The central lands were calm.
Too calm.
The streets bustled, merchants traded, children played yet in the air, a faint, bitter scent of rebellion lingered. It was the kind of smell only the watchful could detect, like the smoke before a fire no one else had noticed.
Inside the governor's office, the air was thick.
Amazel stepped in briskly, boots striking the polished floor.
"Bricks of rebellion placed," she reported without preamble.
Hectate slowly turned her head toward Druvak, her gaze cold enough to strip flesh from bone.
"How far have you progressed with the elite force?"
Druvak froze for a heartbeat too long.
"Forgive me, Lady Hectate… the selection process is still underway."
Hectate's face didn't move. No twitch, no sigh, no change in her eyes. She simply began tapping her fingers on the desk.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound was soft, yet in the stillness of the room it became thunder.
Each tap was a heartbeat closer to doom.
The soldiers and aides present stood rigid, barely breathing. An invisible pressure pressed into their skin, seeped into their lungs, and settled like a stone in their stomachs.
"I wi—" Druvak began, desperate to salvage the moment.
"Enough." Hectate's voice cut through the air like a blade. "Speed up the progress… and harvest the fatty pig."
She didn't let him finish. Her order was final the spy is to be executed.
Druvak bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the floor. Then, without another word, he left with a squad of seasoned soldiers. They moved like wolves on the scent, kicking down the spy's door in the dead of night and dragging him from his bed. The man barely woke before the gag was shoved in his mouth.
---
The next morning, the central plaza swelled with people. The spy stood in chains at the platform's centre, his face mottled with bruises, one eye swollen shut. Amazel and Druvak flanked him, soldiers stationed like statues on all sides.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Most didn't know why the man was there. Some, however, exchanged tense glances they knew exactly what he had tried to do.
Amazel stepped forward, her voice carrying over the restless crowd.
"This man is a spy for Duke Sab-Ath. Last night, he was caught attempting to plant discord among our people and plot rebellion."
Gasps ran through the square.
"The evidence is posted on the notice board," she continued. "Anyone may examine it… but do not dare to alter it." Her words sharpened like a drawn sword on that last warning.
"According to our law, rebellion is the gravest of crimes. Its punishment… is death. If anyone has something to say in his defence, speak now."
The plaza fell into perfect, chilling silence. Eyes darted, but no one moved.
Amazel waited a moment longer, then nodded to Druvak.
Without ceremony, Druvak bound the spy's arms with thick rope and hoisted him into the air, his toes barely scraping the platform. From his belt, he drew a small, razor-sharp knife.
The first cut was shallow, tracing a red line across the man's forearm.
The second, across his chest.
Then another. And another. And another.
By the time Druvak stopped, the spy's body was a map of agony hundreds of shallow cuts, each leaking a slow trickle of blood.
The man screamed, but Druvak wasn't finished.
From a wooden box, he withdrew a jar swarming with small, twitching insect flesh-eaters bred in darkness. Their mandibles clicked, impatient for meat. Druvak tipped the jar over the spy's open wounds.
The reaction was instant. The insects burrowed into the cuts, gnawing and tearing, each bite sending waves of molten pain through the victim's nerves. His body convulsed in the ropes, his cries growing hoarse, but the insects continued their feast.
Some in the crowd turned away, pale-faced. Others stared, wide-eyed, the scene burning itself into their memories.
The spy's screams echoed down every street. They did not stop.
By the end of the first day, he was barely conscious. But the execution did not end. For two full days, the man hung there, trapped in a waking nightmare until his voice broke, his strength failed, and finally, his body gave up.
When it was over, the city returned to its routine. But something had changed.
They had witnessed the full cruelty of their rulers, and the unflinching consequence of treachery. Fear had been carved into them like a brand. A line had been drawn — one they would never cross.
---
Far north, in the valleys under Sab-Nath's rule, the duke and his brother worked late in their palace chamber. Stacks of documents surrounded them.
A knock sounded.
"Come in," Sab said.
A servant entered, bowed, handed over a sealed message, and left.
Sab read it. His jaw tightened. Then, in a sudden flash of rage, he slammed his palm against the table, making the inkpots jump.
"What is it?" Ath asked.
"The witch found our spy… and executed him in the most public, most vicious way possible."
Ath leaned back in his chair, thinking.
"That execution wasn't just a punishment it was a performance. She wanted her people to see it. To know exactly what awaits disloyalty."
"Exactly," Sab growled. "And that's what infuriates me. She's not just fighting us she's controlling her board. She's playing chess while we're still drawing swords. She's building toward something. Something grand."
Sab's eyes narrowed.
"I want to know what it is."
Ath's lips curved in a thin, dangerous smile.
"Then let's show her a trailer of terror."
Sab hesitated. "If we do that, we'll lose all our spies."
"They're worthless now," Ath replied coldly. "They can't give us anything useful. Better to use them to send a message."
Sab leaned forward, meeting his brother's gaze.
"Very well. Let's see how the witch reacts to this."
---
In the depths of a dark cave, far from any human settlement, Hades prepared his work.
On the cavern floor sprawled a massive magic circle, drawn entirely from his own black ichor. The symbols etched within it were alien, shifting if one stared too long. At five points of the circle burned black candles, their flames an unnatural, hungry blue.
Hades seated himself in the centre, eyes closing in meditation. His breathing slowed. His mind emptied.
When the moment was right, his fingers began to weave intricate hand signs, his voice spilling forth in a steady stream of incantations older than mortal memory.
The circle answered him, glowing a deep, blood-red. The candles flared, casting shadows that twisted into impossible shapes along the walls.
Slowly, Hades rose from the ground, weightless, his voice unwavering.
Minutes passed. The stone walls cracked. Thin fissures spread beneath him.
Still, he chanted.
Hours passed. Then came the weight an immense, crushing force that pressed into his flesh and bones. Black ichor bled from his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, but he did not stop. He could not stop.
To falter now would mean a backlash that could shatter even him.
The glowing circle lifted from the floor until it hovered at his level, contracting inward. The pressure multiplied.
Skin split.
Muscles tore.
Bones cracked in half a dozen places.
The pain was beyond mortal endurance, but Hades endured. His voice did not break.
The ritual demanded everything and he intended to give it.
This was only the beginning.