Sorry about long time no see! For those that don't know, I work two jobs that average out about 80 hours a week. So I just didn't have any time to write in the past months, and when I did have time, I spent it sleeping. I'm not going to promise a steady update schedule, but I will update when I can.

On a side note, I've gone back and made some serious edits to the story. The most notable examples are the arrow scene and sentence structure. Since I apparently could use the word 'however' about 24 times in a single chapter.

This chapter is more of a world and character building chapter to ease me back into it.

"Messiah?" A whisper was so soft that Jonah nearly lost it in the sea of screams of agony and fear surrounding him. His eyes snapped to the source, a child so thin Jonah could wrap a hand around both of his wrists with plenty of room to spare. A makeshift bandage covered most of his stomach and whatever color it use to be was lost to a deep, dark red. A massive contrast to how pale the child no older than ten was - only a layer of dirt and grease colored his skin. Even still, he held out a feeble hand that faltered a moment before Jonah caught it.

"Messiah," the child breathed, his eyes unfocused as Jonah crouched down next him.

Stomach wound. Jonah didn't even need to lift the bandages to know what laid beneath. That bandage was the only thing stopping his intestines from falling out, and it was a token effort at best

"Messiah. Messiah. Messiah," the child whispered over and over, like some desperate chant.

"Hey, in here. I'm here," Jonah replied, his lips pressed together into a thin line. He's going to need surgery. It was unavoidable, even with the power of stimpacks. A blood transfusion too since half of his blood seemed to be soaking the bandage.

"Messiah. Messiah! Messiah? Messiah..." the child continued to mutter as Jonah looked around the marketplace turned field hospital. All the injured that could survive being moved were sent here to the doctors. Blood raced down the drains in a steady stream and into the sewers below from hundreds of dead and dying, from both slaver and rebel. It was only one of many scattered throughout the city.

Dozens of midwives, healers or anyone with a scrap of medical knowledge darted between the screaming men and women. All the while dozens more carried off the dead.

"You're going to be all right," Jonah told the child, not believing it for a second. Too much blood lost. The wound in too bad of a spot.

I'll have to perform it. Slipping his bag over his shoulder, Jonah unlatched the medical kit hanging off of the front. Clicking it open he grabbed what he needed, but his hand hesitated over the buffout and stimpacks. One full bottle and fifty stimpacks. That was it and, unless Myr could advance hundreds of years over night, that was it for the foreseeable future.

He's going to die. That cold, logical part of his brain spoke up. Jonah knew it was the truth. All the odds were against him, and that was if he used the drugs so advanced they borderline magical.

I can't afford to waste them. It was true. That rational part of his brain was right. His hand grabbed them anyway.

A shadow of a chance was still a chance.

Popping the Buffout open, he cut a pill in half using his fingernail before depositing it into the kid's mouth. "Shhhhh, swallow that. It'll dull the pain," Jonah ordered before grabbing his canteen and raising it to the kid's lips. They moved even as he drank the purified water, repeating that word - his name - over and over. Giving the medicine a moment to kick in, Jonah spent the time dousing his hands in bourbon.

"Messiah...Messiah…Messiah…"

"What's your name kid?" Jonah asked, gently pulling the bandage off. It was just as bad as Jonah thought. Not quite in the stomach but far too close for comfort - whatever got him got him just below the ribs and in the fleshy area a couple of inches from his navel.

"Messiah...Messiah…"

"That's my name," Jonah said, sending the child a smile that almost didn't look fake. He doubted that the kid saw it with his unfocused eyes. All the while Jonah worked; threading the needle, he spared a thought on how he wished he had more specialized equipment before he went in.

"Messiah...Messiah...Messiah…" The kid panted as Jonah cleaned the wound and slowly injected the stimpack into his organs. Getting hit in the stomach was almost always fatal, no matter how small the injury. Internal organs were just so tightly compacted that a stab was bound to hit something and, more often than not, that meant fecal matter spilled from the opening. There was little point in surviving a gut wound only to die of infection after.

The bleeding cut in his large intestine stopped pouring blood as soon as the stimpack started working. Rapidly, the edges grew slightly until they fused together. Only a thin white line marked where he was wounded.

"You're one hell of a little kid; you know that? I've done this with fully grown men, and they just screamed and screamed and screamed. Not to mention that little pill should have knocked you out like a light," Jonah said, moving on to cleaning out any other filth to and searching for another point of bleeding.

"Messiah...Messiah...Messiah...Mess...ahhhhh…" The child let out a shuddering breath before his chest stilled. Jonah didn't hesitate and placed his hands on his unbeating heart before starting CPR. Seconds turned into minutes, ribs creaked underneath his powerful hands but no matter how much Jonah tried, he couldn't breathe life back into the child.

Trying one last time, and meeting the same result, Jonah let out an explosive sigh as he looked down at the kid. He couldn't be any older than eight. His last words echoed in Jonah's ears, repeating the same word over and over and over again and saying it with his final breath.

"He was chanting my name," Jonah muttered, pressing his lips into a thin line. His heart clenched painfully - kids were always the hardest. Always the ones that stuck with him. Probably why he liked Little Lamplight so much. Jonah knew he would never have to seriously worry about them and that those kids could take care of themselves.

"Messiah?" A male voice over his shoulder asked. Glancing over, Jonah saw a balding old man with thin wisps of hair combed over a shining scalp in the evening sun. Baggy gray robes couldn't hide the gut straining at the front and the large chain around his neck clanked with every step. Jonah didn't know how he managed it; the sound was already driving him up the wall.

"What?" Jonah asked, closing the child's eyes before packing his supplies away.

"Erm, may we take the body?" He asked, gesturing to the kid. Jonah held his gaze for a long second, long enough for the man to fidget, before he nodded silently.

"Where are the graves?" Jonah asked, throwing his bag over his shoulder and standing up. Maybe he'd apologize later for not finding him sooner or for not being able to do more.

"Outside the city, your grace," the man answered with a small bow. Your grace. He wasn't from around here; Jonah knew that despite not from around here either. How he held himself, how he spoke and his mannerisms.

"The same for the slavers?" Jonah asked, striding forward to the next patient that had half a chance of surviving. An older man gripped his arm with surprising strength as another clutched at a stump where his leg once was. His face twisted into a mask of agony but he couldn't bring himself to make a sound. His mouth just hung open uselessly in a silent scream.

"Yes, your grace. Though the grave is getting rather full, we'll have to start a new one, I'm afraid." The old man answered as Jonah grabbed a whole pill from the bottle of buffout and pushed it into the man's mouth. In seconds, his grip on Jonah's arm lessened until it fell to the ground. His eyes butterflied shut as the powerful painkiller worked.

"What about graves for our dead?" Jonah asked, moving on to the next poor soul wounded. The old man followed him like a shadow, his chain clanking with every step.

He wants something. Blood splattered his robe and his hands, meaning he was a doctor or, he helped with the patience. He thought what he wanted was more important than saving lives.

"I'm afraid we've already filled up two, your grace. And we are well on our way to filling a third. The revolt was a success but-"

"Three graves," Jonah noted, cutting him off. "You're throwing our dead into a great big hole in the ground?" He asked, injecting the last of the stimpack after sterilizing the needle.

"I-"

"Will dig them back up and give them individual graves so their families, loved ones and whoever can visit them and pay their respects." Jonah finished for him, turning his gaze back to him as he stood. The older man crumpled underneath its weight like paper.

"But-but, that would-" Silencing him, Jonah placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned in.

"That wasn't a request." Giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze to reinforce that point, Jonah's eyes found Rico, who surveyed the marketplace filled with the dead and dying with a grim expression. "They don't have to be too deep, just a couple of feet. Mark a stone with their names. I'll stop by later to help."

With that, Jonah stepped past the odd man, who still failed to formulate a response to that. Whatever he wanted, he wouldn't be getting it today. Raising a hand to get Rico's attention, his dark brown eyes found Jonah's before he approached. Careful not to step on anyone but Jonah noticed blood splash up onto his pants and boots when he carelessly stepped in a puddle.

"Jonah! I will admit, this is the last place I expected you to be," he greeted with an easy smile, clasping Jonah on the shoulder.

"I can do as much good here as I can in the field. Unless you have some news for me?" Jonah asked sending Rico an expecting look. Rico just nodded, gesturing for them to walk down a street as he began to explain.

"I do, in fact. Apparently, the masters had a plan in the event of a slave uprising - admittedly, not a very good plan since most of the masters are dead, but a plan nonetheless. The barracks in the diamond quarter serves as a safe house, of sorts."

Jonah nodded, accepting that they weren't going to find and kill every master overnight. Some would escape, despite his every effort, and others would find corners to die in. "I suppose it only makes sense. Only an idiot wouldn't have a plan for a slave revolt when they outnumber the free three to one."

"Quite so. From my understanding, many masters and their guards fled to the barracks and barricaded themselves in. My scout said that they have a hundred in there, at the very least. We could starve them out, which shouldn't take too long, but we simply don't know how much food that they have. And storming the barracks could prove costly," Rico added, sending Jonah a not so subtle glance.

"Are there not some secret tunnel to let them escape? Seems kinda pointless for them to have a preplanned safehouse without a way to escape it," Jonah noted, bobbing his head at the unspoken request to work his magic.

"That was my instinct as well, and I sent my men to investigate. They haven't found anything and, truth be told my friend, I'm not sure that the masters are even there anymore. Even still, leaving them there for them to die on their own time stops us from moving on to bigger and better thing," Rico answered, flashing a smile with surprisingly white teeth.

"True enough," Jonah agreed, sending a nod to a mother with her child. She was pointing at him from down the street as she whispered in her kid's ear, all the while the kid looked at him with eyes wide enough that there was an honest risk of them falling out. A great big smile on her face told him that she was singing his praises, even though he couldn't hear the words.

"What else is on the agenda?" Jonah asked, sending polite smiles and waves at the many more that they passed. The streets were the oddest mixture of deserted and packed. People celebrated their newfound freedom in taverns or just in the streets. They picked the location of their parties at random.

Even still, for every slave celebrating their freedom, there was another hunting down any trace of the masters or breaking the chains of anyone that hadn't heard his words. And, for every one of them, another wept at the cost of their freedom.

Myr was now free, but at a cost it would feel for some time.

"The...er…" Rico stumbled, at a loss on what to call the leaders Jonah installed.

"Councilors," Jonah said after a beat of silence, testing the word. He liked it. Much better than Magister of Whatever, at any rate.

"I like it. The Councilors want to meet you at some point about what happened next. About the whole 'surrounded by people that want us dead' thing. That and some other matters, but I doubt they're as important." Rico answered carelessly and earned a sharp look from Jonah.

Blowing out a soft sigh, Jonah ran a hand through his hair as he took in the news. Myr was surrounded? That would have been a useful little detail to know. Jonah was never a grand scheme type, but a plan to deal with that would have been helpful.

Don't have anyone to blame but myself. No one forced him to start the revolt early because he didn't have any patience. He pulled the trigger knowing exactly what the consequences would be.

"Give me a run down. The biggest threat to smallest." Jonah ordered as they began climbing a stupid number of steps to reach the diamond quarter. Myr was overly fond of steps.

"Ah, well, I'd say the biggest threat would be a Tyrosh-Lys alliance. They're the other two daughters of the disputed lands. Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys have had a rivalry that's lasted for...hundreds of years. Not really sure why, but my guess would be trade. If my time in the fighting pits taught me anything, it's that long time rivalries can be put aside when blood is in the water." Rico began after a moment.

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend," Jonah quoted.

"Oh, I like that! I'll have to use it some time...and yes. I'm afraid I can't give numbers, but I can all but promise that they will outnumber us should they join forces. As far as sellsword companies, I know that Tyrosh has the Windblown, Long Lances and the Second Sons. Lys...well...they have the Golden Company." Rico said with a grimace and Jonah filed those names away for later.

"Okay, what else?" Jonah said, moving on as he memorized the names. They sounded like names that he should know.

"Next would be Volantis. Volantis is an old beast. Five slaves for every man and it's the biggest city in Essos by far. I once heard a man claim that they could field an army of a hundred thousand if you count the sellsword companies under their thumb and their slave soldiers. Their war elephants are something to be feared," Rico continued, scratching at his cheek. Jonah could practically see the cogs turning in his mind as he tried to recall everything he knew about the free city.

"Take what I have to say with a pinch of salt, but they may not interfere directly. They choose a council from old noble houses, and they're split between two parties; the elephants and tigers. Elephants want to trade, and the tigers want war. Earlier this year, three elephants were elected in. They could decide that this opportunity is just too good to pass up, but if they don't we should have nearly a year until the next election." Rico explained before trailing off with a shrug.

"Then there's Pentos to the North. Pentos, well, they don't have any official military power. They lost a war to Braavos a long time ago, and now they can't have a standing army, contract sellsword companies and they've abolished slavery."

"But?" Jonah asked, knowing one was coming.

"But, they have 'indentured servants' indebted to them and the servants don't get paid enough to pay off the debt. Before they contracted Myr and Tyrosh's armies to bypass not contracting sellsword companies, but everyone knows they have other ways of doing it. They have good relationships with several Dothraki hordes, and I'd bet my left hand that most of the pirates sail back to a Pentos harbor." Rico answered with a small sigh, much like Jonah did minutes ago.

"Dothraki hordes?"

"Ah, them. You'll love them and, by that, I mean you'll want to kill them. All of them. They're the three things you hate the most," Rico said, sending Jonah a smile.

"Huh...and them?" Jonah asked, scratching absentmindedly at his cheek. His shit-list was getting long. Very, very, very long. It'd be years before he ran out of names to cross out.

The thought brought a smile to his lips.

"The Dothraki are several hordes of warriors that wander the Dothraki sea, a vast flat land that stretches as far as the eye can see. Their numbers vary between each horde, but all number in the thousands. They rape, raid and enslave around Essos. When they visit the free cities, they wait outside until their lavished with tribute. They always are since the leaders of the free cities know the horde would raze the city to the ground once they got inside. And they would get inside." Rico said, spitting on the ground to show his distaste.

"As for if they interfere? That is completely determined on the Khal. If they feel threatened by you, then they'll attack. If Pentos calls in a favor, they'll attack. If they think we're easy picking, they'll attack." Rico said with a shrug of his shoulders and Jonah nodded, knowing the type of raiders.

Smart raiders only struck settlements when they knew they were weak. More often than not, by making them vulnerable by raiding trade caravans and picking off sentries and hunters. They were almost as dangerous as the large gangs that's stupidity was only matched by their viciousness.

"I don't suppose we have any allies in this mess?"

"Braavos, but I wouldn't offer a helping hand in this fight. Wouldn't hurt to ask though," Rico offered as they reached the plateau of the diamond quarter.

"Rico, what were you before you became a pit fighter?" Jonah asked as he scanned the sight. A large No-Man's-Land filled with a few corpses riddled with arrows surrounded a large building. Only a few windows but each one had a bow sticking out, and all were perfectly poised to leave no blind spot. The doors were a thick wood reinforced with iron plating that was occasionally marred by failed attempts to breach it. Thick walls, high ledges...it looked like a small fortress.

"Ah, why the sudden curiosity about little old me?" Rico asked, deflecting the question as Jonah spared a glance to the rebel forces. No one out in the open while dozens of people clustered around corners, waiting for a break in the standstill.

"Because if I asked those questions to anyone else, I doubt I'd get half of those answers," Jonah said, walking slowly and noting that the bows followed him rather than focus on the others. They knew who he was and they were treating him accordingly.

"I'm a bastard to Dagon Manwoody over in Dorne. I came to Essos to make my way - sitting at Kingsgrave was fun and all, but I was bitten by the wanderlust bug. That, and I spent too much of my father's money drinking in taverns and on whores…" Rico admitted with a chuckle, and Jonah didn't fail to notice that the smaller man was walking on his right side while his left was exposed to the archers.

"Joined a sellsword company, killed men for money for a few years until my company was soundly crushed by the Gallant Men. They rounded up the survivors instead of killing us and took us to Volantis. Sold us there to the pit fighters and I proved rather good at it. Eventually, I found myself here, in Myr and, well, you know the rest my friend." Rico said, sending Jonah a winning smile before Jonah wiped it off a second later.

Pushing Rico to the side as he leaned back, Jonah dodged a whistling arrow that sailed through where his neck was a second ago. The arrow slammed into a wall, sparks dancing where metal and stone met before hitting the ground and resting there.

"Your dad didn't try to free you?" Jonah questioned, his gaze finding the archer that shot at him. It took a moment for Rico to recover, glancing at the arrow, then at him, and then to the archer, and then his easy smile was back on his lips.

"Truth be told, I don't know. I can't imagine it would be easy to find a single slave in Essos. Maybe he thought I was dead in the beginning, but after earning some renown? When my symbol was so much like his banners?" Rico asked with a small shake of his head, drawing Jonah's attention to the black skull on a white background with a gray crown painted on his shoulder pad.

"Maybe he just never heard. Maybe he did and tried to buy my freedom, but my master wouldn't sell. Maybe the price was too high for my father. Maybe he didn't try at all. I won't know until I stand before him again and ask that very question. Oh, and thank you, my friend." Rico said, the bitter undertone vanishing like smoke as he gestured to the arrow.

"Don't mention it. Alrighty then, get everyone ready to attack." Jonah ordered, reaching into his bag and pulling out a weapon that rarely saw the light of day. Wrapped in ballistic weave cloth, Jonah pulled it free to expose a leather hand with five very wicked looking claws. Each claw was about a foot long, half an inch thick and so sharp a hair could cut itself in half by falling on the edge.

"What ungodly creature did you get that trophy from?"

"A deathclaw," Jonah answered, sliding the glove on. Each claw could slice through several inches of steel like it wasn't even there with enough force. They were so tough that the only thing Jonah could sharpen them were other deathclaw claws.

"Yes. That makes sense."

"Very good. Remember, there are no mistakes in art-" Rovero Ross said, working on his own painting with flourish.

"Only happy accidents," Charlotte finished, accepting the beaming look of pride with grace. Rovero was an odd but pleasant. Narrowed shoulder, thin and short - he was a waif of a man but he more than made up for it in sheer enthusiasm for anything. His curly, bushy hair have him another few inches, and while it might not have every color in the spectrum dyed into it, it certainly wasn't for lack of trying on Revero's part. Even his carefully trimmed beard was dyed a multitude of colors, enough so that the original color was lost.

"Very good! Now, let me see your progress," Revero said, setting his paintbrush down as he walked over to examine hers.

Despite herself, Charlotte glanced over at his.

It's better than mine. Of course, it would be. It was her first painting real painting after a handful of lessons, and Revero was a master. Of course, his would be better. Even still, she couldn't help but compare it to her one. Uneven lines, too much paint in some places and not enough in others.

Heat threatened to crawl over her face, but Charlotte crushed it with well-practiced ease. Her feet stayed firmly on the floor, no matter how much she wanted to shift from foot to foot as Revero examined her painting closely. As always, she stood straight and kept her face impassive, except for the slight quirk of her lips as if a smile was about to spread.

"Very good!" Revero called out, sending Charlotte that bright smile of his.

Liar. It was nowhere near good, much less very good. It was hard to tell if he meant the words since he put that same amount of enthusiasm in everything that he did. A skill only the best liars had.

"As far as first lessons go, this one has been very productive! You have great talents for this, and I look forward to our next lesson Lady Charlotte," Revero said with a deep bow at the waist. It was for that reason only that he missed Charlotte's mask slipping. Her eyes widened as her lips parted, surprise written all over her face as she moved to correct him but she hesitated.

Lady Charlotte. The sound of it was so absurd that Charlotte nearly laughed. She was a great many things, but a Lady was not one of them. Yet, Charlotte hesitated at the foreign feeling in her chest - something she hadn't felt in a very long time.

Pride.

With her hesitation, Charlotte missed her chance to correct him. Revero straightened back out and beamed joy out of every pour at her expression.

"I-" Charlotte started, at a loss to what to say, only to be saved as the heavy oak door opened. Glancing over, Charlotte watched the Messiah enter the room with a yawn.

He's handsome. A strong jaw and a stubborn chin covered in a few days growth. High cheekbones and thin lips made for smiling and gentle kisses. His eyes...his eyes were a startling blue, but that wasn't why they were so striking. His eyes had so much...weight to them. They were the eyes of someone that saw untold horrors. Horrors that would drive good men to suicide and great men insane. Eyes that saw exactly just how cruel, vicious and downright evil humans could be once the veil of society was removed.

He's a killer. He wore blood as naturally as nobles wore fine silks. The stench of death - of blood and fear clung to him like a perfume. Not even the countless mercenaries she served could compare to the sheer pleasure- no. Not pleasure. Satisfaction was a closer word to what the Messiah felt when he butchered his enemies by the dozens using nothing but his hands. Killing came to the Messiah as naturally as breathing.

He's a hero. He was just as kind to others as he was merciless to his enemies. Already tales of his random acts of kindness reached her ears - most of them such a harsh contrast to the Messiah she knew, the one that smiled that wicked smile in the face of thousands of enemies, that Charlotte almost wondered if they were the same person.

"Hey," the Messiah greeted, a slight squish with every step from blood in his shoes, "thought I'd stop by and see how your lessons are going." He informed, his gaze shifting to Revero. Looking back at the smaller man, Charlotte had to stifle a chuckle at the wide eyed, slack jawed shocked expression. Either because he stood before the Messiah or because he was covered in the blood of dozens, maybe hundreds of men.

"I am making progress. Revero says I have some talent for art," Charlotte said, standing tall and pronouncing every word clearly. It wouldn't do to resort to slang. She was his translator for the time being, and after everything he's done for her, for every slave in Myr, Charlotte would not let him down.

"Good! Which one is yours?" the Messiah asked, striding towards the paintings as Revero numbly stepped out of his way.

The worst of the two. "The one on the left."

A long second passed as the Messiah examined the painting, and Charlotte's heart pounded painfully in her chest. Gods, she hadn't felt this anxious since she was a child.

"I like it," The Messiah said, sending her a broad smile filled with white teeth. Charlotte searched his face for any deceit but found none. The Messiah was a poor liar - his face was far too expressive. When he was happy, he smiled. When he was annoyed, he would glare. When he was angry, he would kill someone.

The Messiah was very open, and very direct, that way.

"It is not finished, and I've made some mistakes," Charlotte began to protest, her eyes darting to the floor.

"Meh. I like it how it is. And beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so there's no point in arguing." The Messiah decided, lifting the painting up and completely careless if the blood smudges on the edges. "Come on. Let's go hang this up somewhere." Without another word, before Charlotte could even process that, he left the room in a blur. Only after he disappeared down the hall did it click.

"M-Messiah!" Charlotte called out, bunching up her skirts and giving chase. Only her naturally tanned skin saved her from turning beet red. By the time she reached the door, the Messiah had vanished around the corner, and Charlotte's heart plummeted to her feet.

He's heading to the ballroom. The first true room in the palace. The largest, the most richly decorated with walls covered in masterpieces from some of the greatest artists in history. He wants to hang it beside them.

"He's utterly mad," Charlotte breathed, racing down the halls, her feet driven faster by grim determination. Her sham of a painting wouldn't hang next to pieces like the Wanderer above the Sea of Fog and Scenes of Life in Myr. Not if she had anything to say about it. She was decades away from being worthy of that honor if she ever deserved it at all.

For a long moment, as she raced down the halls, the only sounds were her feet hitting the ground. Only one set of footsteps. How fast is he?

Too fast. The Messiah said it himself only yesterday - how he wasn't sure if he could be called human. It seemed even his brisk pace left her and others in the dirt.

Eventually, Charlotte rounded a corner and saw she was far too late. Already a painting was resting on the floor as the Messiah hung her's up.

"Please stop," Charlotte called out breathlessly, and, instantly, Jonah did and sent her a questioning look. "Messiah-"

"Jonah," the Messiah corrected.

"I…" Charlotte started, not knowing what else to say. No- she knew exactly what to say, but Charlotte needed to phrase it in a way that the Messiah would accept. He was very willful as well. "I have not earned my place among these great paintings-"

"Says who? I like yours more than most of these," the Messiah cut in stubbornly. A smile threatened to tug at her lips, but Charlotte forced her lips into a smile. It wouldn't do to let him see how the compliment made her feel. It would defeat her point.

"Thank you, but I do," Charlotte said, digging a fingernail underneath another to stop herself from shifting from foot to foot. An old habit that she never managed to break simply because she only did it so rarely. "It isn't right for one of mine to replace the…" Her eyes found the painting on the floor.

"The Old Guitarist," Charlotte said, taking in a deep breath and letting it out softly. A two thousand-year-old painting. Laying on the floor. Covered in blood smudges and dust. Only years of keeping her composure no matter the situation saved her from screaming at the atrocity.

"Fair enough, I guess," the Messiah dismissed with a careless shrug of his shoulders as he removed Charlotte's painting. Charlotte moved to raise The Old Guitarist back to its rightful place gently, but she barely got it an inch off the ground.

The frame is made out of gold. Not gilded steel. Actual gold. This frame contained more gold than Charlotte seen in her entire life, much less in one place. Much, much less than used for a simple decoration.

Seeing that Charlotte struggled with it, the Messiah hefted it up with ease and returned it to its rightful place on the wall. Instantly, her eyes zeroed in on the smudges of blood on the very edge of it, but Charlotte twisted her lips into a thin line instead of commenting.

"Thank you," Charlotte said with a small bow of her head.

"No problem," the Messiah said, grabbing her painting and started moving. "I have to go meet the councilors about a few things. Will you be able to translate for me?" He asked, walking up the steps to...to…

"Of course." Oh, gods. The Messiah missed the point entirely - that became abundantly clear as he walked towards the high table with her painting. With flourish, he turned a heavy chair made with as many jewels and precious metals as it was wood around, so it faced towards her and set Charlotte's painting in it.

Oh, gods. Now that it was surrounded by true art, real masterpieces that withstood the test of time only then did Charlotte realized how utterly horrible her own painting was. A complete lack of background details, the soldiers on both sides looked more like smudges instead of humans. Only the painting of the Messiah charging ahead into a line of pikes ahead of the rebels had any detail at all.

Taking a step back, the Messiah nodded to himself, completely oblivious of Charlotte's mounting mortification, and sent her a smile that told her exactly how pleased with himself he was.

"Well, let's not keep them waiting," the Messiah said, walking off the ledge and dropping off twenty feet as if it were nothing. He landed with a loud thump, hinting at the weight of the ever-present bag on his back. Without another word, he started walking again, expecting Charlotte to follow.

Sparing the sham of a painting one last glance, Charlotte did exactly that.

"So, what's on the agenda today?" The Messiah asked as he settled in his chair, grabbing an orange that Charlotte prepared for him in advance. Over the days, she noticed he had a fondness for the fruit and made sure plenty were floating around the palace since he had a habit of exploring his surroundings.

"We must decide what will be done with the prisoners," councilor Varro spoke up, the previous slave for the Magister of Law, in perfect valerian.

"We have several hundred in the dungeons, but nearly half are children." Councilor Uvole added, the previous slave for the Magister of Trade, his second and third chins jiggling with every word. Unfortunately, he was sitting next to the Messiah, so both she and the Messiah had to deal with his stench of body odor that he tried to hide with too much sweet perfume.

"What is there to discuss?" Councilor Staven, the previous slave for the Magister of Infrastructure, countered, a thick black eyebrow climbing high until it reached his hairline. "They are slavers, and all slavers die. No exceptions," he said, sending a nod towards the Messiah.

Charlotte translated their words just as fast as they were speaking them. The Messiah scratched his cheek as he considered the decision, it weighing heavily on him.

"What's considered an adult in this city?" The Messiah asked, turning to look at her.

"For girls, it's once they've flowered so typically around twelve years of age. For boys, thirteen or fourteen. Though, most aren't considered men until they're able to grow facial hair. Anything before that is considered a child." Charlotte responded, pulling the answer from her days as a whore.

"So execute anyone over those ages." The Messiah said decisively with a small frown.

"If I may protest," Uvole interjected, "if we are going to execute them then perhaps the cut off line should be earlier? A child of twelve and thirteen will remember a life of luxury. And the one who took it from them."

Charlotte gave a hesitant nod about that as she translated the words. Children. They're discussing killing children.

"It doesn't matter what they will remember. Names have power, and most of them have ancient, very powerful names. With this rebellion, I foresee old grudges being put aside to take down a common enemy. Us." Staven said, thumping his fist on the table for emphasis.

"With what? We've seized their wealth, slaughtered their retinue and the same goes for their allies. Names do have power, but they need things to make them powerful." Uvole protested, sending a glare at Staven.

"In Myr. The Sforza family has cadet branches in every free city of Essos. I would think they might object if we butcher children belonging to their family. The same goes for the Medici and Corntanza families." Varro argued, twisting his lips into a grimace of disgust.

"And what are we risking by angering them? They gather their armies and march on us? Spend all of their gold on mercenaries to sack and burn the city? Send assassins to slit our throats in the dead of night? They were going to do that anyway. By purging the noble families down to the roots, we remove names that others can rally behind."

"And 'the Messiah of Myr murders babies' isn't a rallying call?" A woman's voice rang out, and it was only when Charlotte saw that all eyes were on her that the voice was her's. She straightened underneath their gazes - the gazes of the powerful and influential.

Not all slaves were created equal. Pleasure slaves weren't at the bottom of the hierarchy, but they were a long way from the top.

"You-"

"Exactly," Uvole said, talking over Staven. "Why give the enemy more to use against us? Not to mention the fact of their value as hostages. We cannot avoid war, but perhaps we can eliminate a few participants. A father is less likely to fight with a blade to his son's throat."

"Sixteen." The Messiah said, a single word cutting through the argument like a hot knife through butter. He reached into his bag and grabbed the bottle of burning posion and took a deep drink from it. Any trace of emotion was gone from the word, and his gaze burned a hole through the table in front of him.

"M- Jonah?" Charlotte asked, her stomach twisting into knots.

"I'll execute anyone over the age of sixteen. Back home, that was what was considered an adult. Anything younger than that is off limits. To everyone," the Messiah said with a sense of finality. Finality that was argued not a second after she translated by a fool.

"Sixteen is well into adulthood, for men and women. If we are going to execute them, then we should-" Staven protested, but the Messiah talked over him.

"Sixteen is still just a kid. Only, at that point, you're capable of making informed decisions. I'll deal with them myself tonight." The Messiah said, blowing out a soft sigh as he took another large sip of his foul drink.

"As for the rest? The ones younger than sixteen? What will be done with them?" Uvole asked, sounding relieved.

"Spread a rumor that I'm going to execute the entire family of those that I know are in hiding. That should get the last masters in the city to give themselves up. After that…?" The Messiah asked with a small frown before shrugging his shoulders. "Find a place to keep them. And treat them well. They're going to have to reenter society at one point, and that's going to be difficult if they have a bunch of reasons to hate us. More reasons to hate us," the Messiah amended a second later.

Some councilors looked like they wanted to argue the decision while others nodded their heads in acceptance. Wisely, they all remained silent once the Messiah closed the matter.

"Now that w-you are in control of Myr, there is the issue of the contracts for several sellsword companies. The previous magisters of Myr were in a trade war with Lys, so we currently some well-known companies at our disposal." Varro said, moving on to the next matter at hand.

"Huh. We have an army...well, I guess all surprises can't be bad. How many do we have?" The Messiah asked.

"Just over ten thousand counting individual sellswords of talent and fifty sellsails. However, if we were to convert trade ships then we could easily double the size of our navy." Khavas, the previous slave to the Magister of Military, said. His mustache was shaking with every word. It was like someone stuck a broom underneath his large nose.

"And how many do Tyrosh and Lys have?"

"Tyrosh roughly has ten thousand while Lys has closer to fifteen thousand." Khavas answer and Charlotte frowned despite herself.

We're outnumbered nearly three-to-one. Even with the rebels in the city and the pit fighters, they'd still be helplessly outnumbered. Not to mention that sellswords would have years, decades, of experience fighting and killing.

"As of right now, our greatest threat is Tyrosh and Lys allying to destroy us-" Khavas began only to stop when the Messiah raised a hand as Charlotte translated his words.

"I know about that, and I'll be leaving shortly to deal with it," the Messiah informed, a pit forming in Charlotte's stomach. The Messiah was leaving. The Messiah was leaving Myr. He was moving on...The entire council shifted at the news, some protesting but those too were cut off with a single wave of the hand from the Messiah.

"There can't be a Tyrosh-Lys alliance if I take out Tyrosh, now can there?" The Messiah asked, and the question barely registered even as Charlotte relayed it to the others.

He talks about destroying cities as a child would an ant hill. And she believed it. Believed him. If the Messiah said he was going to destroy Tyrosh, then it was only a matter of time before Tyrosh was destroyed.

"I...no. There can't. When will you be leaving, my friend?" Rico asked in common, speaking up for the first time since the meeting began.

"Depends, how long of a walk is it to Tyrosh?"

"A week and a half on foot and six days by boat with a good wind. Tyrosh is an island on the edge of the Narrow and Myrish sea." Rico answered, and Charlotte didn't fail to notice how the councilors followed along with the conversation.

They aren't as sly as they think they are. The thought came with no small amount of satisfaction. I will tell the Messiah after the meeting.

"But, for you, I'm going to guess five days. Maybe less if you run." Rico added with a charming smile.

"What about those raven things you use? Will they know what happened here?" The Messiah asked, raising the question of how his people communicated back in the wasteland.

"I think it takes four days for a raven, so...yes. Though, it will take some time for them to prepare so they might not act on the information just yet."

"Alrighty then. I'll head out tomorrow morning," the Messiah said as he stood, deciding that was enough for today. Upon seeing some of the councilors begin to protest at him leaving, the Messiah continued, "I'll make an address at the executions tonight to the public. They should behave themselves until I get back in a couple of days. Now, if there's nothing else…?" A beat of silence was his answer.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Charlotte relayed the words and followed the Messiah with lead feet towards the door. Only for him to stop at the door before glancing over his shoulder.

"I learned a long time ago that you couldn't stop someone from being stupid. But, for your sakes, I'm going to give it one last shot," the Messiah said, making eye contact with each councilor. They fidgeted underneath the weight of his gaze almost as if the Messiah actually put weight on their shoulders. "Some of you are going to see this as an opportunity to seize power and rule Myr in place of the masters."

"Here's my advice to you," the Messiah said as he turned around and started walking.

"Don't."