A knock on the door interrupted the Minister of Trade lazily smoking his cigarette with his feet up on the table. The feet that rested upon piles of appeals and petitions that the less fortunate folk of the city thought worth their effort. He couldn't care less about them than he did the dirt under his nails. That must be why he didn't answer the door right away. He is took another lazy drag and blew it right into the face of his poor assistant, who smiled feebly.
Another knock. Louder this time.
"May I answer the door, sir?", asked the assistant, whose name was Tom but the Minister found it absolutely hilarious to call him Jam because of his bright red hair.
"Mm-Hmm", answered the Minister.
Taking his non-verbal response as affirmative, Tom crossed the room to open the door. When Tom saw who it was, he stood up straighter and greeted him almost mechanically.
"Good day to you, Captain Valeric!", his voice rang out.
Upon hearing the name of his visitor, the Minister pushed back his chair and stood up a little too quickly, stumbling slightly because of his stocky figure. He threw his cigar out the window and hurriedly tucked away all the papers, his fingers twitching.
Tom stepped aside and let Darian walk in, almost like he was under his command. That was what most people felt around him even if they weren't actually under his command. Tom shut the door behind him and moved quietly back to his place by the wall.
The Minister moved towards Darian before he could approach him and see the papers sticking out of his drawers.
Wiping the lone sweat drop down his forehead, he forced a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, "To what do i owe this....pleasure?"
Darian didn't answer as quickly. He took one glance at the man, then slowly looked around the place. The room smelled of cigar smoke and he caught it instantly. The rooms of such men always had such pungent smell. He walked around the Minister, fanning the smoke lazily, more ritual than relief.
"Pleasure's not the word I'd use. Fear might serve better."
******
"Pleasure's not the word I'd use. Fear might serve better."
The Minister let out a weak laugh, the sound brittle like cracked glass.
"Fear? Captain, you give me too much credit. I am just a humble servant of the crown."
Darian's boots echoed softly on the stone floor as he continued his slow circuit around the room. He didn't answer right away. Instead, he let the silence stretch, coil, and tighten until it pressed heavy against the Minister's chest.
"Humble?" Darian finally said, stopping behind the desk. His gloved hand brushed over one of the petitions the Minister had been eager to bury. He lifted the sheet and scanned the neat, desperate handwriting. A widow begged for grain. A merchant pleaded for fair taxes. Darian's jaw tightened. He dropped the paper back onto the desk as if it were dirt.
"Strange humility—resting your feet on the backs of beggars."
The Minister swallowed hard. "Exaggerations. You know how people are, Captain. Always asking, always wanting." His smile wavered, and he spoke faster, like someone placing frantic bets. "If we gave in to every whim, the coffers would run dry in two weeks. Surely a man like you understands the need for restraint."
Darian leaned closer, his shadow falling over the Minister's face. His voice dropped to a quiet, measured tone, making it all the more dangerous.
"Discipline? Yes. Restraint? Yes. But corruption—" He let the word linger in the air like smoke. "That, Minister, I cannot ignore."
Tom stiffened against the wall, his eyes shifting nervously between the two men. The Minister began to sweat. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed at his forehead, but the gesture looked more like a white flag than any attempt at poise.
"Now, now, Captain," he stammered. "Surely you don't believe those filthy rumors. My enemies, jealous rivals—they must have whispered poison in your ear."
Darian reached out and pushed the desk, causing piles of neglected appeals to tumble to the floor, scattering across the rug. Pages rustled and slid, voices of the voiceless laid bare at the Minister's feet. Darian's gaze never left him.
"Rumors don't bleed the poor dry," Darian said. "Men do. Men with fat purses and dirty consciences. Men who think they can rot a city from within and hide behind excuses."
The Minister's eyes darted to the door, then to Tom, then back to Darian. His lips moved, but no words came. For the first time, he looked like he truly understood the weight of Darian's presence—the inevitability of it, like judgment itself standing in his office.
Darian stepped closer, so the Minister could smell the faint leather and steel that clung to him, overpowering the last of the cigar smoke.
"You should start praying, Minister. Not to the crown, not to me. To whatever gods might still listen to someone like you."