"The Saint of Despair," one woman whispered down below. "He's come to judge the wicked."
Zane groaned, leaning his head back against the cold tank. "Saint. I hate that word."
"Better than 'Demon'," Wren said, a genuine grin spreading across her face. "Influence is currency, Zane. If they think you're a saviour, they'll hide you. They'll feed you intel. They'll build you a kingdom."
"They'll expect me to save them?" Zane countered, the weight of the potential responsibility settling on his shoulders.
"Then save them," Wren said, standing up and shouldering her pack. "Or eat them. Just pick a side and commit to it."
‘Like Rivet. I bet that’s how he started,’ he thought.
She looked out at the burning city and then back at him.
"I'm going to get my brother. I'll take him to the smuggler
