"One interesting thing," he says quietly.
I turn to him.
"The Grimsbane claimed he hurt Rhianelle."
The world narrows. Heat detonates in my chest, white and blinding. For a moment, I can hear nothing but blood rushing in my ears.
"Did he?" I ask. My voice is calm.
Red watches me carefully. "I can't be certain because he was deep into Asterdust withdrawal. He wasn't coherent by the end."
My jaw tightens.
"But he said there were five of them," Red adds.
"Where are the others?"
"Buried," he says quietly. "Deep. Where we'll put this one."
I hold his gaze.
"Did they suffer?"
Red looks at me steadily. "Asterdust withdrawal is worse than flaying. I let it run its course."
Something in me settles. Not enough, but something.
"He gave me more before he went." Red's voice shifts, becomes careful. "The Aeonians have a plan for Völundr. They want Rainer Wiolant subdued, addicted to Asterdust and compliant. He named others. People already inside the court."
The Aeonians are supplying the rebel orcs with Asterdust, breaking the court from within. They mean to push Rainer toward dependency—to feed him until his judgment fails and his authority crumbles. It will destabilize Völundr piece by piece.
Red hesitates.
"The Grimsbane also said Rainer struck Rhianelle." Red watches my face. "Punched her during his Asterdust rage."
My vision goes red.
Rainer Wiolant.
The person she trusts without question, who held her when she wept, and calls her family. I want to end that bastard. I want to tear his throat out and let the city watch.
"I know." Red's voice is flat. "I wanted to kill him the moment the Grimsbane said his name. But Rainer is powerful, and if we move wrong the Aeonians succeed anyway. Völundr falls without a fight."
I breathe through it. Calm down.
"Rhianelle loves him. Whatever he's done, she loves him," Red says under his breath.
I force the rage back down where it belongs.
I will come back to Rainer.
We wrap the corpse in the tarp as best we can. It does little to disguise what we're carrying. Together, we hoist the massive body. The corpse is unwieldy and the weight distribution awkward.
"Next time," I grunt as we wrestle him up the first flight of stairs, "choose a better killing ground."
The climb back up the steep stairs is torturous. Each level requires maneuvering through narrow passages and tight corners.
Red and I work in grim silence, punctuated only by occasional grunts of effort. We reach the ground level, having to tilt the body sideways just to fit through the doorframe. One of his arms catches on the doorjamb and I have to wrench it free.
