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It would’ve also been of great help if he could get his hands on a new source of nuclear material, natural or otherwise. All the ones he’d been relying on over the last half-century were now either mostly depleted or dead.

Assassinated, in many cases, actually.

For all their moral posturing, Sermung and the Vanguard seemed to have no qualms about murdering Dozer’s materializing sources, no matter how innocent they might’ve been. He still remembered a time when they at least tried to spirit the sources away and hide them from him. Their persistent string of failures must’ve become too demoralizing.

Dozer had always wondered if it was Iceheart’s policy which had changed things, as many claimed, or if that was merely a smokescreen to help prevent Sermung’s all-important public image from becoming too tarnished.

Whatever the case, the Vanguard’s secret division of assassins was the real problem. Naturally, they’d made many attempts on Dozer’s life over the years, and they always tried to strike when he was at his most vulnerable.

Such as when he was in the comfort of his own chambers. Not unlike this very moment, when he was in the shower at his most defenseless, washing off the grime of a long day of battle.

Sometimes, the killing attempt came from intruders with admittedly impressive stealth. Other times, it came from traitors who’d been in his service for years.

It had been a while since the last attempt. He wonder which type it would be this time.

He stood directly under the showerhead, letting the searing hot water massage his face for a few minutes longer than he usually did. If his attackers were waiting for a window of opportunity, then perhaps they would think this was a good one. It certainly wouldn’t have been the first of its kind.

At length, though, he shut the water off and looked around the black-and-gold tiled room, almost disappointed. With how hot he liked the water, there was plenty of steam to make visibility low, as well.

Fine.

He grabbed a towel and began drying himself off.

He knew that something was off tonight. It wasn’t any kind of supernatural sense--or at least, he didn’t think it was. Rather, it was just centuries of experience. Not something he could articulate.

The air? No. The stillness? No, not that, either.

There’d been a time, long ago now, when he’d thought this feeling was simply paranoia. And back then, maybe it had been. Hell, maybe it still was, to some extent. But now, he knew a bit better.

The difference.

Between a gut feeling.

And a long-tempered instinct.