A/N: Welcome to arc III – we're gonna get political, beware. =)

Just one little side note, considering most comments for the last chapter revolved around the whole 'wife' thing: there are certain things that I, as a writer, cannot tell you – and that's mostly because I would be ruining both the plot and the surprise if I did. I know you want answers, and I know you want to know more about this (if you're like me, you're gonna want to know everything that is to know about it) but I can only tell you that you will – in time. Just let the story surprise you, guys, just follow its pace.

Cheers!

E.

Arc III

Chapter XVIII

Brimstone

"The wolf is carnivore incarnate and he's as cunning as he is ferocious; once he's had a taste of flesh then nothing else will do."

Angela Carter

Seafood had never been his thing.

The repellent smell of the nearly-grinded fish, floating defenselessly in that disgusting brownish broth filling up his plate was enough to make him feel nauseous. The image of the food and the mental possibility of that fish approaching his mouth could have sufficed to make him throw up all over the table.

The so-called ambrosia was delivered by Outworld's most respected fishermen. Out of the tempested waters, and straight into the palace's kitchen – at least, that's what they said. Their cheerful voices, boasting and singing proud songs of efficiency and honor; the carnival of their prideful souls engrossed in their happy chants and cheers. As the mercenary contemplated his steamy plate in silence, revolving around the pieces of food with his indolent spoon, his eyes focused on debating whether those nasty-looking, dead creatures lurking around the equally disgusting broth should even be considered food.

Not only the fishes per se were disgusting – the waters they were taken from weren't a sight to see either. Trying to eat something from that hostile habitat was simply out of question for him and still, in the back of his mind, he was still having a hard time trying to deduce why the cookers were not willing to offer him an alternative dish.

He had been quite vocal about it but still, no supplementary menus would be offered to him.

Back in Earthrealm, he would have considered the dish every now and then but only to regret it later. He found it completely tasteless yet then an awful aftertaste would remain for hours in his palate, impregnating his gums and tongue with bitterness so persisting and intense it could make him choke up on his own saliva.

But Outworld's seafood was a whole new level of disgusting. And as far as his eyes were able to see, he wasn't the only one experiencing a nightmarish dinner. Sitting across from him, Reptile and Ferra were helplessly furrowing their brows. Torr seemed to be the only one enjoying the meal, leaving Ermac and all his indifference aside. The male component of the symbiotic pairing was visibly delighted, his mouth watering at the thought of keeping those untouched plates for himself.

Sitting at the far end of the table, the Kahn cleared his throat and rested his wrists at the sides of his plate. The amusing sight of his bodyguards inspecting the fish and the broth as if they were made of only God knows what was enough to make the Osh-Tekk grin yet the kind gesture was brief, his lips tightened in a straight line – he was about to make a rather important announcement; he couldn't get distracted by their capricious ways.

"As you might have heard, a new Population Census is approaching," Kotal began, his serious tone longing for their attention, "the Committee has already been summoned, they are already working on the forms and questionnaires but we shall be modifying the procedures this time."

The emperor sighed helplessly noticing that only Black had raised a suspicious eyebrow the moment he heard the word modifying but that was all, his words had clearly caused no reaction in the rest of the group. The mercenary, quickly recovering from the rather superficial interest he had shown, had glued his eyes to his plate once again – the spoon, hovering above the food like a menacing harpoon.

"You all will be participating as well," Kotal tried once more to engage the group in conversation but this time it was the Zaterran the one showing signs of an indifferent kind of interest:

"We always participate," Reptile spat bitterly, without making eye contact.

"You won't be escorting the couriers this time. You will be inspecting the areas," Kotal Kahn informed.

All of their jaws dropped in unison: inspectors had the less gratifying of duties during the Census.

An inspector was not supposed to simply stand by and observe – they were supposed to visit each house and each building inside a given area and search for Earthrealmers or any objects that could have been smuggled or trafficked from the foreign realm and brought into Outworld. The tasks were done simultaneously: while the interviewer would stay with the inhabitants completing each form and answering every questionnaire, the inspector would be the bloodhound dog searching the place. They were allowed to take prisoners in case someone looked suspicious enough to be taken into consideration and they were also the ones responsible for said prisoners: they had to place them in the wagons and make sure they were taken to the tribunals.

"Now that I've got your attention, we shall begin," Kotal mocked the perplexed group as a satisfied smile curled up his lips. "Z'unkahrah will be divided into four areas: Ferra and Torr will stay in the Citadel, Ermac will take the suburbs; Black – you'll be inspecting the Lower Terrains and Reptile will take the Dunes. The rest of the guards will be deployed to other cities and the far regions of the realm – I have chosen to keep you all as near as possible. The census needs to be completed in five days or less, once you have gathered all the information you will be escorted back to the Palace, where you'll deliver the forms. The interviewers don't necessarily have to come back to the Palace since the Committee has decided it shall be a different group of citizens the ones in charge of tabulating the results."

Ferra opened her mouth to protest but Black's cold stare made her stop: there was no point in whining about it, the plan was already in motion and they had already been dragged down into its intricate mechanism.

"This peace we are all enjoying now might soon be growing shallow, I'm afraid," the Kahn went on, more reflective this time, "the number of Earthrealmers walking among us has increased quite exponentially during the last decade. Not only they are not allowed to stay, but they are also contaminating our people with their violence," Kotal paused his elocution for a moment: the mercenary had spent so much time in Outworld that sometimes it was hard for the emperor to see him as an Earthrealmer. Afraid his words might have offended the cowboy, the emperor nodded in his direction causing the Texan gunslinger to nod his head back at the emperor almost instantaneously as if silently saying none taken.

"This crime we're still investigating seems to be stained by an unmistakable Earthrealmer's signature and it's been keeping me up at night because I cannot help but feel that it shall go unpunished if we don't do something about it," the Kahn confessed. "It's the injustice behind this terrible act of violence what blinds me: they hide among us – they live in the shadows of mistaken interests, forging all sorts of alliances with our most dangerous criminals; it's our job to cast our light on them so they can be discovered and returned to the place where they belong."

Peace was, once again, the leitmotif guiding the emperor.

The Kahn's every decision seemed to be entangled in a desperate need for the realm to remain peaceful and united after an eternity of struggles and war. It was true that the bellicose spirit of Outworld was logically having a hard time trying to adapt to the new-found tranquility they were experiencing: after spending so many decades engulfed in the tragedies of war, peace had always embodied a distant dream that none of them knew if they would even get a chance to experience one day. But now, the always-so-fragile balance they had achieved seemed to be threatened by countless menacing ghosts aiming for their heads.

Trying his best not to get involved in the political side of the Kahn's speech, Black fidgeted nervously in his chair – the Lower Terrains were, by far, the worst piece of land the emperor could have chosen for him to carry out the Committee's orders. It was the less populated area in the entire region, that much was true, but there were countless buildings that were nearly in ruins and he would have to search through every inch of their destroyed structures for any Earthrealmers hiding in their gloomy confines.

The zone had been punished by nature's wrath on multiple occasions. Since the area was too unstable to build a protective barricade around it, the terrains were at the mercy of an irritated sea constantly washing their shores in a rather virulent fashion. Each flood would leave a never-ending trail of dead bodies scattered on the shore and fallen walls and ceilings, exposing the naked interiors of the battered buildings. New squatters would come over, then, to take illegal possession of the remaining structures. As the decades went by, the Lower Terrains became a known lair for criminals and Earthrealmers but even though the place had gained a certain reputation, truth was that the authorities had never done anything about it: they all knew that, in time, the tide would end up doing their dirty work for them.

But not only were the buildings the ones exposing extensive signs of decay: the land itself was completely ruined, there was simply no chance to even think about ever harvesting something, it was impossible to make anything grow in that sordid flatland punished by the waters time and time again. With no food and no supplies of any kind, the occupants of the Lower Terrains had turned the place into a hide-out for criminals and dangerous gangs and now it was up to Black himself to go knocking on their doors.

Shaking himself out of the idea of having to face those people with nothing but two inexperienced interviewers that were surely going to become yet another burden weighing heavily on his shoulders and testing his patience, another thought invaded the cowboy's mind with the ferocity of an obvious realization: in case Alexandra was still out there, there was simply no way for her to outrun the impending Census.

"When we start?" Ferra asked, rather amused about the prospect of staying downtown, near the Palace and away from the variety of troubles awaiting for her comrades.

"The dates shall remain undisclosed," the Kahn replied sternly as he stood up, ready to retreat to his bedchamber after a long day. His plate was empty – he had somehow managed to finish his dinner while keeping a straight face about the disgusting fish they had been offered. Politics, or so it seemed, were an intricate game intended for connoisseurs only.

Ferra's gaze then traveled from the emperor to Torr, her companion still busy with his own food as his relentless eyes went through each one of the untouched plates as if waiting for permission.

As Black sank down on his chair, the image of the coastal settlement set on his mind once again: an obscene amount of almost deserted kilometers was waiting for him. The distance separating each ruined building from the next one would demand hours of walking along the naked shoreline with nothing but two nearly-useless interviewers. Those dead gaps of time were a sure invitation for trouble to present itself – the residents of the area were not happy about the idea of being dragged into the system; in fact, they knew the system didn't have any plans of ever including them at all: the system only wanted them out. They knew it, the interviewers knew it, and Black himself knew it. They were going to try their best to defend their houses from the nosy visitors coming from the Palace and Black knew, deep down, that the prospects of succeeding were far from possible.

If the people in the Lower Terrains were to cause him any trouble, he would have to place them in the wagon and hold them prisoners. But the wagons had to be full to be sent back to the Citadel so, in the meantime, he would have to walk along the shoreline with prisoners traveling behind his back and the constantly impending chance of being ambushed right in front of his worn-out boots.

Observing quietly from his spot how the rest of his co-workers seemed to be equally disheartened with the news, Black's relentless fingers began rummaging through the contents of his pockets, searching for a pack of smokes. In a matter of seconds, Ermac and Reptile stood up and retreated to their bedchambers, the Zaterran was visibly upset with the hand he had been dealt, mumbling unspeakable words and cursing his lack of luck as his feet marched towards the door. The symbiotic pairing still remained in the dining room; Torr was busier than ever now that those two plates had been left unguarded. Ferra crossed her arms over her chest but no matter how much she would protest, she knew she was going to wait for her companion to finish his extended dinner.

The tiny cardboard box was captured within the tight grip of his shaky fingers – Black took his hat from the table and stood up, beckoning a silent goodnight to the leaving Kahn, still standing by the table. Yet he stayed there and sat back down: his feet on the ground and his back glued to the chair. Only once the emperor had left the room the mercenary finally stood up again and made his way to the kitchen – not only he needed a smoke - he needed a drink, even though his wise senses were telling him that drinking on an empty stomach was never a clever idea.

Alone, sitting on the black counter with nothing but an opened bottle of wine in his hand and the smoke from his cigarette clouding his façade, the cowboy stared at the opened window with a worried look upon his face. In situations like this, the mercenary had always had a hard time trying to decide whether the Emperor was rewarding his skills or punishing his actions.

Visiting the Lower Terrains was, by far, the hardest duty to be performed during the Population Census. Perhaps the Kahn really considered him to be his best enforcer; probably the only one who could manage to find his way through the dangerous ruins. Or perhaps he was as disposable as the bottle he was holding in his hand and sending him to the most dangerous zone in the city was a safe way to punish him, to get rid of him.

He was an Earthrealmer, after all.

As the low hours of the night began to weigh down on his shoulders, the number of empty bottles resting on the table seemed to grow exponentially as well. His mind, at first still stuck in the image of that dreadful place that he had been forced to visit, now gravitated towards an entirely different idea. His dazed head, arrested by a completely different thought: the Earthrealm doctor, that ginger-haired woman he had abandoned in the mountains.

Was she still alive? Was she still around?

More importantly, could she be reached?

Desperation engulfed him for a brief moment: he had to warn her about the Census. The white woman could never fool the interviewers – she was an Earthrealmer born and raised; it was obvious. Her skin, her hair, her eyes: each part of her would reveal the evident – that her stay in Outworld was stained by the inevitability of everything that is illegal, and if they were searching for possible connections between Earthrealmers and smugglers, a less-than-friendly interrogation would be the very least they were going to submit her to.

Black let out a loud groan as he clumsily moved on the counter – one of his legs ended up pushing the empty bottles and, one by one, the fine containers began to kiss the ground. The sound of glasses breaking acted like an alarm for his numb senses: it was time to get some rest, there was no point in revolving around all sorts of intangible people; transforming them into mere castles in the air that he could never reach. The woman was gone, it had been his very own decision to abandon her. He had made up his mind, he had even burnt his box of past mementos as an attempt to get rid of that part of him that could still make him feel vulnerable.

Whether the doctor was dead or alive – it simply wasn't his problem anymore.

Whether they were going to find her, in case she was still alive, in case she was still around, was a preliminary worry that he simply couldn't afford to face.

He stood up slowly, only to feel the rush of blood irrigating inside his head – as the alcohol he had drunk began to impregnate his sleepy senses, the cowboy found himself holding on to the counter; the grip of his hands preventing his legs from falling down to the ground. Dazed and dizzy, the old Earthrealmer let out a heavy sigh as balance slowly took control of his limbs and finally reencountered his whole body.

With nothing but the sounds of his flamboyant footsteps to guide his tired and drunken bones through the dark path ahead of him, the mercenary finally began to make his way to his own bedchamber, his shoulders bumping carelessly into every wall around him – each corner was a nightmare: the dim lights were not helping his blurred sight in the slightest – his muscles, fatigued and exhausted, were begging for his door to be the next door only the corridor now seemed to be a never-ending trap testing his instincts. Each door looked exactly like the door before and none of those gates were the one he needed to reach. His hands, touching everything along his way, were the confused anchors he had chosen to use in order to direct his stiffened legs straight to the bed that would, hopefully, wrap him up during the rest of the night.

The impending hangover was surely going to salute him first thing in the morning, he knew.

The headache that would accompany the tormenting dawning of yet another day of his life had the potential to become a painful anesthetic that could, perhaps, help him forget all about the Lower Terrains and the missing doctor.

He pushed his bedroom door with his shoulder and stepped inside. As complete darkness surrounded him, the man kicked off his boots and threw his hat; the western accessory soared above the bed only to land on the cold ground, right beneath the closed window. The man undressed rather quickly, leaving only his black trousers on. He moved closer to his bed, barefoot, and felt the distinctive pricking of broken pieces of glass hurting the sole of his feet. Too tired to go wake up a maid to make them clean up the floor for him, the mercenary simply brushed his feet with the palm of his hand and quickly jumped on the bed.

At first, he didn't notice her there. His closed eyelids barely distinguished the warmth sensation caused by his wife's soft breathing beside him. The sound, so tender and barely audible, seemed to massage his stunned ears with a delicacy he hadn't experienced in a very long time.

As the darkness of the room enveloped their bodies in the obsidian blanket of peaceful resting, the mercenary reached out for the woman now sharing his very own bed with him: he hadn't invited her; that was a fact – yet her surprising presence was somehow soothing for him. He slid his fingers gently, tracing the outline of her jaw and cheekbones. She didn't move at all yet the nearly imperceptible changes in her breathing were enough to make him think that, maybe, even in the recondite subterfuges of her dreaming mind, Zarrabayeusse was somehow acknowledging his presence.

Black rested his temple on the comfortable pillow, facing his sleeping wife. Even in the dark, he found himself recognizing the beauty of such a delicate moment of intimacy, one they had never truly experienced during their brief time together. The memory of that distant and rather intriguing time, blurred by the alcohol and the exhaustion wrapping up his body, was only reachable by succumbing to the agonizing nostalgia of knowing that everything and everyone that had helped him become the Outworld enforcer that he was now was irreversibly gone.

Dexitis was gone.

His dear wife, L'ampaghna, gone as well.

Their only son, Aalem – gone.

Only Zarrabayeusse remained, stoic and inalterable like time itself – the emerald green of her eyes was a constant reminder for him that all those absences had been the results of his own doing.

The cowboy closed his eyes, finally succumbing to slumber. His fingers, moving significantly slower now, began to massage the woman's temple, venturing those rebel locks of hers and tucking some of them behind her ear. As his digits reached the soft skin at the back of her skull, his fingertips got moistened by a thick liquid substance – the surprising effect, fighting behind the barrier of his weakened senses, became alarming and highly suspicious for him. Black rubbed his fingers together, looking for some tacit confirmation: even though he couldn't see a single thing in the dark, he was certain that the substance was blood.

He clumsily sat up in bed and began shaking the motionless woman but to no avail.

"Zzzzar?" He mumbled, managing to drag out the letters one by one, his tongue too troubled to provide him with accurate pronunciation.

Nothing.

He got up and tried to grab her by the shoulders but his arms were simply not responding. The alcohol had blocked the path that should have been communicating his brain with his muscles. Helpless, he leaned closer to check if the woman was still breathing: the weak sound emanating from her nostrils, echoing through his numb ears, was enough to allow a loud sigh of relief to escape the prison of his lips.

He got on his knees, on the floor, right in front of the bed and wrapped up her body with his arms. The same pieces of broken glass that had hurt his feet before were now damaging his knees, going through his trousers.

"What did you do?" the man whispered, his tone nearly pleading for an explanation that she couldn't give. Yet the only thing he found was an unexpected fist, impacting his cheekbone with the unparalleled wrath and shaking his whole body. Caught off guard, Black fell to the ground, landing loudly on his back - the shock of the surprise was colliding against his receding combat reflexes.

With his mind still busy trying to find the missing attacker, Black crouched and moved on his knees until he finally reached for the table. Stretching one of his arms, he barely managed to touch the wooden surface. His fingers got busy almost immediately as they began the titanic endeavor of searching for one of his pistols: his dormant yet always feral instincts, guiding his digits through the messy panorama where his armory had been scattered all over, finally got a hold of the treasured device that would, presumably, keep them safe. He pressed the weapon against his chest as his finger found the trigger yet before he could react, he was already airborne, flying across the room. His back arched instinctively as it landed hard against the wardrobe – the gun fell to the ground, causing the confused cowboy to blindly search for it until a merciless boot crashed his hand, the sole maliciously moving, twisting his fingers underneath the filthy leather. Black howled in pain, his fingers crashing, one by one, under the heavy boot restraining all his movements.

Taken aback by the sudden attack, his mind got filled with questions that had yet to be answered: why was that person attacking him, and most importantly, who was that person. Throwing punches in the air with his free fist, Black somehow managed to graze the attacker's nearest leg. As soon as his numb senses felt the fabric, the cowboy got a hold of the attacker's trousers and pulled as hard as he could, causing the stranger to fall down to the ground. Seizing the small window of opportunity, Black rolled to his side and searched for a good hiding place: under the bed, he stayed cupping his damaged hand with his good one, waiting in silence, longing to find a sound that could give away the attacker's intentions.

As minutes went by, complete silence enveloped the whole room yet the deafening echo in his ears, caused by the alcohol, was still taking its toll on him. Frustrated and angry at himself for not being able to react the way he should, the drunken mercenary abandoned his hiding place and continued to throw punches in the air, longing to hit a nearly phantasmagorical target that was simply too amused to be bothered by the Earthrealmer's twisted psyche and wounded ego. As the gunslinger kept moving forward, he was thrown off-balance by another body now cruising the room and colliding against his bones: as both bodies fell down to the ground, Black noticed that it was Zar's still-unconscious body the one that was now lying on top of his: the attacker had used her as some sort of a morbid projectile. Infuriated, Black got up almost instinctively and ran towards the table.

He took one of his sand grenades and smashed it against the floor: yet the dust revealed nothing; the attacker was still concealed by the darkness of the room. Finding his efforts to be nearly fruitless, the frustrated mercenary groaned as he moved near the hearth. He placed his hand on the shelf above it and groped for a bottle of liquor: he threw the bottle in the still-incandescent wooden logs hoping to rekindle the flames – the attacker had been smart enough to put out the fire that had been heating up the room yet the red sparks inside the wood were reason enough for his troubled mind to believe that maybe, just maybe, relighting that extinguished fire would be enough for his eyes to finally see the stranger assaulting him. One single, intense and virulent flame appeared before his eyes, yet it disappeared in just a matter of seconds – his senses were drenched in alcohol, he had been too slow to look over his shoulder to even catch a glimpse of the stranger but before he could even reproach himself about his own stupidity, the attacker charged against him like a furious bull trying to get rid of its cruel matador: both bodies, intertwined in a homogenous, incomprehensible mass of flying fists collided against the closed window. With a nearly crestfallen Black underneath the stronghold of his muscles, the stranger placed both his hands on Black's throat and pressed hard, choking the Earthrealmer.

"I'm tired of seeking a perverted justice that just won't come," the attacker finally said yet his voice didn't really ring any bells for Black.

As the cowboy's legs kept on kicking the air, adrenaline trying to keep him alive, the attacker's punishment grew stronger: not only the man was asphyxiating Black, he was also hitting his head hard against the window. As his skull came up and down against the closed jalousies, Black heard the enraged attacker say:

"You murdered my brother, filthy Earthrealm parasite."

The vice in his voice was enough to ignite that part of Black's brain that was still longing to take control of the effects of the alcohol. The mercenary kicked the man in the crotch, earning an uncontained groan of pain in response. Free from the attacker's certain grip, the cowboy turned over his shoulder and pushed the defenseless man against the window with all his strength. As his feet tripped on Zar's body still on the ground, Black began to fall only to land atop the stranger. His head crashed into the attacker's head – the hit was so strong it nearly stunned him.

Screaming in pain, Black held his own head with his hands, feeling the blood already streaming down his fingers. There were tiny fragments of an alien material on his temple; the sharp pieces were as surprising as they were painful. Taking advantage of Black's sudden pain, the attacker charged at him once more, the sudden impact opened the jealousies this time as Black's subjugated back stayed on the still of the frame. Half his back was in the air, hanging outside the window, as his neck struggled to find some stability. Half his back was still in the room, the window frame nearly embedded in his battered spine. Screaming from the top of his lungs, the mercenary found himself running out of oxygen rather quickly - his arms were trying to fight the attacker now approaching him once more with a menacing cadence, a certain misfortune guiding his steps.

Desperate, and knowing that the minute that man had reached him he would throw him out the window, Black fidgeted nervously until his back began to slide its way back inside the room – only his shoulders were in the air now, and the man was already there, only inches away from his face. Resolute, Black stretched his hands and grabbed him by his clothes, pulling him closer, dangerously closer: if he was to die, he would take the bastard along with him.

Nearly leaned back against his chest, Black became aware of the fact that the light coming from the Emperor's backyard was washing the stranger's face in a luminescence so diaphanous it almost blinded him for a moment: official uniform and skull mask; a broken skull mask. As stupor enraptured his senses, Black discovered that those fragmented pieces of the face he could see through the damaged mask were undeniably familiar: under that skull mask, that face looked like that boy's face, drenched in terror, just minutes before he shot him to death by the mountainside.

You killed my brother, the stranger had said only moments ago.

Cascading quickly down his mind, all those missing answers and connections became crystal clear before his stupefied coffee eyes: the coin, the mask, the extreme cruelty towards Alex and Aalem; it all had been an inside job.

They are everywhere, she had warned him.

Now that face and that broken mask, washed by the moonlight, were finally crystalizing all his suspicions so vividly, the image was so fiercely evocative that it made him feel as if fire itself was now enveloping his whole existence in a vengeful blanket of urgency and violence. Black yelled as he pushed the man away; the same impulse that had freed him had also made him fall back inside the room, landing on top of his attacker. Now that the tables had turned, it was his turn to place his deranged hands on the guard's throat, the irascible need to watch him suffer was guiding his actions.

The man yelled and screamed underneath the cowboy's steady hands, "Murderer!" he repeated, only causing Black's ire to grow stronger.

As the movements from the guard's legs began to recede slowly, both Black and the attacker found themselves airborne once again only this time, it was a tight green force what was preventing their feet from touching the ground. Ermac was holding them up; their violent tendencies had been hushed by his power. That green aura of ethereal gravity was wrapping up their bodies in a new sense of justice yet not even the wisdom emanating from a billion souls could have sufficed to fully attenuate the surprised expression taking over Ermac's face. An official guard and Erron Black, illegally engaged in Kombat, were trying to murder each other while seeking some sort of retribution. And that wasn't all: the guard had accused Black of killing someone else.

"You murdered my brother," the helpless guard whispered, nearly breathless, still dominated by Ermac's imprisoning abilities.

"Well, your brother killed someone I really cared about," Black roared in response, still trapped inside the green halo as well.

"Both of you, quiet!" Reptile ordered as he made his way inside the room. The Zaterran walked up to Black and wrapped his bare shoulders with a blanket he found on the bed – there it was, her blood: the simple, white linen had been stained with Zarrabayeusse's crimson blood. Without asking any questions, Reptile handcuffed both men and escorted them out: as they walked, the intriguing luminescence coming from the outside grew stronger. Once in the hallway, Black's coffee-colored eyes widened in surprise: all those eyes, judging him cruelly, were clearly speculating about his actions.

They had had an audience: there were countless maids, cooks and seemingly casual bystanders all gathered together right outside his bedroom door. The unmistaken horror in their eyes was latent and vivid, reflected by the lights emanating from the dozens of candles that were burning bright in their hands.

He knew then, he felt the certainty waking him up at once as if a bucket of cold water had been poured all over his head: with death involved; it was more than just mere indiscipline.

Their quiet voices, invigorating the gossip traveling freely from one mouth the other, were choked by the Zaterran's voice: "You two will spend the night in the dungeons. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, you'll appear in the Throne Room before the Kahn." Reptile's defining words carried the spark required to ignite the crowd: there would be a witch hunt and their morbid needs were being exalted by the ever-thrilling possibility of carnage itself happening soon all around them.

If only the word 'murder' hadn't been tossed around so freely they all could have thought that it had been no more than a simple matter of the heart, he considered. The sad image of Zar, unconscious and hurt on the ground, had now turned into a bittersweet escape route that he might have used – he, unscrupulous and vile as ever; if only he had had that chance. As Black marched along the corridor, he thought about his wife – perhaps she could have proven herself useful after all: a woman was in the room and two men were fighting.

The math was perfect. Ridiculously perfect.

Only they would never buy it.

It would have been perfect; the alibi that could have saved him seemed so ridiculously well-crafted that he himself would have believed it.

But no; they had said it out loud for everyone to hear it: murder, murdered, kill. The accusation was there, gravitating before his eyes. The echoing voices, as he slowly left the crowd behind, were as alarming as they were certain: now it was finally time for him to face the music on his own. He, an Earthrealmer, had just been accused of murdering an Outworlder. A killing unrelated to his duty; the undeniable testimony of a man that had been corrupted by power and greed – no more excuses, no more lies, no more intrigues.

He lowered his head, overwhelmed and cornered by his own plots now fading away before his eyes. He looked over his shoulder, nodding at Reptile, summoning the Zaterran with a simple gesture:

"There's a woman in the room," he began - his tone was worried; genuine.

No, she was not an alibi; she was a defenseless woman that had been unfairly attacked because they were trying to get to him.

"She needs medical attention."

Perhaps he could prove himself useful after all.