The throne room stank of iron, bile, and rot. The floor gleamed with a slick polish of black marble, but the walls were alive—or had once been. They glistened wet and red, stitched together from muscle and sinew, grotesque arches formed from the colossal ribs of a Dirgecrawler. Thick swathes of flesh created an uneven tapestry harvested from willing supplicants or unlucky victims who’d been flayed alive.

  His trophy wall. The source of so much of his power.

  Chains dangled from the ceiling, their rusted hooks like iron nooses, weighted by the twitching bodies of those who had displeased the Flayed Monarch. The sound of their endless, half-muffled screams was a choir he never tired of.

  The Director stood before him, perfect and prim, like a child’s doll.

  She looked to be in her mid-twenties—though she was far older—short and slender with long braid trailing down her back. Unlike the other Aspirants and Disciples who pledged themselves to the Monarch’s cause, her skin was perfect and unblemished. A sign of her exalted station. She wore an ankle-length satin dress, decades out of fashion, and didn’t carry any visible weapon. Not that she needed one. She was the weapon. A living arsenal of powerful Relics, Emblems, and ancient Artifacts, all guided by the cold and calculating mind of a hungry predatory.

  Despite her innocent and childlike appearance, she was a monstrous creature and ambitious enough to be truly dangerous.

  Particularly when aimed at his adversaries.

  “The Kiosk Network has fallen, my Lord,” she said with a tip of her head, “just as you anticipated. Dan is now in control of the entire system.”

  “Good,” the Monarch cooed, pleased with the progress.

  Wresting the Network away from the bumbling moron would prove to be a challenge but forfeiting it was a necessary concession in the short-term—like sacrificing a bishop to set up a checkmate. Nothing at all like the pain he’d felt after losing the Compass of the Catacomber. His Queen. His most prized possession. The only Relic he could not duplicate, because he did not understand its making.

  Corvo the Builder had taken the secret of its making to the grave—one last, final act of desperation from a spiteful man.

  The Compass had been part of the Monarch since time immemorial.

  It was as much a part of him as his arms and legs, as the twin hearts that beat within his chest. But he would reclaim it. That was inevitable. The end game was close. Close enough that he could taste it. Feel it in his bones. Once the Surgeon General finished his grisly work and fulfilled his purpose, the Monarch would finally kill the pitiful fly buzzing around his head and put an end to this farce.

  “I still do not understand why you set him on the path in the first place,” the Director said curiously.

  Of all his subjects, she was the only Aspirant who ever questioned him. The others were sycophants, cowed by his wrath or desperate for his favor. She alone walked here unafraid, knowing he valued the sharpness of her council.

  “Bait,” he replied simply. “The Lord of Coin has grown fat and happy off the excess of the Network. Losing it is a blow to us, but it is a far stronger blow to him. If he suspected we had deliberately sabotaged him, he would rally the other Sovereigns in retaliation. But with Dan in control, no suspicion falls on me. Instead of striking back against us while we are weak, he becomes a pawn we can use. A tool we can leverage as we consolidate our power.”

  The Director’s eyes glimmer with dark joy. “A very shrewd move, your Grace.”

  “A bold move,” he corrected, “but only if our gambit pays off. Otherwise, it might be the ruin of us all. But, nothing ventured, nothing gained.” He paused and tilted his head. “What of the forces we dispatched to the 99th floor?” he asked, though in his gut he already knew the answer. “Do any still live?”

  “Most are dead, my Lord,” she replied without hesitation.

  A rare trait, that. Not many would dare to stand before him and report failure. His anger was legend and his wrath the stuff of nightmares. He granted power, riches, and luxury beyond mortal imagining, but expected competence in return.

  Failure was the one thing he would not tolerate.

  “Dan and his team have proven to be… surprisingly resilient,” the Director continued smoothly. “Instead of evading our forces as expected, he slaughtered them, your Grace. Picked them off one by one. We were unable to move any of our stronger Disciples into position before he purged the floor.”

  Interesting.

  It seemed Dan was finally starting to crack, the mask of his humanity slipping. On the surface, the man seemed like an imbecile. A mewling sack of pitiful flesh, as most Delvers were. He possessed the most valuable Emblem in the Backrooms—a bloody masterpiece built to forge Empires—and he’d used it to open a convivence store. A petty, inconsequential bargain bin retail chain meant to help others.

  As laughable as it was pathetic.

  Beneath that fa?ade, however, the Monarch knew what Dan really was.

  A killer, just like him. Just like all those who gain any meaningful measure of power in this place.

  And now, under true pressure, he was embracing the monster that had always lurked in the darkest corners of his soul. With so many Delver deaths, the man’s Cold-Blooded Murder title had surely evolved. The Monarch idly wondered if Dan had taken to wearing trophies yet. The Serial-Killer in Training title—or those like it—handsomely rewarded those willing to tread a more bloodthirsty path. Stat boosts for every trophy worn. For every ounce of flesh stripped away. It was a title the Flayed Monarch had used to great effect.

  If Dan followed the same bloody road, it could transform him into a true force to be reckoned with. The Monarch hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Not before he could handle the other Sovereigns.

  The Director hesitated for the first time. “Is it not wiser to strike now, while he is still weak?” she asked. “Taking the Emblem back will be difficult, but not impossible… The longer you let this game stretch out, the more powerful he becomes, and the more difficult he will be to eliminate. In another month? Two? Once he’s consolidated his power and forged meaningful alliances? He could become as great a threat as any of the other Sovereigns. Perhaps surpass them, if he keeps the Compass.”

  “It is a risk,” the Monarch agreed. “But a calculated one. And it will not come to that, I am certain.” He paused, then shrugged broad shoulders. “Even if it does, it matters little. Better to have one newly crowned Sovereign nipping at our heels like a dog than to have six rabid lions besetting us from every side.

  “For this to work, my enemies must think me weak. Vulnerable.” His voice dropped, almost amused. “The only way that happens is if Dan’s star rises, while ours appears to dim. They will rally around him, and every treacherous leech in our ranks will flock to his banner. But rest assured, my faithful disciple, this game lasts only as long as I deem it does.”

  He tapped a talon against the edge of his obsidian mask. “How much longer will we have access to the Network transit system?”

  She grimaced. “We still have loyalists installed at key Nodes,” she replied, though her expression quickly soured. “But Dan is already revoking our credentials. It will take him time to replace our Franchisees without destabilizing the entire Network, but it is only a matter of time before we lose access entirely. We’ll still be able to move our forces through the Network, but it will become… difficult. Our logistical resources will be severely limited.”

  “Then we will need to move quickly,” he said. “While circumstances still favor us. If we are going to reposition our forces, the time is now. And we’ll need to concentrate our efforts on seizing the Divided Highway.”

  A brief grimace flashed across the Director’s face.

  Although the Kiosk Network was an invaluable tool, both for commerce and for transit, it was not the only unique structure that existed within the Backrooms. It served the higher floors well, linking the Kiosks from the Lobby all the way down to Nephraxis on floor 313, but below them, cutting through the lower levels like a razor’s edge, ran the Divided Highway. A seemingly endless stretch of desolate road with exit ramps that connect to the lower reaches of the vast labyrinth.

  What the Kiosk Network was to the upper reaches, the Divided Highway was to the lower. A key. A door. A way to traverse this inhospitable wasteland.

  “Unfortunately, our war efforts are going less well on that front,” the Director replied. Her voice was even and steady. Her fear in check. That was good. Fear was a useful tool, but it had its appointed place. “The Sorority Sisters are making a play for the Highway as well. We’ve managed to push them back for the time being, but without reinforcements we won’t be able to hold them indefinitely. To make matters worse, it appears they’ve struck an tenuous alliance with the Badland Boys.”

  The Monarch ground his teeth in frustration.

  In much the same way that the Lord of Coin held sway over the Kiosk Network above, Riot Roy and his Badland Boys controlled the Divided Highway—patrolling the asphalt hellscape in their flame-spewing battle rigs. Commanding the ebb and flow of travel with an iron grip. The Monarch had never relied on the Highway before, the Compass was far more versatile and efficient, but now he had a need for it.

  “Our attempts to wrest control from the Badland Boys failed rather… Spectacularly,” she finished after a pause. “The Carrion Legions initially succeeded in cutting off their resupply lines, but Riot Roy entered the field and killed Legatus Volkov, forcing us into a tactical withdraw.”

  The Monarch leaned back into his throne, his frustration mounting.

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  That was the first true setback. An unplanned loss.

  This was all the Boundless Warderer’s fault, Blight take him on whatever level he’d eventually ended up on. The man had been a thorn in his side for ages, a cockroach that refused to die before his betters. Worse, he had the gauntlet and five of the six binding seals—the only Artifact powerful enough to rip through the walls of this demandable prison. He didn’t have all the seals, at least. A small mercy. The last, sat embedded in the Monarch’s chest.

  Still, the Monarch was not one to play the victim. He forcibly pushed away his growing irritation. Although the situation was far from ideal, he could turn even failure to his advantage.

  True, without his Compass, his empire was weakened, but he could use that to force the other Sovereigns into the open. Let them grow greedy, overextend their lines driven by false confidence. Then, when his plans came to fruition, he would swoop in and decapitate each of them. Cut the head from the snake and claim the corpse of their respective empires as his own. And with that much power at his disposal, not even the Boundless Wanderer would be able to evade him for long.

  Even so, Volkov’s death stung.

  The general—known to most as the Gorewright—had been loyal, efficient, and competent. A rare combination. More importantly, Volkov had been his. Heart, soul, and flesh. The man had served the Monarch even longer than the Director and was as vicious as he was formidable. His absence scraped like a scalpel across an exposed nerve, but there was nothing that could be done about it.

  Not yet.

  There was an Earth saying about eggs and omelets that applied to this situation.

  “And Volkov’s corpse?” the Monarch asked. “Did our forces manage to recover it?”

  The general would never be what he’d been in life, but corpses—especially powerful ones—could always prove useful. Even more so if he could get the corpse to the Surgeon General before decomposition set in too badly.

  “No,” the Director said flatly. “According to Praetor Roa’s reports, Volkov’s corpse is currently hanging from the walls of Smokestack City and Riot Roy has taken to drinking beer from his skull.”

  The Monarch’s fury rose like a tidal wave. Volkov deserved better. And besides, the general carried nearly a full complement of Fabled Emblems. Losing such precious items to Riot Roy was sickening. But he restrained his wrath.

  His emotions served him, not the other way around.

  In time, Riot Roy would pay for his transgression. No one took what was his. Not unless he allowed it. Riot Roy was a nuisance—a half-mad warlord with the myopic vision of a gnat—and it galled him that the scavenger was still breathing, but his end would come in the duly appointed time.

  For now, he would let Riot Roy have his paltry victory.

  And a hallow one at that.

  The Monarch had lost a general, but he himself was in no real danger.

  They could never unseat him here, on the 999th floor. But neither could he retaliate in kind, which was the real crux of the problem. His empire had thrived because his forces could appear anywhere, at any time. There was no greater power in the Backrooms than the ability to move through it freely, and the threat of his sudden arrival was what kept the others in line.

  Without the Emblem, his armies were penned in.

  Bottled. Trapped. Mocked.

  “We cannot lose the Divided Highway,” he said coldly. “Consolidate our forces, fortify our outposts, and see what you can do to destabilize the relationship between Riot Roy and the Sorority Queen. They hate each other almost as much as they hate me. Surely, someone with your talents should find that fertile ground. I don’t need open warfare—just the pot simmering, ready to boil over.”

  She nodded, then asked “And what of Dan?”

  “He is not our problem for the time being,” the Monarch replied. “Still, there is opportunity to sow discord. We need to elevate tensions between Dan and the Lord of Coin. I have no doubt Neferet will be out for blood. We should drown him in it.”

  “My sources above suggest that the Syndicate is already waging a campaign against Dan and his spattering of allies,” the Director said, sounding pleased that she finally had a bit of good news to report.

  “Excellent,” the Monarch replied. “The more hostilities the better. We cannot risk the possibility of Neferet forging a compact with Dan.”

  “I will dispatch Magister Kovacs to handle the situation,” she said.

  “Good.” He nodded, then paused as a devious idea formed in his mind. “While we’re at it, dispatch a contingent of Skinwalkers.”

  “Infiltration?” she asked.

  “Just so,” he replied. “And outfit them with one of the Dimensional Shear Engines.”

  The Director raised an eyebrow at that. “Is that wise? We only have two and they are exceedingly rare.”

  He waved the objection away. “We only need one and this will serve us well in the long run, I think.”

  “Of course, your Grace,” she replied, pushing back no further.

  “And what of the Surgeon General?” he asked, thoughts already moving on to the next strand in his grand design. “Is he in place?”

  “Yet another piece of the puzzle I do not fully understand,” the Director murmured, “but, yes, your Grace. Our scouts report he is working with BEACON—though in what capacity, I cannot say.”

  “In this,” the Monarch replied, “it is not your place to know. The Surgeon General’s work is crucial to our cause, and he is an ally above reproach. Make sure he has whatever resources he needs to complete his endeavor.”

  The Director was a valuable asset, but he didn’t trust anyone with the totality of his vision. Even his most loyal advisors could be turned against him, given the right circumstances.

  “Of course, my Lord,” she replied with a curtesy. “I live to obey. Would you like me to keep an eye on the Surgeon General? I’d be happy to see to it personally.”

  “No, no,” the Monarch said. “His work proceeds as planned. Dispatch one of the Centurions—they’re more than adequate. I want you to lead our war efforts against Riot Roy. Until we have the Compass back, the Divided Highway is our most important strategic objective.”

  “It will be as you say.” She pressed a fist to her heart then bowed deeply in reverence.

  The Monarch’s cloak stirred as she excused herself from the cathedral of flesh, its many eyeballs blinking as the garment watched her depart.

  “Are you certain she is up to the task?” the cloak asked, speaking from a dozen whispering mouths.

  “As much as anyone is,” the Monarch replied. “Riot Roy is powerful, but he has the mental facilities of a toddler.”

  “The Sorority Queen is much more cunning,” the cloak said.

  The Monarch snorted. “She is a vapid creature, easily swayed and manipulated.”

  “You could always send me,” the cloak purred, tentacles unfurling, casting long shadows across the floor.

  “No,” the Monarch replied softly. Almost tenderly. “You are too valuable, and I cannot afford a repeat of what happened with Volkov.” The Monarch had many servants, but few that he truly trusted, and even fewer that he counted among his friends. “He may not be your match in intellect, but in a direct confrontation he is your equal.”

  “Then let me help with Dan,” the cloak pleaded.

  “Patience, my friend,” the Monarch said. “Patience. You would be terribly weak so far above, and there is no need to take risks. Especially since we haven’t expended all of our options yet.”

  The Monarch extended a clawed hand and the air split with a wet, tearing sound as he withdrew a battered dreamcatcher from Spatial Storage. Though this one was unique, crafted from bone and dried sinew, a small cornhusk doll bound at its center with a tangle of hair and crusted blood. For such a small, ugly thing, its presence was immense; the throne room shuddered as something vast and primal pressed against reality from the other side.

  “The Dreamling?” the cloak asked. “Are you sure that is wise?”

  “He is a dangerous dog,” the Monarch said, “but so long as we hold his leash, he will obey.”

  He stroked a talon along the taut lines of the dreamcatcher, murmuring an ancient invocation. Gray light bled from the spiderweb of interconnect sinew. The chains swung. The corpses shrieked louder, writhing on their chains. When the light finally dimmed, a figure stood upon the marble.

  He was thin and neatly dressed in a gray suit so finely pressed it seemed wrong in this place of gore and carnage. A black bowler hat sat at a sharp angle upon a swatch of brown hair. His gloved hands were folded neatly before him, and round dark glasses hid eyes that never stopped moving. Searching. The smile on his lips was small, razor-sharp, and utterly humorless.

  “Ahhh,” the man said, voice like silk draped across a razor blade. “Back again, are we? I was beginning to enjoy the solitude.”

  The Monarch scowled. “I can taste the lie on your lips, Alister,” he said. “Your kind aren’t meant for isolation. The only joy you know is feeding.”

  Alister’s smile twitched wider. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I quite enjoy your suffering. And the fact that you’re desperate enough to free me again? Why, that tickles me to no end.”

  The Monarch ignored the barb and lifted the dreamcatcher as though warding off some ancient evil.

  “Do not forget who holds your leash,” he said, talon tracing the cornhusk doll. “Your soul belongs to me.”

  For a heartbeat, Alister’s smile faltered. Then he dipped his head, mock-polite. “Yes, yes. I am yours to command.” He paused, and the smile crept back onto his face. “For now. Though I’ve noticed you’ve been needing me more often lately. Trouble in the ranks? Your grand design finally starting to fray?”

  The Monarch rose from his throne in a surge of chitin and muscle, looming over the smaller man.

  The obsidian mask revealed nothing, but fury radiated from him like a storm cloud. He skittered forward, a legion of arachnoid legs supporting his bulk, and his bloody cloak trailed behind him. The chains above clattered as his presence swelled to fill the chamber and the flayed corpses writhed harder, their muffled screams redoubled.

  His lifted a hand and the Dreamling rose into the air, suspended in a bloody halo.

  “Choose your words carefully, worm,” the Monarch hissed. “You are a weapon in my hand. Nothing more.”

  Instead of being properly cowed, Alister chuckled, even while dangling in the air. “Weapons cut in both directions, your Grace,” he said. Somehow, he made the title sound like an insult. “You know that better than most.”

  The Monarch grunted, annoyed, and let the power drop. Alister fell to the floor with a dull thud. The Monarch turned and scuttled back to his throne, unwilling to be baited further. The compacts binding the Dreamling were legion, and if he violated any of them, he risked setting the detestable creature free.

  “Enough of your games,” The Monarch said, his voice cold and implacable. “I did not summon you for your conversation. I have a task for you.”

  He extended his hand, and a fragment of silver light spun into existence, condensing into a simple ring of red twine. Even here, on the 999th floor, he could feel the pull of its magic, tugging toward its twin half in Dan’s store far above.

  “The Compass of the Catacomber,” the Monarch growled. “It has fallen into the hands of a fool. He calls himself Discount Dan.”

  The Dreamling tipped his head, and his smile grew in devilish delight. “Ha, that is rich! Has the Emperor has lost the keys to his Empire? That is dire news, indeed… For you.” He sniffed once, theatrically. “And that isn’t all you’ve lost. You stink of weakness. Of desperation. I take it things didn’t go well with the Boundless Wanderer?”

  The Monarch’s cloak twitched, shifting to hide the festering, unhealing wound in his side from the Dreamling’s gaze. His confrontation with the Wanderer had cost him dearly, but he would recover.

  “Enough,” the Monarch snarled, jabbing a talon through the heart of the cornhusk doll.

  Alister collapsed, agony contorting his face into a mask of unending pain.

  “Remember your place,” the Monarch hissed.

  When he was satisfied that Alister had learned his lesson, he withdrew the talon and tossed the red ring toward the Dreamling.

  “You will hunt him,” the Monarch commanded. “Slip through his dreams. Crawl behind his eyes. Tear down whatever walls he builds in that fragile little mind of his. Learn his secrets. Twist his thoughts.” His smile turned vicious. “But do not kill him until he has finished his war with the Syndicate. We must ensure the Lord of Coin poses no threat before we make our move. Once that is done, you will bring the Compass back to me.”

  “And if he resists?” Alister’s asked.

  “Oh, he will resist,” the Monarch said. “That’s why you’ll break him from the inside. When you’re done, add what’s left of him to my walls.”

  The Dreamling retrieved the ring and slipped it over one thin finger, then bowed. Unlike with the Director, there was no reverence in the gesture. Only mockery. Only spite. Still, he would obey, so long as the Monarch held his leash.

  With one final nod, Alister stepped backward. The air folded around him like a curtain closing, and with a ripple of Mana, he was gone. Already slipping into the realm of haunted sleep. Even with his formidable powers it would take weeks to break Dan. Perhaps longer. But he would not stop until the work was done.

  The Dreamlings of the 913th floor were uniquely powerful and dangerous, and this one was the most dangerous of all. A king in his own right. One who had managed to infiltrate the Monarch’s ranks and do a great deal of damage before he was eventually ferreted out and captured. But, as with so many things, the Monarch had broken him and bent him to his will.

  He always did.

  The Monarch leaned back, the dreamcatcher still clenched in his hand. Hatred burned behind the mask, but beneath it lay something colder, sharper.

  Calculating.

  Dan might have thought himself untouchable within his little empire of coupons and kiosks, locked safely away in his spatial fortress. But dreams didn’t have doors. They didn’t need keys. And, sooner or later, everyone had to sleep...