The chapter will showcase some cruelty from Maekar
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In the dead of night, Maekar stood cloaked in black from head to toe, his figure swallowed by the shadows outside the newly established base of the Unsullied—the same place he had visited many times before. Ten Unsullied surrounded a group of three smallfolk, each bound tightly with rope, their mouths stuffed with filthy rags. The captives' eyes darted about in fear, wide and desperate, as Maekar observed them in silence.
'A gang of some twenty-three members,' he thought, his gaze steady.
'Smallfolk, all of them. They skulk in the slums, plying their trade in petty theft, muggings, and the like. Nothing of worth.'
Grey stepped forward from Maekar's side, lowering his voice as he whispered into his master's ear.
"Some of the children we took in once worked as beggars for this band, master. We found their den, a run-down hovel not unlike this one, and laid an ambush. These three are the leaders. The rest of the rabble have already been seized and await us in their base. The Unsullied are holding them there."
Maekar gave a single, thoughtful nod, then gestured toward one of the Unsullied. At once, the soldier pulled the rags from the prisoners' mouths. The man in the middle—better dressed than others and clearly their chief—coughed, licked his cracked lips, and quickly spoke.
"Why'd ye grab us, m'lords? If ye want somethin', just say. We'll do it, quick and quiet—no trouble."
His eyes, wide with fear, locked on Maekar as the prince stepped forward, silent and deliberate, drawing the man's full attention.
Maekar, looming like a standing shadow in his black cloak, tilted his head ever so slightly. His voice was low, steady.
"Really? Anything?"
The gang leader, still on his knees, nodded frantically.
"Aye, m'lord. Anything ye want—we'll do it."
From within the folds of his cloak, Maekar drew out a folded scrap of parchment. He flicked it forward, letting it fall before the bound man. The leader glanced down, baffled, at the crude illustration. It was no writing—just a sketch: five Gold Cloaks patrolling the crooked alleys near the edges of Flea Bottom, their route marked in heavy strokes.
Maekar's voice broke the silence.
"Do you know what that is?"
The leader squinted, then shook his head.
"No, m'lord."
A quiet sigh escaped Maekar as he crouched, his shadow still draping over the man.
"That is the path of a Gold Cloak patrol. Tomorrow, they will walk the southern edge of Flea Bottom. And tomorrow, you will ambush them."
For a heartbeat, the room was still—so still that one could hear the faint creak of the ropes binding the prisoners.
Then, suddenly, the gang leader barked out a laugh, jagged and sharp, his rotten teeth flashing in the torchlight.
"Ambush? With what? Rusted daggers an' broken clubs against men in steel? You might as well slit our throats here and now! Are you mad?"
Maekar's face remained unreadable. He gave the faintest nod, as though he had expected this answer.
"Yes. Many of you will die. But you have no choice."
The laughter died in the man's throat. His expression hardened, his voice dropping into a grim growl.
"No. I won't be some pawn. We formed this band to survive the slums, not to die for a lord's scheming. And that's what you are, isn't it? A highborn. I can tell. The way you speak, the way you carry yourself—even hidden in that cloak, I see it plain. I've watched your kind all my life. I could pick one out anywhere."
The leader spat to the side, eyes narrowing as he glared up at Maekar.
"And I'll not throw my life—or my men's—for the games of some highborn cunt."
"I see. How… commendable of you," Maekar said, his voice even, though his eyes scanned the gang leader like a hawk.
'Guess you can't be a leader without an ounce of thought in your head, even for a petty group like this,' he thought.
He leaned slightly closer, his tone dropping.
"If your life means nothing… what about your family?"
As if summoned by the words, three more Unsullied entered the house. One bore a bound woman across his back, her hands tied behind her and her mouth gagged. The gang member to the leader's left went pale and shouted,
"Mary!"
A harsh crack echoed as the Unsullied beside him struck him across the head with the flat of his short sword. Blood welled from the split, and the man stumbled back, reeling.
The gang member on the right froze in horror as a second Unsullied entered, carrying a girl of no more than five name-days. His voice trembled, barely above a whisper.
"Maggie…" His face drained of color, genuine fear and despair etched into every line.
Finally, the leader's chest tightened as the last Unsullied entered, cradling a small bundle—an infant, freshly born. The woman and the little girl were laid beside their respective family members. The bundle, however, was brought directly to Maekar, who held it effortlessly in one hand.
The gang leader's face twisted in a mixture of rage, horror, and helplessness. He whispered, almost afraid to hear the answer,
"What… what happened to its mother?"
Maekar's eyes flicked briefly to the Unsullied who had brought the child. The soldier leaned close and whispered something into Maekar's ear. Maekar nodded once, then turned back to the gang leader, his voice calm and chilling.
"Unfortunately… she had a loud mouth and wouldn't shut up. My man here did the shutting."
A heavy silence fell over the room. Maekar's voice broke it again, slow and deliberate, stretching over what felt like forever.
"She is silent for eternity, however…"
The leader's face crumbled, and his head fell forward.
Within moments, his shoulders began to shake, the faint sound of tears hitting the wooden floor echoing through the room.
Maekar's voice cut through the silence.
"Look at me."
The leader ignored him, burying his face even deeper as if trying to let the ground swallow him.
Again, Maekar says, his tone sharper this time.
"I said—look at me."
The gang leader stubbornly refused, seemingly determined to ignore the cloaked demon before him.
Then, suddenly, the soft, pitiful, shrill cry of a newborn filled the air.
The leader's tear-streaked face snapped up instantly. His eyes locked on the infant, lying exposed in Maekar's hand. Maekar's fingers pinched the child's thigh lightly, a reminder of the fragile life he held.
Madness and desperation twisted the leader's expression. He tried to lunge to his feet to reach the child.
But an Unsullied beside him moved with cold precision. His elbow came down in a cruel arc, smashing against the top of the leader's head. The force paralyzed him, sapping every ounce of energy, and sent him collapsing back to his knees, utterly broken.
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