Vrok’s voice lowers. “A myth is harder to fight than an army.”
“Yes.”
I open the deeper layer.
This is where it gets ugly.
Encrypted comm chatter between syndicate middlemen. Tactical analysis of Butcher sightings. Threat level adjustments.
“She’s trending,” Vrok mutters.
“Don’t joke.”
“I’m not.”
The chatter isn’t disbelief.
It’s belief.
Merchants adjusting routes to avoid territories where I’m rumored active. Mercenary cells declining contracts because “Butcher territory unstable.” Independent warlords invoking my name as leverage during negotiations.
“She turned you into a weather system,” Vrok says.
I swallow.
I scroll further.
The final set of files makes my pulse slow instead of spike.
Internal Hooves chatter.
Marj’s voice.
Distorted, but unmistakable.
“…let them chase ghosts. Fear builds cleaner than loyalty…”
My fingers go cold.
She didn’t lose.
She transitioned.
She’s using the legend like a wildfire—controlled burn across sectors she no longer wants to physically occupy.
“She’s not dismantled,” I whisper.
“No,” Vrok agrees. “She’s distributed.”
I stand abruptly and begin pacing the cabin.
The metal deck feels colder under my boots.
“She allowed the Butcher to survive,” I say. “Deliberately.”
“She could’ve crushed it,” Vrok adds quietly. “Publicly. During the execution.”
“She didn’t.”
