The streets of Aethelberg had never felt so quiet.
Not even during the deepest hours of winter. As Alaric Dukker walked the cobblestone streets, his boots clicked rhythmically against the stone, the sound sharp enough to shatter the oppressive quiet. Beside him, Gyan moved like a smudge of black ink against the grey-stone walls, her presence so understated she might have been mistaken for a trick of the flickering gaslights.
Knights passed them in solemn pairs,their armor, usually polished to a mirror sheen for the Hydrangea Festival, was streaked with soot and dried grime. They acknowledged Alaric with stiff nods and mechanical salutes as they passed, their faces expressionless.
"My Lord."
"Lord Dukker."
Alaric nodded.
"Carry on."
The knights resumed their patrol.
But Gyan noticed it—the way their eyes lingered a moment too long. The hostility beneath the professionalism. The malice barely contained.
"They aren't happy." she said telepathically, her voice a whisper in Alaric's mind.
Alaric glanced sideways.
"You noticed?"
"The way they looked at us after they passed..."
"Yes, I noticed Gyan."
Her shadow stretched beneath her feet. For a moment, its darkness seemed to deepen.
"Hostility. Frustration. Some anger."
Alaric sighed.
"It's natural that they feel that way." Alaric replied.
He looked ahead.
"The city fell apart around them, and while they were standing in the streets trying to put it back together, the Lords went into their safe little chamber to argue."
His voice carried no bitterness.
Only exhaustion.
"In their eyes, that probably looked like the nobility hiding behind walls while ordinary people cleaned up our mess."
They turned a corner into a central square that had been the heart of the festival. Here, the transition was most jarring. Teams of workers were being routed out by the nobility to fix the floral decorations, attempting to resurrect the atmosphere of a celebration that had died in the mud.
Yesterday, the same streets had been filled with laughter.
People had decorated everything with enthusiasm. Children had chased performers. Couples had wandered beneath hanging flowers. Merchants had competed over elaborate displays.
People had been loosening.
Smiling.
Forgetting their differences.
The festival had given them permission to be happy.
Now the garlands hung limply, the vibrant silks scorched and frayed. The workers moved with lethargic, hollow motions. Gone was the laughter and the infectious warmth of the festival's opening days. Now, there was only the mechanical toil of people who knew their efforts were meaningless.
One laborer, a man with calloused hands and eyes sunken from fatigue, gripped his tool so tightly his knuckles turned white as Alaric passed. He turned his head, his gaze lingering on the Lord of Blackwood with a mixture of raw, unadulterated disdain. When Alaric stopped to observe his work, the man didn't flinch. He simply let out a jagged, bitter sigh and returned to his work, his posture radiating a quiet, simmering defiance.
Gyan observed the scene with cold precision.
"That one wanted to say something."
"Probably."
"He was angry."
"I imagine most of them are."
Alaric continued walking.
"Yesterday, they were beginning to believe the festival belonged to them."
He looked toward a crushed arrangement of hydrangeas.
"Today, they are rebuilding it because they've been told to."
Gyan's eyes softened. She reached out with her shadow sense, extending her awareness through the city. she poured her awareness into the very architecture, sliding her consciousness through the cracks in the walls and into the homes of the citizenry. Despite the suffocating silence, very few people were actually asleep. She felt the pulse of the city—a ragged, erratic rhythm of anger, mounting despair and above all, fear.
"Ironically, this may make things better for the Revolutionists. People were beginning to enjoy themselves again. The festival was bringing them together." Gyan said, her shadow shifted subtly.
"Fear makes people seek belonging. Now the Revolutionists have made them think that the current Aerthos isn't a kingdom they belong. And now they will seek belonging from the very people who caused all this because on the surface, they are the better option than the corrupt uper echelon. The deterioration has been systemic for a long time," Gyan noted, her voice tinged with a rare, analytical sorrow.
"The currency wars, the rising cost of basic bread, the blatant displays of excess by the upper houses… it has created a pressure cooker where the commonfolk are the ones facing the heat. If I'm being honest, if I were a human, confined to this cage, I would have arrived at the conclusion that the game was rigged years ago."
Alaric stopped walking and looked up at the moon, which hung pale and ghostly above the jagged silhouette of the palace towers.
"That is why you are not human, Gyan. You are a sensible young woman who serves as my assistant. You see the board; humans only see the boot on their neck."
Gyan tilted her head. "Was that a compliment?"
"Take it however you like."
"But to an extent, they aren't wrong. The system isn't rigged by design, but it has been corrupted by men who are so disconnected from the dirt and the labor that they have forgotten they are made of the same meat as the people they rule. Just like all the tryrants of times past. "
He smiled faintly.
"History has a sense of humor."
Gyan looked toward the damaged decorations.
''Provided the people survive long enough to appreciate it.''
Alaric paused, his face shifting into a contemplative daze.
"My Lord?" Gyan prompted, sensing his drift.
"I miss Elara ," he said suddenly, the confession cutting through the cold air.
Gyan sighed, a sound like dry leaves skittering on stone.
"You haven't seen your son or Jamie and the entire kingdom is falling apart around you. but you're concerned for your wife?"
Alaric smiled faintly.
"Yes, I miss her."
"They're strong children."
"They survived the Ironforest for a month. They faced apex beasts and manged to injure them. They have the grit."
"Is that enough to navigate the maze of human nature, though?" Gyan asked.
"They are still children."
"Children who have yet to realize the scale of their own potential," Alaric countered. He looked at her, his expression sharpening.
A pause.
"You're really comfortable throwing your children into adversity."
"I didn't throw them anywhere."
"You certainly seem willing to let them find it."
Alaric laughed quietly.
"Besides, I man you are their caretaker while we're in Aethelberg. You should have a pulse on their whereabouts, no?"
"I do." Gyan spread her senses across the city and in a matter of moments located the two children.
"Jamie is safely at the townhouse, asleep."
Alaric nodded.
"Good."
"She disappeared during the festival and I coulnd't locate her."
Alaric shook his head knowingly.
"Of course she did."
"Knowing Jamie, she was probably fooling around somewhere."
A brief laugh escaped Alaric. He remembered Roric. His old friend had been just as troublesome as a child.
"Her father was the same. Roric always had a talent for finding trouble."
"I met Roric a few times. Unfortunately she seems to have inherited that quality in excess." Gyan replied.
Alaric smiled.
"And Elias?"
Gyan's expression changed as she visibly exerted more effort.
"He's in the palace."
Alaric froze.
"In the palace?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"I don't know."
Alaric's expression tightened.
"He's not in the dungeon, I hope."
"Why would you thinkyour son is in the dungeon?"
"Well..."
"You raised him Lord Alaric."
"That does not make me responsible for every poor decision he makes."
"Technically, it does."
"OK, OK. Just tellme he's safe."
"He is," Gyan reassured him.
"Wonderful."
"The palace defenses are formidable, designed to neutralize interference, but they cannot blink out the existence of shadows. He is in the residential sector. I cannot pinpoint the exact room—the wards there are thick enough to choke out even a being like me—but he is safe."
Before Alaric could respond, footsteps approached.
Captain Emma Gable emerged from the shadows, his uniform immaculate despite the late hour. Beside him walked Pihla, her expression one of barely concealed amusement. And behind them—
Senior Inquisitor Layl, flanked by Dmitri and Yulan.
The group assembled in the empty square, their breath misting in the cold air. Alaric studied them for a moment, then nodded.
"Thank you for coming."
Emma inclined his head. "How did the council go?"
"Better than expected." Alaric's gaze flicked toward the horizon.
"I've managed to staunch the conspirators' plans for the time being. I didn't expect Kingsley Amberose to be intuitive enough to sense my strategy and roll with it, but here we are."
Pihla tilted her head.
"I thought Lord Amberose hated you."
"He does."
"Then why help you?"
"Because he's intelligent enough to understand that hatred becomes irrelevant if the kingdom collapses."
Pihla nodded.
"Fair."
Alaric looked at the group. Then his expression became serious.
"I'll get straight to the point."
Everyone focused.
"I'm forming you into a special task force. Two Enforcers. Three Inquisitors."
Layl's expression was sour. "So what do you need us for?"
"Your mission is to hunt down the Revolutionary. "
Silence.
"Secretly."
Alaric's eyes moved across them.
"Another task force will be assembled to serve as a public front—a misdirection. But you—" He gestured to the group. "—you will be the real hunters."
Pihla grinned. "We just need a Punisher, and the team will be complete."
Yulan shook her head. "Can't. The Punishers can only act when someone has been proven guilty. We're still in the investigation phase."
Layl, spoke up. Her tone was sharp, tainted with the bitterness of the previous day's failures.
"And what of the masked figure? The one who calls himself 'Agent Orange'? Is he connected to the revolution?"
The name hung in the air, acidic and strange.
"Agent Orange," Alaric repeated, tasting the syllables.
"The masked figure who went on a rampage during the festival," Gyan reminded him. "He also broke into the Forbidden Vault a while back."
"The reports show no motive. No ties to the revolutionary ideology. He seems to be an independent actor, a mercenary or a loose cannon. At this scale, he is a localized nuisance, not a real threat. For now, ignore him focus your resources on the revolutionists. We ignore Agent Orange for now…unless he is found to be working for the enemy. Then, orders change."
A distant cock crowed, the sound lonely and thin against the morning frost. The first grey light of dawn began to bleed over the rooftops, turning the smoke of the docks into a sickly, bruised purple. Emma straightened.
"We should begin planning," he said.
Alaric nodded. "Go. I have other matters to attend to."
Alaric turned away from them, his destination set. He began to walk toward the docks. He needed to see the carnage firsthand, to feel the cold reality of the economic collapse he was tasked with managing. He walked toward the smoke, his stride steady, ignoring the wary eyes of the few citizens had awoken and were now stepping outside.
Behind them, the repaired flowers swayed gently in the night breeze.
They were beautiful.
But neither of them looked at them anymore.
Ahead, smoke still hung over the docks as the dawn was breaking.