The city of Harta was never quiet. Even in mourning, its streets thrummed with the sound of sharp shouts of soldiers collecting new taxes. The music of minstrels had faded into silence, replaced by whispers passed hand to hand like contraband.
And everywhere Darian walked, cloaked in shadow, he heard his own name whispered.
"Duskbane."
"Sir Darian walks still."
"He'll strike the serpent from the throne."
He could not yet tell if these whispers were hope or bait. Mansis' spies listened too, eager to snuff out any ember of rebellion before it caught fire.
Tonight would be the test.
Darian sat in the dim corner of a baker's shop, long after the ovens had cooled and the shutters were barred. The baker, a stout woman named Mirra, poured him a cup of bitter ale with hands that trembled.
"They took him at dawn," she whispered, her voice breaking. "My boy. Twelve years old, Sir Darian. Twelve. They say he cursed the new king's name while playing in the street."
Her husband, broad-shouldered but weary-eyed, set a hand on her shoulder. "They'll send him to the keep. That dungeon… nobody walks out of there."
Darian said nothing at first. His head was bowed, the hood of his cloak shadowing his face. But beneath the table, his hands clenched until the leather of his gloves creaked.
"They'll move prisoners tonight," he said finally. His voice was low, steady as stone. "Wagons will take them from the city square to the keep before dawn. Your son will be among them."
Mirra's eyes welled with tears. "Can you save him?"
Darian lifted his gaze. His eyes, cold and burning, met hers. "I can."
He scouted the square long before midnight, moving through alleyways like a wraith. The wagons sat ready, iron-barred and covered with tarps, guarded by half a dozen soldiers each. Torches hissed in the damp night air.
He counted three wagons. One for men, one for women, one for children. His jaw tightened at the sight of the last.
Beyond them, more guards loitered, drinking from flasks and boasting of their work. They spoke loud enough that Darian heard their cruelty.
"Caught a midwife saying the brat Narion should be king instead."
"Ha! That old crone will rot before she sees another child born."
"And that baker's whelp — crying for his mam the whole way. King says soft tongues breed sharp knives. Best cut them out while they're young."
Darian turned from them before his anger broke free.
He had been a knight. He had worn honoir like a second skin. But honour had no place in Mansis' kingdom. Tonight, he would wear fear.
When the hour struck, the wagons began to move. Horses snorted, wheels clattered, and guards shouted for the crowd to clear the road. Few had gathered, for who wished to watch their neighbours carted away to despair? Yet some stood in doorways and shadows, silent witnesses to the cruelty of their new king.
And they saw him.
A figure stepped into the road, blocking the wagons. Cloaked. Hooded. Immovable.
"Halt!" barked the captain. "Clear the way!"
The figure did not move.
The captain cursed, raising his hand. "By order of King Mansis, stand aside!"
The hood fell back.
Gasps rippled through the night.
Darian Duskbane stood tall, taller than any man had right to be, the firelight of torches glinting off the steel beneath his cloak. Eight feet of towering might, his shoulders broad as an ox's, his arms like living iron. His eyes burned, fixed on the wagons.
"You will release them," he said, his voice carrying like thunder across the stones.
The guards faltered. Some stepped back. One dropped his spear entirely. They had heard the stories — how Darian had crushed shields barehanded, how he had once lifted a fallen warhorse to save a comrade. To stand against him was to stand against a force of nature.
"Sir Darian," the captain stammered, "these prisoners are traitors. The king —"
Darian moved to the first wagon. His great hands closed on the iron bars. With a single pull, he tore them apart, the metal shrieking as though in pain. The prisoners within gaped, their chains rattling as they shrank back in awe.
"He is not my king," Darian growled. "Not him."
He reached in with the cutters, snapping the chains as though they were twine. The prisoners stumbled free — an old farmer with dirt still beneath his nails, the grey-haired midwife, and at last, Mirra's boy. The child stared up at him, wide-eyed, before darting into the crowd where his mother waited.
Hope flared in the people's eyes. A murmur rose, trembling but fierce: "Duskbane… Duskbane…"
But before it could swell, a new voice rang out, cold and sharp.
"Well, well. The outlaw shows himself at last."
The crowd fell silent.
Sir Silas strode forward, helm tucked under one arm, sword gleaming in the other. His blackened armour bore Mansis' serpent crest, silver against the dark. His face was pale, angular, his smile cruel as a knife's edge.
"Duskbane," he said, drawing out the name like a curse. "Still pretending to be a knight, when all you are is a relic. Did you think you'd frighten the king's men into bowing? You're one man against a kingdom."
Darian turned, towering over him. "A kingdom rots when men like you feed on it."
Silas laughed, though his eyes flickered with unease at Darian's size. "Stand fast!" he barked to the guards. "He bleeds the same as any man."
Then he lunged.
Steel rang against steel as their swords clashed. Silas' blade was quick, darting like a serpent's fang, aiming for Darian's joints, his neck, his heart. But Darian's greatsword, nearly as tall as a man, met each strike with crushing force. Sparks flew, cobblestones cracked beneath their feet.
The crowd pressed closer, half in terror, half in awe.
Silas sneered as he struck again and again. "You can't save them all, Duskbane! The king owns this city, owns its people, owns you!"
Darian answered with a blow that drove Silas back three steps, his boots skidding across stone. "The king owns nothing. Not while I breathe."
The duel raged. Silas' speed against Darian's strength. Twice, Silas' blade scraped Darian's armour, drawing sparks. Once, Darian's greatsword nearly split Silas' shield in two. The guards circled but dared not interfere, afraid of striking their commander — or of meeting Darian's wrath.
At last, Darian caught Silas' sword arm and wrenched it aside. With his other hand, he slammed his fist into Silas' chest. The knight flew back, crashing into a wagon so hard the wood splintered.
The crowd roared. Prisoners fled through the gap Darian had made. Mothers wept as they clasped children to their breasts.
But then horns blared from the Keep. More guards poured into the street, dozens of them, shields locked, spears bristling.
Darian glanced once at Silas, who staggered to his feet, face twisted with hate.
"This isn't over," Silas spat. "I'll hang you from the castle gates myself."
Darian's cloak whipped as he turned into the alleys, vanishing into the night like a storm fading beyond the hills.
Behind him, the whispers spread faster than any horn or proclamation.
He freed them. Darian Duskbane saved them. He stood against the king's men.
And in the heart of Harta, for the first time since King Jameson's death, hope breathed again.