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As satisfying as the court’s reaction was, Fenrir knew he’d fucked up. All hells, humiliating this man in front of his peers wouldn’t help anyone—least of all Fenrir. He needed to earn these people’s respect, at least in the capacity of solving important problems. This wasn’t something he could run through with a sword.

He wouldn’t be running anything through with a sword ever again.

At the foot of the dais, the man spun on his heel without bowing, stalking through the crowd towards the double doors without so much as a, by your leave, your majesty. Mercer stepped to the side before he could shoulder check him, disgust plain on his face while he watched him go.

Beside Fenrir, Vera drew in a long breath through clenched teeth, then announced, “That’s all for today, thank you.”

The nobility burst into a frenetic chatter, some voices rising over the rest to plead their chance to speak to their king before the guards rounded them up and corralled them out into the hall like so many cats—all but one.

Mercer, again. Fenrir resisted smiling when he approached the throne, all swinging arms and a calm, controlled confidence despite the two armed guards following him. One look from Fenrir had them backing off.

Fenrir gave him a casual smile. “Mercer, back as promised I see.”

“I’ll cut to the chase. Tower needs more steel and a good amount of aluminum, and I need more hands in the forge up here rather than down in the Stacks. Red wants this tower up but the men I’ve got are getting frustrated with how slowed down we are waiting on the beams we need, and no more want to come up the mountain for how shit the living conditions are in the encampment.”

“Red said your blacksmiths just took the last three weeks off.” Fenrir remembered the conversation well—it’d been one of their last. “How can you blame the slowdown on materials?”

“The break was to allow the supply chain to catch up. Timed it to the coronation ‘cause I knew that was gonna slow things down even more in the Stacks.”

“Okay…” Mercer wasn’t wrong, he made complete sense. “So, you need the raw materials up here at the site of the tower rather than at the forges down in the Stacks, is that right?”

“That’s part one of the problem. Even if I can get the raw materials up here, I don’t have enough hands to work it. My men are tired of living in a tent city. They’ve been at it for months now and only about half came back from the coronation.”

“They could use the barracks?” With over half the army marching on the Rim the palace barracks had the space. Red had made sure a full contingent of soldiers remained behind as his guard, but there was room, and while not fancy, it’d be better than a tent. “And it shouldn’t be impossible to get raw materials up the mountain. Where’s the tower site located? Can’t be far, right?”

“The scar’s just a twenty-minute walk south of the palace.”

The scar? What did—Oh. Oh.

…Oh.

Of course, the tower was there. Orpheus’ drill had done a damned fine job leveling most of the area of trees, and Ohm’s army had taken care of the rest. Fenrir absolutely wouldn’t take it personally that Red had tasked him with finishing a job that would bring him to the site where so much that had gone wrong—and right—in his life had all started.

“You know it?” Mercer asked, staring up at Fenrir and frowning. “We chose it ‘cause the forest was already cleared.”

“Yeah, I know it.” Fenrir glanced back at Vera who was busy taking notes. Her pale eyes met his, and she nodded. “I’ll get a message down to the Stacks and see about getting the raw materials you need up the mountain. How many beds do you need?”

“Ten, not including myself, I’ll remain on site.”

Ten? That was an alarmingly small number of blacksmiths.

Mercer must have read his mind. “The better living conditions will get a few to come back. The supply chain fix will help too. But ten beds for now will suffice.”

Taking advantage of the unexpected opening, Fenrir inclined his head. “You can have a bed here too, you know.”

Mercer sneered. “And deal with these piss-ant nobles more than I already have to? I’d rather bathe in shit.”

For the first time in what felt like weeks, Fenrir laughed, loudly and without hesitation. Again, Mercer’s eyes narrowed on him, and again, Fenrir found himself confronting the impression of being picked apart.

“I’ll come check the site out myself in the next couple days, see if there’s anything else that can be done,” Fenrir promised, hoping that would be enough to satisfy Mercer and his men, but also wanting the excuse to leave the palace—even if it was only for a couple hours and involved revisiting the site that had come almost as close to killing him as his confrontation with Daedra had.

Mercer left with little more than a nod, the double doors closing behind him, the throne room feeling oddly empty in his absence. And in that absence, everything that was actually missing came rushing back to fill the open space.

Fifi, I hope you’re okay.

Fenrir didn’t even notice himself swaying until Vera took his elbow.

“Thanks,” he murmured when she stepped up beside him and frowned.