[About 08:00 AM on Day 23]
The sun rises weak and grey over Dijon, doing little to dispel the chill that clings to the city's stone. The South Gate market is a hive of quiet desperation. The faces of the common folk are pinched with hunger and worry, their gazes lingering on the stalls overflowing with food they cannot afford. The air is thick with the smells of sawdust, cheap ale, and simmering resentment.
In the center of it all, like a fat spider in a web of misery, is the stall of Guillaume Bassot. It is less a stall and more a small fortress of flour sacks and wooden crates, presided over by the gout-ridden merchant himself, who sits in a reinforced chair, counting coins while the city starves. His protection is blatant and brutish. Four men, "The Cudgels," stand guard. They are thick-necked thugs in boiled leather jerkins, their hands resting on the hilts of the heavy, steel-headed cudgels that give them their name. Their Copper-Tier resonance is a dull, brutish hum, an aura of petty power and casual cruelty. They shove people out of the way, sneer at haggard mothers, and laugh amongst themselves.
From a nearby alley, Louie gives you a final, almost imperceptible nod before melting back into the shadows. He is the observer. The stage is yours. You move through the crowd, a gaunt figure in simple robes. You do not sneak. You walk with a slow, deliberate purpose that parts the sea of bodies before you. You stop directly in front of Bassot's stall, ignoring the glares from his thugs. Your eyes lock onto a basket piled high with fresh, warm loaves of bread. The market around you seems to fade to a low hum.
You reach out, your movement unhurried and clear for all to see. Your hand closes around a loaf. A collective gasp ripples through the crowd. The market goes silent. Even Bassot stops counting his coins, his piggy eyes narrowing. One of the Cudgels, a bull of a man with a scarred face, steps forward, a smirk playing on his thick lips. He cracks his knuckles, the sound like stones grinding together.
"Well, well. Look what we have here," he growls, his voice loud enough for the entire market to hear. "A thief with a death wish."
The other three thugs begin to spread out, their hands now gripping their cudgels. They move to surround you, their expressions a mixture of contempt and eager anticipation. They are not just enforcing their master's will; they are about to put on a show for the whole market, and they intend to make it a painful one.
You take a large, deliberate bite of the stolen bread, chewing slowly as if savoring a fine meal. The crowd holds its breath. The four thugs tense, their hands gripping their weapons. Your eyes, however, are not on the scarred man in front of you. They drift down to his considerable gut, which strains against the boiled leather of his jerkin. You look back up, meeting his furious gaze with an expression of mild, academic curiosity.
"How does it feel," you ask, your voice calm and carrying clearly in the sudden silence, "to have a belly so big that you can't see your dick when you look down?"
For a single, beautiful moment, there is absolute stillness. The insult is so specific, so personal, and so utterly unexpected that it hangs in the air like a physical object. A wave of stifled snickers and sharp gasps ripples through the watching crowd. Then, the moment breaks. The scarred man's face, already flushed with anger, purples into a mask of pure, murderous rage. A thick vein throbs in his neck. He doesn't shout a curse or a threat. He simply roars—a wordless, bestial sound of utter fury. He rips the heavy, steel-headed cudgel from his belt. The other three thugs take a step back, their smirks vanishing, shocked by the sheer ferocity of your provocation. With a scream of raw hatred, the leader lunges forward. He raises the cudgel high over his head with both hands, putting the entire weight of his powerful frame into the blow. The weapon scythes down through the air with a vicious whistle, aimed directly at your skull.
You don't dodge. You simply take a single, measured step to your left. Your movement is so economical, so calm, that it seems to bend time around it. The whistling cudgel misses your skull by a hair's breadth, its momentum carrying the thug stumbling past you. The weapon smashes into the cobblestones with a deafening CRACK, sending a spiderweb of fractures through the stone and jarring the man's arms to the bone.
As he stumbles, your right hand moves.
It is not a fist, but an open palm.
A single, clipped command word, almost too quiet to be heard, escapes your lips:
"Brand"
For a fraction of a second, your hand is wreathed in a sheath of contained, shimmering heat. Not a raging fire, but the precise, oppressive heat of a forge. You slap him. The sound is not the crisp crack of flesh on flesh. It is a wet, sickening S S S S S T, like water thrown on a hot skillet.
The thug yelps, a high-pitched sound of shock and pain, and stumbles to a halt several feet away. The crowd, which had been expecting a brutal execution, goes utterly silent. The thug leader slowly, shakily, raises a hand to his face. He touches his cheek, then pulls his fingers away as if burned. Seared onto his flesh is a perfect, red, hand-shaped welt, the skin already beginning to blister. It is not a fatal wound. It is a mark of absolute humiliation.
An owner's brand. His three companions freeze in their tracks, their cudgels half-raised. The smirks on their faces have been replaced by masks of dawning, horrified realization. The dull, brutish hum of their Copper-Tier power is nothing compared to the sharp, terrifying resonance they now feel from you. They are not facing a thief. They are facing a Conceptual mage. A noble. An executioner in beggar's robes. The scarred leader turns to face you, his eyes wide with a mixture of agony and terror. The entire market square holds its breath, waiting to see what the lightning will do now that it has struck.
You hold the offending loaf of bread up to the grey morning light, examining it with the disdain of a master chef presented with a plate of ash. You ignore the whimpering, branded thug entirely. Your attention, and therefore the attention of the entire market, is now on the bread.
"Not enough moisture," you state, your voice a calm, clinical assessment that cuts through the tense silence.
You crumble a piece between your fingers.
"The texture is like sawdust. The skin is too thick, the edges are burnt. It's not fluffy."
You flick a crumb from your finger and meet the horrified gaze of the merchant, Guillaume Bassot, who is still frozen in his reinforced chair.
"The scrotum of a rhinoceros would be smoother than this bread." you declare, the insult landing with the force of a physical blow.
The crowd, which had been holding its collective breath in fear, erupts. A wave of choked laughter, quickly suppressed but undeniable, sweeps through the market square. You toss the ruined loaf back onto the pile.
"How could you even charge people money for this? You should compensate me for making me eat this."
The request is so monumentally audacious that the laughter dies, replaced by a stunned, disbelieving silence. The spell is broken. The two remaining thugs, who had been hesitating, now take a definitive step back. They look from your impassive face to their whimpering, branded leader, and their will to fight evaporates completely.
They are paid to be bullies, not to die fighting a noble mage over bad bread. All eyes turn to Guillaume Bassot. His authority has been dismantled. His enforcers are broken. His product has been publicly shredded. He is the subject of open mockery. The merchant's face, already florid, deepens to a shade of violent purple. He struggles to his feet, his massive frame trembling with a mixture of terror and impotent rage.
He cannot fight you, and his men will not. He has only one weapon left. He points a fat, trembling finger at you, his voice a strangled screech.
"Sorcerer! Traitor! You assault my men and steal my goods in broad daylight! You defy the Duke's own charter!"
He turns his desperate appeal to the crowd and the unseen city guard.
"This is an attack on the Duke himself! Seize him! In the Duke's name, SEIZE HIM!"
You stand amidst the wreckage of the merchant's authority, the branded thug still clutching his face, the other enforcers frozen in place. Guillaume Bassot's desperate appeal to the Duke's name hangs in the air, a final, pathetic gambit. You meet his panicked, screeching accusation with a look of utter disinterest.
"What charter?" you ask, the question a blade of cold steel that cuts his argument to ribbons.
You take another piece of the terrible bread and bite down, then look around at the watching crowd, the silent guards, and the distant spires of the Ducal Palace.
"I'm from Aquitania. I defected to join Dijon."
The words are not shouted. They are spoken with the simple, unshakeable finality of a dropped stone. The effect is electric. The merchant's mouth opens and closes, making a sound like a suffocating fish. His ultimate weapon—the Duke's authority—has just been turned against him with surgical precision. The thugs, who were already terrified, now look utterly defeated. They would rather face a dragon than be caught raising a hand against a powerful mage who has publicly declared for their Duke.
A new wave of whispers, far more potent than the last, sweeps through the crowd. The words "defected," "Aquitania," and "mage" are passed from person to person. They are no longer watching a street brawl; they are witnessing a political event. In the shadows of the market, unseen eyes widen, and unseen ears perk up. A report is already being drafted in the minds of the Duke's informants. You have seized absolute control of the narrative. The merchant is a broken man, his power a shattered illusion. His thugs are statues. The crowd is your captivated audience. You toss the last of the bread onto the ground in disgust. All eyes are on you, waiting for your next move.
You cut through the merchant's sputtering cries with a voice like a whip crack.
"Hey! Stop changing the topic."
Your tone is one of profound disappointment, as if scolding a particularly slow child. You point an accusatory finger, not at the merchant's face, but at his bloated stomach.
"I got robbed because you sold your garbage bread at such high prices that the Duke's soldiers don't have the energy to fight and patrol the lands! Their strength is sapped by your swill! The borders are weaker because of your greed! That is why I was robbed on the road to this city!"
You swing your arm around, encompassing the entire market, your voice rising to a ringing condemnation that echoes off the stone buildings.
"You are the traitor here! Your greed weakens the Duke's army from within!"
It is a masterful, breathtaking piece of sophistry, and to the hungry, resentful crowd, it lands with the undeniable force of divine truth. A low, angry growl of agreement ripples through the onlookers. They glare at Guillaume Bassot, not as a victim, but as a saboteur. The merchant stumbles back, his face a mask of ashen horror. He has been so thoroughly defeated, his own authority so completely turned against him, that he looks like he might have a seizure.
Suddenly, a sharp, piercing whistle cuts through the air. The crowd instinctively parts, creating a wide corridor. From the direction of the South Gate, a squad of six men in chainmail and steel helmets marches forward with disciplined, heavy steps. They are the City Watch, their presence a world apart from the brutish Cudgels. Their leader, a man with a neatly trimmed beard and a Bronze-Tier resonance like a coiled spring, steps forward. A captain's insignia is pinned to his tabard. His calm, assessing eyes take in the entire scene in a single sweep: the whimpering, branded thug; the other Cudgels, who are practically trying to melt into the cobblestones; the utterly broken merchant; and you, the calm, defiant center of the storm.
He stops a respectful ten paces away, his hand resting on the pommel of his longsword. He does not draw it. His gaze is sharp, intelligent, and entirely unimpressed by the drama.
"I am Captain Renaud of the City Watch," he announces, his voice a calm baritone that commands immediate authority. "This disturbance ends now."
His eyes lock onto yours.
"By the Duke's law... explain yourselves."
The entire market square, which had been buzzing with the righteous anger you had just stoked, falls into a silence so profound you could hear a coin drop a street away. The merchant's jaw, which had been hanging open in terror, snaps shut with an audible click. The branded thug stops whimpering. Even the wind seems to hold its breath.
You meet the hard, assessing gaze of Captain Renaud, the professional soldier, the enforcer of the Duke's law. You offer him no grand justification, no political maneuvering, no claim of righteous anger.
You give him the simple, unvarnished, and utterly insane truth.
"I ran out of money," you state, your voice a placid sea of calm.
"So I came to blackmail this guy, who looks like he deserves to get blackmailed."
Captain Renaud does not move. Not a single muscle. But for a fraction of a second, the professional mask of the lawman slips. A flicker of pure, unadulterated disbelief crosses his face, so fast that if you weren't watching for it, you would have missed it. His hand, which had been resting calmly on his sword pommel, tightens, the leather creaking under the pressure.
He has heard every lie, every excuse, every desperate plea a man can make. He has never, in his entire career, heard a confession so blatant, so cheerful, and so utterly devoid of fear. The crowd doesn't know how to react. A few nervous titters break the silence, but they are quickly shushed.
They were ready for a hero. They have been given something far more confusing and terrifying: a force of nature that doesn't even bother to lie. The Captain's eyes narrow, the initial shock replaced by a deep, cautious suspicion. He is no longer dealing with a street disturbance. He is dealing with a powerful, unpredictable entity playing a game whose rules he does not understand. He looks from your calm, almost smiling face to the terrified merchant, then back to you. His mind is clearly racing, trying to calculate the political fallout of arresting—or failing to arrest—the man standing before him. The silence stretches, taut and heavy.
Captain Renaud's jaw tightens. The faint flicker of disbelief is gone, replaced by an expression of profound, professional gravity. He is a man walking a razor's edge, and he knows it. He looks at you, then at his men, then at the terrified merchant, and you can practically see the gears turning in his mind, weighing duty against political survival.
You break the tense silence, your tone casual, as if discussing the weather.
"Anyway, since you're here, how about you just go along with this for now? I promise it will be worth your time."
You offer a slight, disarming shrug.
"If not, you can execute me. No problem."
The offer is a grenade dropped into the middle of an already chaotic scene. The Captain's eyes, which had been assessing the situation, now bore into you, searching for the slightest hint of a bluff, of madness, of fear. He finds none. He finds only a calm, placid certainty that is more unnerving than any threat.
His mind is a battlefield. His duty is to arrest you for assault, theft, and confessed blackmail. His instinct for self-preservation is screaming that arresting a powerful, unknown Conceptual mage who has publicly declared for the Duke—and who is so confident he offers his own life as collateral—is a career-ending, and possibly life-ending, mistake. This isn't a crime; it's a test. It has to be. He slowly, deliberately, takes his hand off the pommel of his sword. He stands with his arms loose at his sides, a non-threatening posture that is somehow more intimidating than if he had drawn his weapon.
"You have made some very serious accusations," he says, his voice a low, carefully neutral baritone.
He is no longer addressing a criminal; he is addressing a political player.
"And you have committed several blatant crimes to make your point." His eyes narrow.
"You have sixty seconds to make me believe this isn't the biggest mistake of my life. The 'worth my time' part starts now."
You don't answer him with words. Your sixty-second clock is ticking, but you act as if you have all the time in the world. You turn your head slightly, your gaze falling upon the nearest of the three remaining Cudgels—a lanky man who has been trying to make himself as small as possible.
Your hand moves in a lazy arc.
The air around it shimmers for an instant, a heat haze visible even in the cool morning air.
A single, almost inaudible command word forms in your mind:
"Punish"
You slap him. The sound is another sharp, wet hiss of steam and searing flesh. The man shrieks, a thin, terrified sound, and stumbles backward, tripping over his own feet and crashing to the cobblestones. He scrambles away on his hands and knees, clutching his cheek where another perfect, red, hand-shaped brand is already blistering.
Two thugs branded in less than a minute, with casual, open-palmed slaps, in the presence of the City Watch. It is not an act of violence. It is an act of utter, profound contempt. You turn back to face Captain Renaud. The sixty seconds are not yet up. You haven't spoken a word. The Captain's face is a mask of carved stone, but you see it. A muscle in his jaw is twitching, a single, furious, undeniable tic. His men have their hands on their swords now, their knuckles white, their professional calm shattered by the sheer, brazen disrespect of your actions.
They are looking to their leader, waiting for the single word that will unleash them. The entire market square is a tomb. The crowd is no longer curious; they are terrified. They are witnessing a confrontation not between a criminal and the law, but between two tiers of power, and they are caught in the middle. Captain Renaud's voice, when he finally speaks, is dangerously low, each word a piece of chipped ice.
"That," he says, "was not an explanation."
You don't raise your voice. You don't show any sign of alarm. You simply explain the situation to the Captain as if he were a student struggling with a difficult lesson.
"Well, yes," you concede with a slight nod.
"But as you can see, I am a mage that can casually deal out spells like that, which is usually a telltale sign of a noble. Which, at least, lends credibility to the line I said earlier about me defecting to join Dijon."
The logic is circular, arrogant, and politically, undeniably sound. It is a threat wrapped in the language of a syllogism. Captain Renaud's face goes utterly still. The muscle in his jaw, which had been twitching with fury, stops. He takes a single, slow, deep breath, and when he exhales, all the raw anger seems to leave him, replaced by something much colder and more dangerous: calculation.
He understands. He finally, completely understands the game you are playing. This was never about bread. It was never about blackmail. It was a performance. A message, delivered with brutal, undeniable clarity, intended for the ears of his masters. And he, Captain Renaud of the City Watch, has been made an unwilling actor in the play.
He cannot arrest you. Arresting a potential Silver-Tier Conceptual Scion who has publicly declared his intent to join the Duke is political suicide.
He cannot let you go. That would be an abdication of his duty and a show of weakness he cannot afford.
So he chooses the only path left to a man in an impossible position.
He escalates.
"Enough," he says, the word a flat, hard stone dropped into the silence. He turns to his men.
"Secure the merchant and his... employees. Take their statements. Confiscate his ledgers for an audit."
His men, relieved to have a clear order, move to obey, roughly hauling the sputtering Guillaume Bassot and his terrified thugs to their feet. Then, Captain Renaud turns his full, undivided attention back to you. His face is a mask of grim professionalism. The lawman has made his choice.
"You," he says, his voice leaving no room for argument. "You're coming with me."
You meet the Captain's hard gaze, and a faint, almost imperceptible smile touches your lips. You offer him a slight, cooperative nod, a gesture of a man agreeing with a reasonable colleague.
"Of course, Captain," you say, your voice calm and clear enough for the entire square to hear.
"We wouldn't want people to think being unruly would go unpunished."
The irony is a physical thing, thick and suffocating.
You, the most unruly man in the city, are publicly siding with the law.
Captain Renaud's gaze hardens for a split second, a flicker of appreciation for the sheer audacity of your move. You have just handed him the perfect public justification for his actions. He is not bowing to a powerful mage; he is taking a person of interest into custody to sort out the crimes of a corrupt merchant.
You have allowed him to save face while giving him exactly what he wants. He gives a single, curt nod in return.
"My thoughts exactly."
He gestures with his head towards the street leading away from the market.
"This way."
He turns and begins to walk, not waiting to see if you will follow. His men form a loose, professional escort around you, their expressions unreadable. They do not touch you. They do not draw their weapons. This is not an arrest. It is a summons. As you walk, leaving the scene of your calculated chaos, the crowd parts before you like water. They stare, their faces a mixture of awe, confusion, and fear. Behind you, you hear the protests of Guillaume Bassot being silenced as he and his branded thugs are formally taken into custody.