The steps of Parliament rose in wide tiers of pale stone, designed for slow approach and to elevate those who stood above. The structure had endured centuries of reform and reconstruction, but its purpose had remained unchanged: to be seen from below.
That morning the steps were full.
Ministers stood in uneven lines, their position dictated by true hierarchy instead of comfort or protocol. The heads of departments, senior aides and elected officials of Tibios occupied the upper tiers, leaving just enough space between one another to preserve the illusion of calm. Cameras faced them from beneath, lenses steady, red lights already blinking.
They were accustomed to scrutiny. Most had learned long ago how to stand still when disaster struck.
Today, that discipline was faltering.
A breeze moved through the open square, light and unremarkable, yet it drew attention to small failures. A hand tightened around a folder. A shoulder rolled, unable to relax. One woman shifted her weight, the stone beneath her heels suddenly feeling unreliable. Sweat marked collars despite the mild air.
No one spoke.
The operation had failed.
What had been intended as a quiet maneuver contained & deniable had unravelled before it reached its conclusion. The damage was no longer something that could be confined to briefing rooms or sealed transcripts. It had arrived here instead, at the gates of Parliament, with witnesses already watching.
At the top of the steps stood the Prime Minister - Malik.
Malik Voss remained still, hands resting at his sides, posture composed by habit rather than ease. The name Voss carried its own gravity in Tibios. It was associated with compromise, endurance, and the kind of authority that did not need to announce itself. Malik had built his career on moderation, on being acceptable to everyone and trusted by no one completely.
His expression betrayed none of the calculations moving behind his eyes.
Beyond the gates, the press had gathered in dense formation, microphones raised, questions already forming before answers existed. But their attention was not on the ministers.
It was on the man standing alone on the stone pavement below.
He had not arrived as scheduled.
There was no motorcade waiting. No security. No controlled entry. He stood as if he had walked there, separated from the crowd by little more than distance and silence.
Blood traced a narrow line from a cut above his eyebrow, drying as it reached his cheek. His suit was torn at the shoulder and sleeve, darkened in places by stains that had already begun to set. Powder burns marked one side of his face, faint but unmistakable to anyone who knew what to look for.
In his left hand, he held a military knife, its blade angled toward the ground. Drops of red fell at irregular intervals, each one striking the stone with quiet finality.
In his right hand, he held a severed head by the hair.
The square fell into a deeper stillness.
The face was already losing color, its expression caught somewhere between shock and realization. Those who recognized it felt their breath falter. Those who did not understood instinctively that this was not a thing meant to exist in daylight.
The man holding it did not speak.
He lifted his gaze toward the steps, eyes steady, posture relaxed in a way that felt deliberate rather than careless.
Noem Halvek.
The broadcast reached international networks within seconds. Footage spread faster than commentary could catch up. Analysts spoke in fragments. Speculation outran verification. Narratives began to form and fracture simultaneously, shaped by ideology, fear, and convenience.
Some called it brutality. Others called it courage. A few called it inevitability.
Those closer to power saw something else entirely.
They recognized the outline of a cleanup that had failed. A meeting meant to end without witnesses. A problem closed quietly, with records adjusted and questions never asked. In such operations, loss was expected. Even the death of a minister could be managed, folded into explanations and absorbed by institutions designed for exactly that purpose.
A living witness could not.
Noem Halvek had been present. Present long enough to see what had been arranged. Close enough to understand the intent behind it. In every version of the plan that mattered, his absence afterward had been assumed.
If someone else had died, that would have been unfortunate. Correctable.
If Noem Halvek had died with them, it would have been success.
Instead, he stood at the gates of Parliament, bloodied but alive, holding proof that the ending had not gone as written.
At the top of the steps, Malik Voss finally drew a slow breath. His gaze remained fixed on Noem, but his thoughts had already moved ahead to explanations, to alliances strained, to how quickly containment would now be required.
Below, Noem felt the square settle.
Good.
Silence always arrived before meaning did. He adjusted his grip on the knife - not for comfort, but for visibility - and let his posture remain loose, unthreatening in a way that invited misinterpretation.
They would see courage. Or madness. Or chance.
Those in higher places would see utility.
Either way, he would not be ignored now.
By the time the questions reached him, the arguments over what to do with him would already have begun.
And that, finally, was where the foundations were laid.