Path of Dragons

Trace had screwed up.

He knew it, too. Pacing back and forth, he periodically glanced at the boy who’d caused him so much trouble. Miguel was bound, hand and foot, like a trussed pig – a necessity, after everything that had happened. Over the past few days, Trace had been forced to take a host of precautions against the troublesome child’s persistent escape attempts. The moment Stun had worn off, the child had started kicking and screaming, necessitating that Trace chain the ability, over and over, while he fled toward Easton and what he’d hoped was safety.

Usually, Stun was a fairly cheap ability, costing only a touch of ethera and a bit of stamina. Yet, having to use it once every minute for days had taken its toll, so once Trace had reached Easton, he’d quickly found one of his safehouses and tied the kid up. Surely, it wasn’t comfortable for the little demon of a child, but it allowed Trace some much needed rest. At some point, he’d slipped into an exhausted sleep, which had cost him almost six hours.

And perhaps his life.

When he’d awoken, he had quickly discovered that Easton had devolved into riotous chaos. Everywhere he’d looked, there were hundreds – perhaps even thousands – of malcontents protesting and causing violent mischief. More than once during his first scouting expedition, he’d seen guards being overwhelmed and beaten to death by rebels.

Trace knew it was all pointless. While Roman might not hold every part of the city in quite as tight of a grip as others, that was by choice. He simply didn’t care about the poorer parts of Easton, and so, the presence of his guards was minimal. But the moment the rebellion reached the core of the city, they would be dealt with appropriately.

It would be a slaughter of epic proportions, too.

Trace had seen the planned responses. He’d helped create some of them. Yet, just because the integrity of the city wasn’t in question, that didn’t mean much for his situation. Because crossing through the riots was still extraordinarily dangerous, and with much of his capability in stealth nullified by having to carry a child along, he knew it wouldn’t end well for him.

Because he was well-known in the seedier parts of the city, and after everything he’d done, he was not exactly well-liked. Part of that was because of his actions as the head of Roman’s secret police, but Trace could admit – at least to himself – that it was mostly due to his own less-than-reputable proclivities. After all, his girls had come from somewhere, and many of them had friends and family who didn’t look upon Trace terribly kindly.

So, he’d spent the past few days holed up in his safehouse, only climbing out of the basement to steal provisions. Fortunately, the place was secluded enough that the riots never came close enough to risk discovery. Still, despite his relative safety, he was more than ready to head to the palace, present his prize, and get his reward.

So, it was with some degree of excitement that, after pacing for a few more hours, he left the basement and went to scout the situation. And to his surprise, he found that the riots had been put down. Yet, the damage was extensive, with more than a few buildings having been destroyed by spreading fires. Trace also saw plenty of bodies as well, though those were in the process of being collected by the city’s dedicated corpsemongers.

Even Trace wasn’t certain what those people did with the bodies they collected. Each time he’d attempted to infiltrate their underground lair – because of course that was where they would set up shop – he’d been discovered via unknown means. It was one of Easton’s burgeoning mysteries, and a reason that Trace intended to leave the city behind once he’d extracted all the benefits he could from Roman.

With that in mind, Trace went back to the safehouse and gathered the boy, tossing him over his shoulder. At first, he used Cloak of Skullduggery to mask his presence, but he quickly recognized that it was neither effective nor useful. There weren’t enough people around to care about his nefarious-looking actions, and even if there were, they were occupied with clean-up efforts.

A few guards recognized him, though, so he felt confident that they would come to his aid if anyone accosted him.

As he traversed the city, he saw more evidence of the riots of the past few nights. Whole buildings had been brought down, and one of the plazas looked like it had seen a bloody battle. Some of the city’s downtrodden maintenance workers were busy trying to clean up all the gore, but they had their work cut out for them. It was further evidence of just how far some of them had fallen. Trace knew for a fact that some of those workers had once held positions of authority and wealth, back in the old world. There were a couple of politicians and former CEOs among them. Yet, they’d made the wrong choice regarding archetypes, and they’d paid the price for that singular bad decision.

Easton was no place for Scholars, especially when their specialties weren’t in the few areas Roman had deemed useful.

Even Trace recognized that it was a regressive policy to push those Scholars into manual labor. But he was in no position to change any of it. Not that he would have tried, anyway. As far as he was concerned, the bunch of formerly rich and uppity politicians, CEOs, lawyers, and the like had gotten what they deserved. Maybe they could now appreciate what it was like to live on the bottom rungs of society that Trace knew so well.

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He remembered his old life well enough to take some sense of justice from that.

As Trace drew closer to the city’s core, the evidence of fighting grew more pronounced until every successive block grew bloodier. Then, suddenly, it ceased. That wasn’t surprising, given that the number of guards had grown right alongside the violent aftermath. A few times, Trace saw guards looting curiously well-provisioned corpses. More than once, he used Appraisal to determine that the most popular items were Simple-Grade. If all of the dissidents had been armed and armored with equipment like that, the results might’ve been a little different. Yet, there were only a scattered few such instances that Trace could see, which meant that the effects were minimal.

Still, the only times Trace saw any significant number of guards’ corpses were around such well-armed bodies, suggesting that they’d put up quite the fight. That just underscored how important good equipment really was.

Not that Trace needed to be reminded of that, after he’d used his Dagger of Sundering to such great effect. It had allowed Roman to kill Alyssa – that uppity bitch – and it had been at least as effective in every fight Trace had fought since then. It was a valuable piece of equipment, and he expected that he’d get years of use out of it before he moved on to something better.

More importantly, it was the lynchpin of any plans he’d made to deal with people like Roman. Eventually, they’d come to an impasse – it had come close to happening a few times already – and when that time came, Trace intended to come out on top. Despite the disparity in power, especially in Easton, Trace liked his chances.

Regardless, he put those thoughts aside as he entered the vicinity of the palace. Once there, he dropped any pretense at stealth and was greeted with a mixture of revulsion, respect, and curiosity by the palace guards. The structure itself was a display of brutal opulence. Roman’s Architects had done a phenomenal job of creating a beautiful, yet overbearing building that was dominated by straight lines, sharp angles, and Gothic flourishes that gave it a very distinct appearance.

Trace saw it as needless posturing, but he supposed that Roman had his reasons for ordering such a building. The rest of the city would soon follow suit, he knew. That was how Roman thought. Everything had to be in its place and conform to the collective. Otherwise, it would drive the man mad.

After entering the palace, Trace made his way through the familiar halls until he reached the wing containing Roman’s office. There was a throne room as well, though that was only for official duties, like hearing the petitions of the useless council. They held no real power, except to suggest things or request Roman’s intervention. Ultimately, every major decision was made by the big man himself.

As he swaggered up to the guards on duty, he said, “Special delivery for the big guy. You want to sign for it?”

At that, the kid squirmed a little more, so Trace reapplied Stun. He went blessedly limp, giving Trace a little peace. The guards looked at one another, then decided to pass the burden onto someone else. So, one of them disappeared through the doors, presumably to let Roman know what was going on. Meanwhile, Trace tried to make conversation with the remaining guard, asking, “So, a bit of a scuffle out in the city, huh? What happened?”

“Rebel scum,” the man spat, his hand on the hilt of the sword at his waist. “Don’t know what they expected to accomplish. They never had a chance, the poor idiots.”

“Seems like they did a lot of damage,” Trace said.

The guard shrugged. “Burning down their own homes and businesses. Really smart,” he responded. “Like I said, I don’t know what they expected that to do, except make their own lives harder. Guess there’s a reason they are who they are, right? If they were smart or competent, they wouldn’t have anything to bitch about. It’s like I was telling my wife – they’re just a bunch of useless malcontents who are upset with the way the world works. It’s not enough that they’re only alive because of the safety and security we provide. No – they want all the benefits without any of the work.”

Trace listened as the man went on about how the poor and less useful deserved everything they got, so he was grateful when the other guard returned and waved Trace through. He nodded at the pair of sentries and swaggered through the door and into a long hall. There were other guards posted at regular intervals, but they didn’t move a muscle as he traversed the opulent corridor.

Soon, he found himself at the door to Roman’s office. He knocked and immediately received the go-ahead to enter. When he did, he saw the man himself sitting behind a massive, wooden desk. The walls were decorated with various trophies from Roman’s kills. None of them had been truly impressive prey, and Trace suspected they were more for ambience than to commemorate any significant events. Yet, they did that job well, and when Trace looked at those monstrous heads, a chill went up his spine.

He tossed the kid onto the sofa that stood against the wall – it was upholstered in leather and looked extremely comfortable – and said, “So, I might’ve took a bit of initiative with the whole Carmen problem.”

Roman’s eyes flicked to the child, but he didn’t give any other reaction until he asked, “Is that who I think it is?”

“If you think it’s that bitch’s brat, then yeah. I think I killed her second, too,” he said, plopping down in one of the chairs on his side of Roman’s desk. He added, “You’re welcome on that one.”

“I told you to watch her. Not to kill anyone.”

“Yeah,” he said, drawing a small knife from his belt. He picked at his fingernails. “I like to go above and beyond the call of duty. One of my many positive traits. So, here’s what I’m thinking – you let the rebel bitch know that –”

In the blink of an eye, Roman was across the desk. If Trace hadn’t been so exhausted, he might have responded. Yet, given where they were as well as Roman’s advantage in levels, he would have still been overmatched. Still, he did manage to jab the small knife into Roman’s shoulder as the taller man slammed him into the ground.

“What the –”

Trace didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence before Roman’s fist found his face. He tried to activate his abilities, but it was useless. Roman punched him again, growling, “I told you to watch!”

He smashed his fist into Trace’s face again.

“Not to kidnap a child!”

Again, he punched Trace. By that point, his mind had gone fuzzy, and though his abilities were suddenly available, he was in no mindset to consciously use them. Especially when Roman hit him again. And again.

Along the way, Roman kept growling about crossing lines, but Trace couldn’t understand any of it.

But one thing he did understand was when Roman yanked a dagger from his belt and rammed it into Trace’s chest. Over and over again, he stabbed the Outlaw until Trace managed to croak, “W-why…”

“You disgust me,” Roman said, straightening his back. He pushed a lock of stray hair from his bloody face before adding, “Every man has a line. You just crossed mine.”

Then, he reached forward, grabbed Trace by the hair and sliced the Outlaw’s throat. Even as he bled out, Trace’s mind whirled with questions. He didn’t truly understand what he’d done wrong.

Which was precisely the problem, he belatedly realized right before everything went dark.

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