A heavy ceramic jug shattered against the flagstones, spraying cheap liquor and bitter dregs across the cold floor of the cellar.
Brody kicked the splintered shards toward the drainage grate, his knuckles white around the grip of his broadsword. The subterranean den beneath the lower foundry was lit by a single tallow lamp, casting jagged, dancing shadows over the ten senior enforcers crowded around a stained pine table. The room was cold, stripped of its usual bravado; the furnaces above had been dead for four days, the armory deadline had passed without a single delivery, and the sect treasury had docked the brotherhood six hundred Merit Points for breach of contract.
"The council canceled our food rations this morning," Brody rasped, his voice thick with gravel and cornered fury. "The
