The streets of Mondstadt City's residential district fell into a deathly silence. Amos, bow in her left hand, led a squad of personal guards, their steps synchronized as they walked through the empty streets and alleys. The sound of boot soles striking the stone road and the soft rasp of metal plates rubbing against each other were the only melody at this moment.
The doors and windows of the houses lining the streets were shut tight. Behind broken window panes, a pair of eyes filled with vigilance and fear would occasionally flash past.
The populace knew that, according to past practice, the cavalry would soon arrive to brutally pound on their doors, driving them out with whips and shouts to attend the redoubled worship service.
They all hid in their houses, holding their breath, their hearts filled with panic and tension, repeatedly rehearsing various excuses: "My child is sick," "I'm not feeling well myself," "I'll definitely go later," "There's a real reason I can't go, it's absolutely, absolutely not out of disrespect for the Solitary King."
However, the anticipated brutal banging and shouting never came.
Amos's squad simply marched on in silence. She herself would occasionally pause, her sharp gaze sweeping across a deep alleyway or a particularly tightly sealed wooden door. Occasionally, she would raise her voice toward a quiet house, but her words were not to drive them out.
She stopped before a relatively intact stone house, her voice carrying clearly through the door:
"I know some of you are unwilling, or unable, to attend the service."
A suppressed gasp seemed to come from within.
She continued,
"There is no need to worry. If you do not wish to go, then do not go. Stay safely at home and piously recite the King's revered name. As long as you truly believe in Him, He will naturally understand your difficulties."
She paused, then added,
"But before the service is over, do not run around, and more importantly, do not cause any trouble."
Hopefully, their impression of the King would improve, even if just a little, Amos thought.
After speaking, she didn't wait for a response and led her guards onward, the sound of their footsteps gradually fading.
...
In a seemingly ordinary house by the street, Gunnhildr and several members of the resistance pressed themselves against the wall, nervously observing the outside through a crack in the window boards.
When the squad of uniformly armored guards walked past, the distinct sound of metal friction reaching them, everyone in the room subconsciously tightened their grip on the weapons hidden behind their backs or at their waists, their muscles tensing, ready to respond to a conflict that might erupt at any moment.
However, the expected scene of guards forcibly breaking down the door and violently herding people out never occurred. Amos merely stopped nearby, called out that message, and then left.
A perplexed silence fell over the room.
"What..." a young resistance member couldn't help but whisper, his face filled with disbelief. "They... just left like that?"
Another chimed in, his voice probing, "The one in the lead... was that the attendant Orion mentioned, the one who released him from the base of the tower?"
"Did she just say... she understands the people's difficulties?" a third person murmured as if hearing some incredible fantasy.
They were long accustomed to the cavalry's methods. Battering doors, plundering, whipping—often leading to violent clashes with the populace.
But this personal guard squad led by Amos today was a bit too "well-behaved."
Gunnhildr's gaze still followed the direction of the departing guards, her brow slightly furrowed.
"Continue observing," she said in a low voice, her heart equally filled with questions and vigilance.
...
In the central square, the scene should have been one of priests and a group of bards leading the populace in a unified recitation of prayers.
Today, however, the priests stood on a hastily built high platform, surrounded by only a sparse few terrified-looking poets, their voices so faint they could barely be heard.
Behind them, the vast crowd of commoners, though their lips were mostly moving as if chanting something, were, upon closer listening, all reciting their own thing, a chaotic jumble. Some whispered to each other, complaining of sore legs and stomach aches; some simply gathered to chat about daily life; some went even further, plopping right down on the ground, their eyes vacant, clearly spacing out.
In contrast, the separately designated area for the nobles was a completely different story.
The few nobles present were watched closely by fully armed guards, forced to huddle together in several rigid formations. They followed the lead of the priest before them, their voices perfectly synchronized, not daring to make the slightest mistake.
Some were already so weak-kneed their legs were trembling, their faces pale, sweat soaking their lavish collars. But whenever their gazes fell upon the polished weapons in the guards' hands, each of them would force themselves to stay alert, not daring to show any dissatisfaction.
...
Himmel, holding his lyre, walked over to a group of bards and took out the neatly written official prayer manuscript praising the Solitary King from his robes.
However, before he could even open his mouth, the sounds of the "odes" coming from beside him made his heart pound with fear.
"Lord of the Gales, Monarch of the Tower, may your great work... crumble like a tower of sand!"
"O eternal protection... may it become your eternal cage!"
"May the howl of the north wind be the final dirge... played in your name!"
This... this wasn't much different from just cursing, "Decarabian, go die already!"
Himmel whipped his head around, looking toward the source of the voice. It was a slightly older poet, his arms covered in fine scars, now trembling uncontrollably.
He must have experienced something terrible, Himmel thought, to resent the Solitary King so much that he would vent his feelings in such a veiled and dangerous way, even on this occasion.
He then caught another kind of voice, one that was also not praise:
"O guardians beyond the wall, please hear the cries from within..."
"Tear open this gray curtain, let true light... shine upon this deathly silent land!"
"Wind of salvation, when will you finally blow into... our forgotten corner..."
This voice placed its hope in a "savior" from outside the wind wall.
Just then, Himmel noticed that the earlier voices of cursing and praying had suddenly vanished. He looked up and saw that a member of the guard was patrolling nearby.
The soldier's gaze swept over the vast sea of commoners, confirming there was no large-scale disturbance, and then he departed with a blank expression.
And as soon as he was a good distance away, the suppressed curses and desperate pleas started up again in a rustle.
Himmel was silent for a moment. He didn't want to sing praises against his conscience, but he didn't dare openly defy the divine decree either.
He stuffed the neat official prayer back into his robes and took out another manuscript with more spirited handwriting.
He closed his eyes, his fingers unconsciously strumming the strings without actually playing a note, silently reciting the colorful and vibrant verses of his own creation, trying to use the beautiful world of his imagination to fight against the long and agonizing reality of the moment.
...
After patrolling the residential district, Amos arrived at the square. She moved slowly through the gaps at the edge of the crowd, her gaze sharp and scanning.
Her line of sight would occasionally pass over the bobbing heads of the people toward the noble area near the inner ring, ensuring that the nobles she had personally "invited" out were staying put obediently.
Occasionally, she would see one or two commoners collapse to the ground from exhaustion or hunger.
She would walk over, lean down, and help them up—not exactly gently, but not roughly either.
"If you can't hold on, just go home," her voice was unusually clear against the noisy background. "As long as you piously believe in our King in your hearts, He will not care whether you pray in the square or under your own roof."
The people she helped up were at first full of fear, looking at her and the personal guards behind her in disbelief.
But when they followed Amos's gaze toward the outer ring and saw that a few scattered figures were indeed already leaving the square, a glimmer of relief, like that of a survivor, welled up in their eyes.
"Thank you... thank you..." they offered their thanks in voices almost too faint to hear, then they too struggled to move their feet and head toward home.
...
Deep within the crowd, Coppelia and Columbina wore inconspicuous gray cloaks, their large hoods concealing most of their faces.
Like two swimming fish, they moved slowly through the crowd, partly to evade detection, and partly to find opportunities to spread their own narrative.
Columbina suddenly gave Coppelia's sleeve a gentle tug and leaned close to her ear, speaking in an extremely low voice:
"To the left, nine o'clock, that white-haired woman holding the bow is approaching... seems to be the one who stopped us at the city gate that day. Should we hide?"
Coppelia's body stiffened slightly. She leaned close to Columbina's ear as well, her voice pressed extremely low:
"Moving now would be more conspicuous. Pay her no mind. Take out the manuscript and pretend to recite the prayer aloud."
The two immediately pulled out prepared manuscripts from their robes, covered in the standard prayer.
Two
They lowered their heads and, blending in with the surrounding noisy "recitations," began to read in feigned earnest.
Their voices were neither high nor low, perfectly merging with the environment.
Amos's patrolling gaze swept across the area where they stood but did not linger on any particular figure. She passed by these two "devout believers."
Amos noticed nothing unusual. Her steps never paused as she continued on her way.
___
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