The midday sun was a cruel, white eye staring down at Marchand, and under its heat, the courtyard of the Governor’s mansion had turned into a slaughterhouse that smelled of iron and rot. Lord Hoff stood on the shaded edge of the stone walk, his arms crossed over his chest, watching the jailer work. He was bored. He was also deeply disgusted, though not by the blood. He was disgusted by the lack of results.

In front of him, tied to a heavy wooden chair that had been dragged out from the servant’s quarters, was a man who had once been a person of some minor importance in the city’s lower districts. Now, he was mostly a collection of open wounds. The jailer, a sickly-looking man with skin that peeled away from his nose in dry, white flakes, was busy carving a new pattern into the man’s thigh. The man didn't scream anymore; he only made a wet, whistling sound through a throat clogged with his own fluids.

A bloody coat lay on the stones nearby. It was stained so deeply that the fabric was stiff, but the sigil of the Night Watch, a stylized lantern against a dark field, was still visible. Chunks of fingers, hands, and unidentifiable bits of flesh were scattered around the chair like discarded scraps from a butcher’s table.

"He’s dead, you fool," Hoff snapped, his voice sharp and impatient.

The jailer paused, his blood-slicked hands trembling. He looked up, his pale eyes blinking against the glare. "Not yet, my Lord. He still twitches when I touch the bone."

"He’s useless," Hoff said, stepping forward. A spray of dark blood had spotted his own polished boots, and he grimaced, the sight of the mess irritating him more than the dying man’s agony. "He hasn't given us a single name that matters. He just keeps babbling about demons and shadows. We need facts, not ghost stories."

Hoff looked at the trees lining the edge of the courtyard. Several bodies already hung there, swaying slightly in the hot breeze. They were a warning to the city, though the city was currently locked behind a wall of steel and fear.

"String this one up in the tree with the others," Hoff ordered, waving a dismissive hand. "And bring the next one. I want the boy."

The guards moved quickly. They untied the dying man and dragged him toward the trees, his heels leaving twin streaks of red on the white stone. Hoff wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. He felt a strange, humming thrill in his chest, a sense of righteousness. He was the one doing the hard work. While Governor Risha paced and Heidi whispered, Hoff was out here in the dirt, rooting out the rot.

They brought the pale youth forward. It was the boy from the Night Watch, the one they had found unconscious near the breach in the wall. Filip looked like a ghost already. His eyes were wide and unfocused, his skin the color of curdled milk. He was shaking so hard that his teeth clattered together.

The jailer didn't wait for a command. As soon as the boy was shoved into the chair, the sickly man grabbed Filip’s right hand. With a quick, practiced motion of a small carving knife, he severed two of the boy’s fingers at the middle joint.

Filip’s scream was a high, thin sound that pierced the heavy air. Hoff didn't flinch. In fact, he felt a sudden, heavy yawn stretch his jaw. He had heard so many screams today that they had started to sound like white noise, as meaningless as the buzzing of the flies that swarmed the mounds of dead refugees across the yard.

"Name for the record," Hoff said, his voice flat.

Filip couldn't speak. He was staring at the bloody stumps of his fingers, his breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps.

"You have the capacity to stop the pain, boy," Hoff continued, leaning down so his face was inches from Filip’s. "All you have to do is tell me who let the Northerners in. Was it Durham? Was it Kino? Which of your 'brothers' took the bribe to leave the gate unlatched?"

"I... I don't..." Filip choked out. "The demon... the black eyes..."

Hoff sighed and looked at the jailer. "Down to the knuckle this time. He’s still telling fairy tales."

The knife flashed again. Filip’s head slammed back against the chair, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as a fresh wave of agony washed over him. Hoff turned away, his interest already fading. He was convinced that these people, the residents of the palace district and the useless watchmen, just needed to provide a believable lie. It didn't even have to be the truth; it just had to be something he could hand to the Inquisitor.

"Lord Hoff! What the bloody hell is going on here?"

The voice was loud and full of a pomposity that could only belong to one man. Hoff turned to see Lord Brock marching across the courtyard. Brock was a member of the City Council, a man who grew fat on taxes and fine speeches. He was dressed in silk that was much too heavy for the heat, his face a bright, angry purple.

Brock stopped a few feet away, his gaze falling on the mutilated boy in the chair and then shifting to the bodies hanging in the trees. His mouth hung open for a second before he found his voice again.

"You have gone too far this time, Hoff," Brock spat, pointing a trembling finger at the scene. "This is a massacre! You are torturing members of the Night Watch? These are protectorates of the people! No crimes have been filed. No trials have been approved by the Council. I will have you in shackles for this!"

Hoff laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound that didn't reach his eyes. He looked at the jailer, who was waiting with his knife poised over Filip’s remaining fingers.

"Why beat around the bush?" Hoff said to the jailer, ignoring Brock entirely. "Let’s just take the whole hand. He clearly isn't using it to point out any traitors."

"Stop!" Brock screamed, stepping toward the chair. A guard blocked his path with the shaft of a spear, shoving the councilman back.

Hoff turned his full attention to Brock. "You have no authority here, Brock. The only authority you have ever held is what the peasants have given you in exchange for empty promises. Go back to your papers and your ledgers. Leave the security of this city to men who aren't afraid of a little blood."

Brock looked ashen. He looked around at the body parts littering the ground, the blood-soaked chair, and the men waiting their turn in the shadows of the dungeon entrance. "This is madness," he whispered. "You have no right. The Emperor's law, "

"The Emperor's law is exactly why I am doing this," Hoff interrupted, his voice dropping to a dangerous hiss. "I have the authority vested in me by the Lord Governor himself to root out a grave conspiracy. There was an attempt to discredit and place blame on him last night. A massacre of hundreds happened right under our noses. Do you think our esteemed Emperor will care about Council protocols when the Inquisition reports the piles of dead Northerners in the garden?"

Hoff gestured toward the covered mounds of grey fabric near the wall. "Hundreds murdered. In the Governor’s own courtyard. And it happened on the very day that the Emperor’s own Inquisitor, Ash, joined us. It was a planned power grab, Brock. A play to make the Governor look weak, or worse, complicit."

Hoff stepped closer to Brock, a dark glint in his eyes. "I wonder, Lord Brock... who stands to gain from such an attempt? Who has been whispering in the taverns about the Council taking over the grain trade? Who wants to see the Governor removed?"

Brock’s eyes went wide. "Are you... are you accusing me? I have supported this city for twenty years! I have the Emperor's own seal of approval on my position!"

"The Emperor supports city councils until they become a nuisance," Hoff said dismissively. "And right now, you are a very loud, very annoying nuisance. You claim these watchmen are 'protectors.' I call them traitors to the crown for their lack of action. They watched while a breach was made. They slept while foreigners were slaughtered. Either they are incompetent wastes of life, or they were in on it."

"What crimes have they committed that could be greater than the ones you are committing right now?" Brock countered, his voice shaking with a mix of fury and terror. "I will see you hanged for this, Hoff. I will write to the capital myself. I will see you stripped of your title and thrown into the very pit you've crawled out of!"

Hoff scoffed at the man’s unwarranted confidence. "You have no power here, Brock. You have no army. And after today, you will have no enforcers. Your 'Night Watch' are pathetic excuses for men, and I am currently disposing of the worst of them."

Brock stood tall, though his knees were visibly knocking together. "This regime is a palace of whitewashed bones, Hoff. You and the Governor... you sit on a throne of lies and corruption. There is a change in the air. A storm is coming that even the Emperor can see, but the Governor is too blind and too arrogant to recognize it. You think you can kill your way to order? You are only building a pyre for yourselves."

Hoff stared at him for a long beat. He looked at Brock’s expensive clothes, his soft hands, and his indignant face. He thought about Governor Risha’s orders to get answers at any cost. He thought about the Council’s constant interference in the city’s defense.

A slow, predatory smile spread across Hoff’s face. He realized he didn't just have to find a scapegoat among the guards. He had a much bigger fish right in front of him.

"Hang them all," Hoff said calmly, looking at the sergeant of the guard.

"What?" Brock gasped.

"The prisoners. All of them. Hang them now," Hoff commanded. Then he turned back to Brock, his smile widening. "Sergeant, seize our esteemed guest. Take him down to the interrogation room. I have the feeling we have a confession to acquire."

Brock’s face went from purple to a ghostly, translucent white. "You can't! I am a member of the Council! I am, "

The words were cut short as two armored men grabbed Brock by the arms. They didn't treat him with the respect his station demanded; they hauled him toward the dark maw of the dungeon as if he were just another piece of meat. Brock’s bewildered protests turned into frantic, undignified shrieks as his heels dragged through the blood on the stones.

Hoff shivered with anticipation. He could see the path clearly now. He would twist the truth until it fit the shape he needed. Brock would confess to conspiring with the North. The Night Watch would be the fall guys. The city would be purged of its weak links, and Hoff would be the hero who saved Marchand from a coup.

"A new age of order and law," Hoff whispered to himself, feeling the midday heat finally begin to break.

He adjusted his coat and followed the guards into the cool, damp darkness of the dungeon. By morning, the papers would be signed, the "traitors" would be swinging from the walls, and the Governor would have his answers. Hoff felt like a king.