooth, polished shine from years of cleaning, chopping, and preparing meats. To his right were a couple of tables and chairs that looked inviting to his worn feet, but he didn’t want to sit and risk collapsing one. Being indoors, he suddenly felt tired.
Necrem’s nose flared, and he breathed deeply to suck in the spicy, heavy scent of smoking meat drifting through the shop from somewhere in the back. His mouth watered, and he pressed a hand to his belly to stop it from rumbling.
When was the last time I ate? he wondered, but then he shook the thought away. He had more urgent things to take care of than food.
“Sanjaro!” he called out, walking through the empty shopfront.
Farther back lead deeper inside the shop and then to the stairs to the upper floor where the butcher lived. Necrem rarely visited these days. It was hard for him to admit, but even his oldest remaining friend reminded him of what he had lost ten years ago. Out of respect for the rules of hospitality, he remained up at the front.
“Sanjaro!” he yelled again.
A thud came from upstairs, followed soon after by angry, muffled voices. Necrem tracked the sounds of footsteps on the ceiling and listened to them coming down the stairs in the back.
“Sorry,” a man said groggily. “We’re closed! Must’ve forgotten to lock the—”
Sanjaro Daved stopped in the doorway at the back of the shop with one arm up in the air, trying to slide into his robe sleeve. The robe itself hung open, revealing the man’s undergarments and portly belly. His once angular face had gone soft, and his cheeks pudgy, but his hook nose was still as prominent. The tuffs of his dark hair stuck out in every direction around his bald crown.
He stood, mouth agape, eyes blinking in the doorframe.
“Hello, Sanjaro,” Necrem said. “It’s been . . . a long time.”
Sanjaro squinted then gawked. “Necrem?” His face split in a wide smile. “Necrem Oso! My friend!” Sanjaro wrapped his robe around him, fumbling as he tied it and almost tripped as he rushed into the storefront. He rushed up to Necrem with his arms outstretched. They clasped arms together instead of embracing because of Sanjaro’s average height.
They stood there a moment. Necrem felt slightly awkward from Sanjaro’s happy greeting. Sanjaro’s hands trembled and gripped Necrem’s arms while he beamed up at him.
“It’s so good to see you!” Sanjaro said. He let go and urged him toward a table. “Come sit down! Sit down!”
Necrem stomped over and collapsed in a chair. He stretched his weary feet out and stifled a sigh.
Sanjaro took the seat opposite him. “How long has it been? Six? Seven years?”
“Six years,” Necrem replied. He folded his hands atop the table and rubbed his knuckles. Part of him felt ashamed for being here, knowing what he had come to ask for.
“Six years.” Sanjaro shook his head. “How is Eulalia? Is she doing better?”
“She . . .” Necrem swallowed, not wanting to tell the truth. “She has her good days.”
Sanjaro snickered. “So does my Annette.”
“Sanjaro!” a woman yelled from upstairs, as if summoned. “Who’s down there?”
Sanjaro rolled his eyes and turned back to yell down the hall, “Necrem Oso, dear! You remember! My old friend, the blacksmith!”
“Doesn’t he know how late it truly is?” Annette sounded annoyed and not at all happy. “Tell him we’re closed!”
Sanjaro laughed halfheartedly while light footfalls marked Annette’s retreat upstairs.
Necrem wasn’t surprised. He hardly remembered Sanjaro’s wife, except that she didn’t like him much. He had either forgotten the reason why or never knew it to start with.
“Please, forgive her,” Sanjaro asked. “She’s just a little exhausted from the Exchange.”
“This Exchange has felt longer than usual,” Necrem agreed, his shoulders slumped.
“You look worn out. Like a cut off the flank that’s been sitting out too long and beaten.” Sanjaro tilted his head then slowly grinned. “I bet Bayona’s been running you ragged, hasn’t she? She and every other kid must be going crazy being cooped up like this.”
Necrem lowered his gaze, thinking about his little miracle back home. “She’s actually taking the Exchange very well. She’s getting to where she’s taking care of us more and more.”
But what kind of childhood is that? he wondered begrudgingly. She should be out playing with the rest of the children rather than playing maid to a couple broken parents beyond mending.
Necrem raised his head. The thought was sudden. Unexpected. He didn’t know where it had come from. Then he suddenly realized Sanjaro had said something.
“What was that?” he asked.
“How old is Bayona now?” Sanjaro repeated, slouching back in his chair.
“Ten.”
“Ten!” Sanjaro whistled, shaking his head. “How tall is she?”
Necrem snorted. “Almost reaches my hip.”
Sanjaro chuckled. “She’s going to be tall then. Just like her papa.”
Necrem turned his head slightly, not wanting to appear embarrassed. Yet, even sitting hunched over the table, he felt his chest swell.
Sanjaro cleared his throat. “So then, what brings you around? Want to surprise Eulalia with a smoked ham, or a fat frier? I hope Bayona is learning to be a good cook because, as I remember”—he laughed—“you weren’t.”
“No,” Necrem replied quickly, shaking his head. “No, it’s . . . it’s not that.” He sat there, working his mouth, but the words just wouldn’t form. He rubbed his hands together and squeezed sweat through his rough calluses. “I need . . . help.” Necrem took a big breath, as if even asking took a lot out of him.
“Well, sure,” Sanjaro said. “What help do you need?”
Necrem raised his head, but his teeth clenched. He was grateful for his mask; otherwise, he would look like he was snarling. His scars began to sting again. The last vestiges of his pride tightened his throat, desperate for him not to say. But he did.
“I can’t pay the campaign tax,” he finally admitted, hissing through his teeth.
“Oh.” Sanjaro’s smile faded, and he sat up.
Necrem turned away, unable to keep looking at his friend but also unable hold in his frustration. “They’ve doubled this year’s tax! I thought I could finish my latest order and scrape enough together to pay it. But after working”—he paused to add up the time, but the numbers refused to sum, and he shook his head—“at least more than a day and night, it didn’t matter. The tax collectors got to the farmer, too, and he couldn’t pay me.
“I’ve been going around, trying to get anyone to buy my steel. Nails to cobblers. Nails and horseshoes to the stockyard. Tools to workmen. Skillets to any woman who’d open their door! No one needs to buy anything! No one . . . wants my steel.” Necrem’s chin felt damp, and he sucked in, realizing drool had leaked through his exposed gums. He wiped his chin and rubbed his hand on his pants.
“Do you remember when I repaired Baron Emousia’s sword?” he asked.
“Our second campaign,” Sanjaro replied, nodding.
“Our second campaign. Third year as a member of the Union. One year out of my apprenticeship. I worked on that blade all night. Practically made it new. Remember what that baron said?”
Sanjaro snorted. “You used it for a sales pitch for years. ‘Finest steel I’ve ever held,’ he said. If I’m not mistaken?”
“You’re not.” It curdled Necrem’s guts hearing it now. Partly because he’d been complimented by a baron who probably wouldn’t give a deber for his value as a man. Worse, another part of him still felt a sliver of pride hearing it again.
“And now no one wants my steel.” He hung his head. “No one wants my iron. Press gangs are already out with the tax collectors. If they’re conscripting boys, what do you think they’ll do with me? What’ll happen to Bayona and Eulalia if I can’t pay and they take me?”
That was Necrem’s greatest fear. It shook him to his core. There were always stories of wives and undefended children set upon by anyone, from wandering strangers to corrupt guardsmen. He had long put them off as rumors. People scaring themselves into believing them. But the worst fear of all was him being taken away and not coming back.
Who would look after them? He trembled. Who would look after a sick, poor blacksmith’s widow and child?
The mental image of Bayona and Eulalia on the streets, turned into the beggars, made him gasp. He pounded his fists on the table to force the image away and, unfortunately, startled Sanjaro.
Sanjaro straightened his robe and sat forward, leaning against the table. His brow furled. “Necrem, have you not paid your taxes yet?”
“No,” Necrem replied. “The tax collector said it was due at the end of the Exchange. But I saw a family today who had to pay today and couldn’t. The collector had a press gang with him, and they took their oldest son. If they’re demanding payment early, they’re probably already heading to my forge.”
They could be waiting for me right now, he thought, rolling over the possibilities in his mind. Waiting in front of my door or in the store. Or in the kitchen. They better not upset Eulalia. She was having a bad day when I left. They better leave—
The room had gone quiet.
Necrem glanced at Sanjaro, finding him frowning with his chin pressed into his chest. He was working his mouth and grimacing, as if chewing on a bad piece of gristle. His brow contorted, and he looked away quickly when he noticed Necrem looking at him.
“What’s wrong?” Necrem asked.
“Necrem,” Sanjaro grunted then worked his mouth, as if finding words difficult. “Everyone . . . everyone around here had to pay their taxes on the first day of the Exchange. I . . . can’t give you any money. I don’t have a single deber.”
Necrem felt numb. You mean . . . it’s all for nothing?
He fell back in his chair, the wood creaking against his weight. His arms felt heavy and slid off the table to hang by his sides.
“They came by here the first hour after both suns were high,” Sanjaro explained. “I’d decided I wasn’t going to sell off meat to the stockyards, so the greedy bastards charged me triple. Triple!”
For nothing, Necrem thought again. His head drooped, and he felt a mounting, dull pressure growing beyond the periphery on the sides of his head. His scalp tingled.
“They don’t care,” Sanjaro continued, “that every year we have less and less food for everyone or people can’t afford to buy much. They want support for their campaign efforts, or your taxes go up. Simple as that.”
Nothing.
“Simple as them not caring,” Necrem said lowly, clenching his fists into tight balls. “Because they never cared.”
“Necrem?” Sanjaro said nervously.
Necrem didn’t look at him. “But why should they? They take our wares, our food, our crafts, even blood. And for what? For what?”
His arms came up like hammers and, just like hammers, he dropped them with all his might, slamming them on the table with a crack. Splinters flew into the air, and the table folded like brittle, thin steel.
“Nothing!” he bellowed, lumbering to his feet.
His head was pounding, his cheeks were stinging, and he didn’t care. His vision blurred. The only thing he wanted was to pound something. Anything!
“Necrem!” Sanjaro cried, his voice muffled, as if far away. “Necrem, please—”
Something tugged on his sleeve, and Necrem batted it away like an annoying fly. His blurred vision fixed on a long counter of smooth, polished wood. Breathing heavily through his drooling teeth, he lumbered up, raised his arms, and slammed them down on it. The counter held, only creaking where the tabled folded. The pounding in his head went undeterred, and he raised his fists again, slamming them down.
Nothing! Necrem screamed inwardly as he repeatedly beat the counter. There’s nothing I can do! Nothing I can ever do! Nothing matters!
A woman screamed.
The terrified screech pierced through the fog.
Necrem gasped. His arms hung in the air. His fists and forearms stung. His face burned intensely while his mask clung to him. A damp, warm tingling ran across his face where the hem of the fabric touched his skin.
The counter in front of him bowed downward. It was cracked in multiple places but still intact. It looked like someone had taken a mallet to it and bashed it, hoping to fold it together.
Did I . . .?
Sobbing from off to the side sent a chill down his spine. Necrem tensely turned, his neck stiff, as if his whole body was desperate not to move.
Annette, Sanjaro’s homely wife, cradled her husband’s head while he laid sprawled out on the ground. Sanjaro’s breathing was labored, his face twisted in pain from a gash running across his forehead where he had struck the doorframe.
Annette’s spooled brown hair had come undone and spilled down across half her face. She looked up at Necrem, her visible, tear-filled glare on him, mixed with pain, hate, and terror.
“What have you done?” she screamed, her mouth gaping and gnashing her teeth. “Monster!”
“No!” Necrem gasped, not sure what to else to say. “No, I couldn’t have—”
Did I do it again?
He reeled, trying desperately to recall the last few moments, but it was all a red blur.
That terrible red blur.
The shop’s front door burst open.
“What goes on here?”
Necrem turned and went still. Soldiers filled the doorway. An officer, by his clean clothes, polished breastplate and helmet, and decorative sword on his hip, stomped into the shop. Two of his men followed behind, while the rest stood outside.
The officer took in the scene with a glance before turning his nose up at Necrem, his hand casually resting on his sword’s scabbard. “Is this all your doing?”
Necrem swallowed. “I . . . don’t . . .” He shook his head, knowing it probably was, but he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t believe it.
“He did this!” Annette shouted, pointing at Necrem while hugging her husband close. “He came asking for money, and when my husband refused, he did this! He’s a monster!”
Necrem winced. The motion made his face sting and burn even more. Something dripped out from under his mask. The officer watched it all the way to the floor.
Necrem looked down and spotted drops of blood between his feet. He had ripped open his scars again.
“You’re coming with us,” the officer said coldly. “If you don’t come quietly, we’ll take you by force. You may be big, but I assure you we have enough steel.”
Necrem worked his mouth, searching for the words to make this all right. But there were none. There was no one to save Necrem and his. There never was.
“I’ll come,” he replied, defeated.
Necrem didn’t look back when they led him out. He just hung his head in shame, knowing he had probably just lost everything.