Speaker 1: The scum Kings, created and written by Mike Daltrey. The
silence in the room was a weapon, and Silas wielded
it like a master. He let us stand there, bruised
and bleeding, for a long, heavy moment, his dark, intelligent
eyes moving from face to face. He wasn't studying us
as fighters. He was appraising us as assets, like a
man inspecting new livestock. Finally, he spoke, his voice, quiet
but carrying the weight of absolute authority. I've heard of you,
he said, steepling his fingers. A pack of wolves from
the wilderness. Strong, violent, ambitious, He paused, letting the faint
praise settle before delivering the killing blow. You are also loud, clumsy,
and breathtakingly stupid. He mistook my gutter for your forest.
You showed your wealth when you should have shown deference.
You showed your pride when you should have been showing fear.
His gaze locked onto mine. By the laws of this place,
your lives are now mine to take. You spilled blood,
you challenged my authority. The smart play would be to
have Corvin hang your heads from the gate as a
warning to the next pack of fools who wanders into
my territory. Stiggins shifted his weight, a low growl rumbling
in his chest. Silas's eyes flickered to him for a
fraction of a second, and the big Northman fell silent,
cowed not by a threat but by the sheer, cold
certainty in the man's gaze. But Silas continued, leaning back
in his chair. A dead wolf is just meet for
the crows. A leashed wolf, however, a leashed wolf can
be a useful tool. You have no allies, no money,
and no name here, but fool I am off bring
you a chance to earn a new one. I felt
a whisper at my ear. It was also his voice,
low and urgent, meant for me alone, dre There is
no play here, there is no angle. We take the deal,
We live, we learn, we wait. He was right. My
pride was a hot, useless thing in the face of
this man's cold, inescapable logic. To fight now was to
die a pointless end to a pathetic story. What's the job?
I asked, the words, tasting like old crumbs from a
tavern floor. A thin smile touched Silas's lips. He had won.
There is a spice merchant on the east side of
the gutters, a man named Jorn. He has become forgetful.
He seems to think the protection my organization provides is
a gift, not a service. You will be his memory,
You will go to him, and you will collect what
he owes ay shakedown a menial, thuggish task. He wasn't
just giving us a job. He was putting us on
a leash and showing us our place. You will do
the jobs no one else wants, Silas said, his voice
flat and final. You are my bottom rung, my tools,
or you are corpses in an alley with your friend.
I looked at the faces of my men. I saw
their shame, their rage, their resignation. I saw our entire
pathetic journey lead to this moment, bowing our heads in
a gangster's back room. I gave a single curt nod.
Silas stood the audience concluded. He walked to the door,
not even bothering to look back at us. Don't fail,
he said, simply, the words not a threat but a
statement of fact. We walked out of that room with
our lives, but we left our pride bleeding on the floor.
As we passed through the smoky gambling den the patrons
looked at us with new eyes. We were no longer
a mystery. We were property. I wore the leash she
had put around my neck. I accepted the humiliation, but
as we stepped back out into the filth of the gutters,
a cold, hard promise formed in the pit of my gut.
A wolf is still a wolf, even on a chain,
and I would chew through my own leg if it
meant I could one day get a taste of that
man's throat.