The first thing people noticed about Captain Darian Valeric wasn't his height or the way he moved like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath. It was his silence. A silence heavy enough that when he walked through Blackfen Market, the fishmongers lowered their voices, and the dogs tucked their tails.
The second thing they noticed were his eyes-pale gray, like fog just before it burns away.
He'd been in the outpost barely three days, brought by order of the High Council to command the garrison after its previous captain "resigned." Which was the polite way of saying: found hanging in his quarters with a parchment stuffed in his mouth. The parchment that contained his fearful ramblings of Blackfen's fall.
The Ministry never revealed the truth of his suicide, they did what they do best: lied to the public, including the deceased's family. They painted as honorable an image of him as they could: "He fell to a sudden fever brought from the southern fronts—his body gave out though his spirit never wavered."
People still wondered why someone like Darian Valeric was selected to lead the garrison. He wasn't evil, but too unpredictable and intimidating for their tastes. He was a stark contrast to the previous Captain who stumbled around drunk half of the time, making conversation with people he bumped into on his way. Darian walked as if the ground itself obeyed him, each step measured, deliberate, unhurried–yet no one dared block his path. Where Captain Alaric Rhoren had been a familiar, bumbling figure of the streets–hand on every shoulder, laughter spilling with his drink. Darian was the storm after silence. His very presence made men straighten their backs and women pull children aside without quite knowing why.
The chamber of the High Council reeked of incense and iron. Seven sat in the semicircle of carved chairs, their robes deep but their eyes weary. They were not united, though they were together here—each of them carried their own agendas like daggers up the sleeves. And this night, the object of those agendas was one: Captain Darian Valeric.
Lord Harth leaned forward first, his rings glinting in the firelight. "He unsettles the people. I've had three reports already. They say when he passes, the markets go eerily quiet. Some are afraid he doesn't even blink."
A low chuckle from Councilor Renn, as thin as parchment. "And yet, Harth, the city sleeps safer with him in its walls than it did with that drunkard Alaric. Even thieves don't breathe too loudly these nights. Fear is a kind of order."
"Fear is also a weapon we do not command," Lady Velra growled, whose family standards graced half of the south coast. Her hand clenched on the arm of her chair. "Do you ever remember what he is? The tales from the Border Wars? A man who smashed a warlord's skull bare-fist. Who marched for three days on nothing but his will. Who–"
"–Who succeeded," interrupted the High Chancellor, his tone keen enough to quiet the others. "And that, my friends, is exactly why he must lead Blackfen today."
Silence. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
The Chancellor stood, walking slowly, robes rustling over the floor. "Our borders break down. The Hollow Court strong in the east, and rumors come that their men do not rest. Do you believe we can fight that with men such as Alaric, who kill themselves before battle is even called? No. We require a weapon."
He spun, his eyes shining in the firelight. "Darian Valeric is the weapon. Too deadly to disregard, too unstable to allow to roam the fringes of our world. Better to put him where we can keep him under our eye, and if necessary…" He left the words dangling on the air.
"Eliminate him," Lady Velra supplied softly, yet her mouth curled.
The others looked at each other–nervously, calculating. And in that instant, though no one would ever say it out loud, every High Council member knew: Darian Valeric was not selected because he was loyal. He was selected because he was dangerous. Because sometimes there was only one way to combat monsters: point a bigger one in their direction–and hope he didn't turn around.