Aric entered the grand temple of Sonor, the golden light of te afternoon streaming through its magnificent stained-gss windows. The warm hues cast shifting patterns across the marble floor, which gleamed like polished ivory. Pilrs carved with depictions of Sonor’s triumphs soared upward, framing the chamber in an aura of divine majesty.

  Despite his usual confidence, Aric felt a flicker of apprehension. Convincing High Cleric Vaelion to allow him to gather padins for his mission in the Low Quarter would require careful persuasion. The head cleric was known for his wisdom and pragmatism, but also his caution.

  As Aric approached the inner sanctum, he was greeted by an acolyte who bowed respectfully. “Sir Aric, the High Cleric is expecting you. Please follow me.”

  The young acolyte led him through an arched doorway into the private audience chamber. Unlike the grandeur of the main hall, the room was modest, with simple wooden furnishings and a single golden sunburst emblem adorning the far wall. High Cleric Vaelion sat behind a heavy Oak desk, his grey beard neatly trimmed and his piercing blue eyes studying Aric as he entered.

  “Aric,” Vaelion greeted, his voice steady and calm. “I hear you’ve come with an unusual request. Please take a seat.”

  Aric inclined his head respectfully and took the offered chair. “Thank you for granting me your time, High Cleric. What I propose is indeed unusual, but I believe it is a righteous cause – one that will bring honour to Sonor’s light.”

  Vaelion leaned back slightly, steepling his fingers. “Go on. Tell me what you pn to do.”

  Aric took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. “As you know, the Low Quarter of Makar is gripped by chaos. Murders, rebellion, and wlessness have taken hold, threatening not just the city’s stability, but the faith of its people. Many there have strayed from Sonor’s light – or worse, they have never known it.”

  “An unfortunate truth,” Vaelion said, his tone neutral.

  “I have petitioned the Marshall,” Aric continued, “and he has granted me permission to assemble a force of padins to restore order. But I require your blessing to rally the faithful to this cause.”

  Vaelion raised an eyebrow. “And why should I endorse this endeavour? The Low Quarter has long been a den of despair. What makes you think this effort will succeed where others have failed?”

  “Because this mission will be more than just a show of force,” Aric said, leaning forward slightly. “It will be an embodiment of Sonor’s mercy and justice. If we succeed in restoring order, it will not only bring peace to the Low Quarter but also serve as a beacon of hope. The people there – downtrodden, desperate – may finally see the light of Sonor. They may come to follow him.”

  Vaelion’s eyes narrowed, though his expression remained thoughtful. “And who will fund this righteous crusade? The Church is not willing to spend its resources to equip a battalion for such a venture.”

  “I will bear the cost personally,” Aric said firmly. “The Ellensar family has the means, and I have already committed myself to this mission. The padins who join me will not be burdened with expenses, nor will the Church.”

  The High Cleric regarded him in silence for a moment. “That is a noble offer, but financing alone will not guarantee success. What makes you believe the padins will rally to your cause? They have duties of their own – protecting the faithful, maintaining the temple’s sanctity. Why would they leave their posts to fight in a war that is not officially sanctioned?”

  Aric nodded, acknowledging the concern. “Because this is more than a war – it is an opportunity to bring glory to Sonor and to spread his light to a part of the city that has lived in darkness for too long. If we succeed, it will show all of Makar that the Church does not only serve the elite of the High Quarter. It will prove that Sonor’s mercy extends to every corner of the city.”

  Vaelion’s gaze softened slightly, though his voice remained cautious. “And what of failure? What if this mission ends in bloodshed, or worse – what if it tarnishes the Church’s reputation?”

  “High Cleric,” Aric said earnestly, “if we do nothing, the chaos in the Low Quarter will only grow. The rebellion will spread, and the people will look to us and wonder why the Church of Sonor did not act. Inaction is the greater risk.”

  Vaelion fell silent, his fingers drumming lightly on the desk. The room seemed to hold its breath as he considered Aric’s words. Finally, he spoke.

  “You make a compelling case,” he said, his voice measured. “Very well. You have my blessing to gather padins for this mission – but on one condition. There will be no formal order from the Church to join you. Those who follow you will do so of their own free will.”

  Aric’s chest swelled with relief and gratitude. “Thank you, High Cleric. I will not let you – or Sonor – down.”

  Vaelion nodded gravely. “May the light of Sonor guide you, Aric Ellensar. You have chosen a dangerous path. Pray that it is the right one.”

  Aric rose from his chair, bowing deeply before taking his leave. As he stepped out into the temple’s main hall, he felt a renewed sense of purpose. The way Forward was clear, and his preparation would begin immediately.

  Aric left the chamber with his head held high. His boots echoed against the polished marble floors of the temple as he made his way toward the training hall, where the first of his appeals would take pce.

  The midday sun poured through the stained-gss windows lining the corridor, casting fragmented patters of vibrant colour onto the pale stone. Each step felt heavier with purpose, the weight of his words forming in his mind. He passed initiates carrying scrolls and clerics offering prayers, their voices blending into a reverent murmur that followed him all the way to the hall.

  Pushing the rge oak doors open, he was greeted by the sound of steel striking steel. The training hall was alive with activity – padins sparring, testing their strength and precision under the watchful eyes of instructors. The air smelled of sweat and oiled leather, and the rhythmic cng of bdes filled the space with a steady cadence.

  When Aric entered, the activity slowed. Heads turned as his presence commanded attention. He walked to the centre of the hall, his polished armour gleaming in the sunlight, and stopped under the high vaulted ceiling where the light of Sonor’s sun emblem hung.

  “Brothers in faith,” he began, his voice strong but measured, carrying across the room. Conversations died down, and the padins gathered closer, intrigued by his tone. “We have long dedicated ourselves to upholding justice, to spreading the Light where darkness dares to linger. Today, I stand before you not as a noble but as a servant of Sonor, asking for your aid.”

  His words rippled through the crowd, drawing their focus entirely. Aric’s gaze swept over the assembled warriors, their faces a mix of curiosity and resolve.

  “You have all heard the rumours,” he continued, his tone steady but edged with urgency. “A rebellion grows in the Low Quarter, led by a figure who has defied both the ws of this city and the Light itself. This in not just a matter of civil unrest. It is a direct challenge to the very principles we hold sacred. A challenge to Sonor Himself.”

  A murmur spread among the padins, a mixture of agreement and unease.

  “This Kyrell,” Aric said, spitting the name as though it were venom, “represents chaos. If we allow him to spread his shadow, it will not be contained. It will fester, rising from the Low Quarter to infect the entire city. And with it our faith, our purpose, and everything we have fought for will be at risk.”

  He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.

  “I do not ask this lightly. What I propose is not an easy path. It will require your strength, your faith, and your devotion. But together, we can restore order. We can bring justice to those who have lost their way, and we can remind the people of Makar that the Light of Sonor still burns bright.”

  Aric raised his hand, the gauntlet catching the light as he gestured toward the sun emblem above. “This is not about vengeance. It is about faith. About proving that the Light can pierce even the deepest darkness. I will got to the Low Quarter to bring the Light back to where it has been forgotten, to protect this city and its people. I will finance this effort myself. All I ask is that those of you who are willing, stand with me now.”

  The hall was silent for a moment, the gravity of his words hanging heavy in the air. Then, one by one, the padins began to step forward, their armour gleaming as they moved closer to him. Nearly three quarters of the warriors in the hall pledged their support, their resolve shining in their eyes.

  Over the next two days, Aric repeated his speech in different parts of the temple, adjusting his tone and approach for each setting. In the quiet prayer rooms, he knelt among the meditating padins, waiting until their prayers ended before addressing them. His words were softer here, more personal, as he spoke of the divine duty to protect and guide the lost. The response was no less enthusiastic, with many offering their swords and their faith to his cause.

  In the padin quarters, he addressed the soldiers I a more casual setting, speaking as a fellow warrior rather than a leader. He appealed to their pride, reminding them that they were the chosen defenders of Makar, the city’s shield against chaos. His passion ignited their own, and more joined his ranks.

  By the end of the second day, Aric had spoken to nearly every padin in the temple. His words resonated deeply. And his following grew into a formidable force of loyal warriors. These were not just Soldiers – they were men of faith, driven by a shared purpose to uphold the light of Sonor and defend their city from the encroaching darkness.

  His heard swelled with pride and anticipation as he watched his forces prepare. The path ahead was clear.

  The dawn broke over the city of Makar with golden light, painting the cobblestone streets and towering spires with hues of amber and gold. In front of the Ellensar estate, a force unlike any the city had seen in recent years stood assembled, a manifestation of devotion and discipline. Aric had spared no expense or effort in the days leading up to this moment.

  Seventy warriors of Sonor stood arrayed before the grand estate, their polished pte armour catching the morning sun and reflecting it like a thousand tiny stars. The breastptes of each padin bore the radiant sunburst emblem of Sonor, its intricate etchings accented with gold to give the illusion of an ever-burning light. Beneath their gleaming helms, resolute faces looked forward, their eyes fixed on their leader, ready to serve with unwavering faith.

  The Infantry, forty strong, stood in two symmetrical lines behind the cavalry. They were armed with longswords sheathed at their hips, and each carried a kite shield embzoned with the same sunburst that adorned their chests. The shields were polished to a mirror shine, their edges reinforced with gold filigree. Even the soles of their boots were meticulously cleaned, the perfection of their attire reflecting the purity of their purpose.

  At the forefront of the formation sat the heavy cavalry, their presence radiating an aura of divine might. Twenty white horses stood in disciplined silence, their coats so pristine they seemed almost otherworldly. Their riders were cd in the same pte armour, though their helmets were adorned with golden crests to denote their elevated status. Their nces, standing tall beside them, were tipped with gleaming steel, and their pennants fluttered in the soft breeze, each marked with the holy sunburst.

  Behind the infantry a smaller group of ten archers stood apart, their attire simpler but no less striking. Though not padins, they bore the colours of Sonor, their leather armour dyed in white and gold to match the theme. Their bows were finely crafted from polished yew wood, their quivers filled with fletched arrows marked by white and gold feathers. They cked the overwhelming radiance of the padins, but their utility in the coming mission was undeniable.

  Aric stood at the head of the cavalry, his won armour shining brighter than the rest, its golden inys more intricate, denoting his noble status. His longsword, freshly forged and perfectly banced, hung at his side. The white cloak draped over his shoulders caught the breeze, flowing gently behind him as he surveyed his gathered force.

  The scene was nothing short of celestial. To any observer, it would seem as though the very heavens had opened and sent down a divine army to restore order to Makar. The symmetry, the gleam of steel, the proud banners – it all exuded an air of righteous power and purpose.

  Servants of the Ellensar estate stood in awe near the gates, whispering among themselves as they watched the spectacle. The grandeur of the force assembled before them was enough to stir both hope and trepidation in anyone who saw it.

  Aric allowed himself a moment to take it all in. this was the culmination of his efforts, a testament to his faith and determination. These men were not just soldiers; they were the embodiment of Sonor’s light, ready to descent into the shadows of the Low Quarter and restore order.

  He lifted his head toward the morning sun and offered a silent prayer. Then turning his gaze to his assembled forces, he prepared to lead them into the streets of the Low Quarter.

  Aric led his force through the cobblestone avenues, the hooves of their horses cttering with a rhythmic precision that echoed against the stone facades of grand manors and opulent towers. Bystanders stopped to watch, their eyes wide with awe and curiosity. Some whispered among themselves, while others openly gawked, stepping aside to give the divine company a wide berth.

  Aric felt the weight of their gazes, but he kept his focus ahead, his posture proud and steady atop his white steed. To any observer, he was the very picture of a righteous leader, a beacon of Sonor’s light. Yet within, he felt a simmer of unease. Though this procession was a testament to the discipline and faith of his order, there was no denying the undercurrent of tension beneath it all.

  The grand wall separating the High Quarter from the Low Quarter loomed ahead, its sheer height and thickness a constant reminder of the division between the city’s privileged and its struggling. The stone structure was imposing, stretching ten meters high, with crenetions along the top and a steady patrol of city guards. The main gate, a massive iron structure reinforced with heavy wood, stood open, allowing passage between the two quarters.

  As they approached, Aric’s attention was drawn to the guards stationed at the gate. They stood at rigid attention, their expressions portraying a mix of respect and unease as the padins passed. The sight of Aric’s procession, resplendent in their polished armour and riding atop their pristine mounts clearly left an impression. He caught snippets of murmured prayers and muttered excmations of admiration from the guards as they passed through.

  Beyond the gate, the stark transition between the High Quarter and the Low Quarter was immediately apparent. The cobblestone streets became rougher, and the buildings were smaller and less grand, their facades worn from years of neglect. Yet, as they rode deeper into the Low Quarter, Aric’s unease grew.

  The streets were quiet, too quiet. The reports he had read spoke of unrest and chaos, of murders and rebellion. Yet now, the residents of the Low Quarter seemed… welcoming.

  People stepped out of their homes and shops, their faces bright with smiles as they watched the procession pass. Some even nodded in greeting or raised a hand in polite acknowledgment. There were no signs of fear, no lingering shadows of conflict. Instead, the atmosphere was almost festive, as though they were watching a parade.

  Aric couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. The smiles felt too practiced, too deliberate. His instincts prickled, his training urging him to be cautious. This was not the hostile reception he had prepared for. This was something else entirely. He gnced at his men as they rode in disciplined formation behind him. They remained vigint, their eyes scanning the streets and alleyways for any sign of danger. Yet, even they seemed affected by the surreal calm that hung over the quarter.

  The procession continued, winding through the streets until the barracks finally came into view. It was a solid stone structure, far sturdier than most buildings in the Low Quarter, its utilitarian design marking it as a pce of order and authority. But as they approached, Aric felt his unease deepen.

  The gate to the barracks stood wide open, swinging slightly in the faint breeze. There were no guards stationed outside, no signs of activity within. It was as though the building had been abandoned entirely.

  Aric reined in his horse a paces from the gate, raising a hand to signal the rest of the company to halt. His eyes scanned the structure, nothing but the eerie stillness that surrounded it. Not even the usual sounds of a garrison – cnging steel, barking order, or the shuffle of boots – were present.

  Something was terribly wrong.

  Aric sat rigid on his horse, staring at the wide-open gate, the unsettling silence draping over the area like a shroud. His breath misted faintly in the cool autumn air, and though his face remained stoic, his mind churned with unease. He turned his head slowly, scanning the faces of the residents who had paused to watch them.

  It was then he noticed something that sent a chill coursing down his spine.

  The citizens were smiling. Not the warm, grateful smiles he had initially mistaken them for – but sly, secretive grins, like children suppressing ughter at some private joke. A few even began chuckling, soft and stifled, their mirth growing as if the padins’ presence was the punchline to some cruel jest.

  Aric’s hand tightened around the reins of his horse. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and he felt the weight of every mocking gaze.

  “This doesn’t feel right.” Muttered one of the riders behind him, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Aric didn’t respond immediately, his mind working quickly to piece together the situation. I acted too hastily, he realized bitterly. He should have sent scouts ahead, gathered more intelligence before committing to this. But he had been so eager to strike a decisive blow, to restore order in Sonor’s name, that he had walked his force straight into something he didn’t understand.

  “We’re leaving,” Aric said finally, his voice sharp and authoritative.

  The padins stiffened in surprise, but they obeyed without question. The cavalry turned their horses with disciplined precision, the infantry forming ranks to follow. The mocking ughter of the citizens followed them, growing louder and bolder as the force began its retreat.

  As they moved through the streets, the crowd’s demeanour changed further. People no longer hid their amusement. They pointed openly, ughing and jeering with unrestrained malice.

  “Running back to your golden tower?” one man called out, his voice dripping with scorn.

  Another woman, leaning against a broken cart, cackled and spat on the ground as they passed. “Look at them, all shiny and scared. Not so righteous now, are they?”

  The atmosphere became suffocating, every step back toward the gate filling Aric with a growing sense of dread. His jaw clenched, he spurred his horse faster, urging his men to pick up the pace.

  The streets seemed narrower now, the buildings leaning in as if to smother them. The ughter echoed off the stone walls, a cacophony of mockery that gnawed at the morale of this force. By the time they approached the gate to the High Quarter, many of the padins’ faces were grim, their initial confidence now eroded by the bizarre hostility of the Low Quarter.

  But as the gate came into view, Aric’s hear sank into his stomach.

  The guards who had stood watch at the gate were gone. Their absence was immediately expined by the grim tableau that awaited them.

  Some of the guards y sprawled on the cobblestones, their bodies twisted and broken, their weapons scattered uselessly around them. Pools of blood seeped into the cracks of the street, dark and viscous. Others – more horrifyingly – hung from the top of the ten-meter wall, ropes taut around their necks. Their lifeless bodies swayed gently in the breeze, their faces pale and drained of life.

  A strangled gasp came from one of the padins behind Aric, but he didn’t turn to look. His won breath had caught in his throat, his chest tight with the weight of the scene before him.

  And then came the sound – a sharp, whistling hiss.

  Aric’s head snapped up, his eyes following the trajectory of a burning arrow as it sailed from the top of the wall into the High Quarter beyond. A second and third arrow followed in quick succession, each trailing fmes that licked hungrily at the air.

  The rebellion had overpowered the guards and seized control of the wall.

  Aric’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the reins, his mind racing. The High Quarter – the heart of Makar’s order and faith – was under attack. The symbol of civilization itself was being defiled by these insurgents.

  “By Sonor…” he whispered under his breath, his voice a mix of despair and fury.

  The padins behind him stirred uneasily, their disciplined formation faltering as they took in the devastating sight. Aric quickly turned his horse to face them, his voice cutting through the heavy air.

  “Form up! We will assess the situation and recim the gate if necessary!”

  But even as he spoke, he couldn’t ignore the gnawing doubt in the pit of his stomach. They are unprepared and had been led straight into the jaws of a trap.

  “Dismount the cavalry; horses are of no use here. Infantry, with me.”

  The cavalrymen dismounted swiftly, their polished pte armour clinking as they joined the ranks of the infantry. The foot soldiers drew their longswords and hefted their shields. The archers, though visibly shaken, took a defensive position.

  Aric turned to the nearest sergeant. “Inside the gate chamber,” he said. “There should be a dder leading to the walkway atop the wall. Send a squad up. Take the walkway, clear the insurgents from above.”

  The sergeant saluted and barked out orders. Ten infantrymen formed up and advanced toward the small, iron-banded door at the base of the gate structure. The padins moved with discipline, shields raised, their steps echoing ominously in the narrow street.

  Aric watched as they pushed the door open and entered. He stayed outside, his gaze fixed on the top of the wall where shadows flitted and arrows occasionally flew. The sight of his men entering that darkened chamber sent a pang of unease through his chest, but he brushed it aside.

  “They will succeed,” he muttered under his breath. “Sonor guides them.”

  Inside the chamber, the padins found themselves in a confined space with walls of aged stone and the faint smell of mildew. A wooden dder ascended to a closed hatch above – the presumed access to the wall’s walkway. The soldiers moved cautiously, the faint flicker of torches illuminating the cramped space.

  The first padin reached the dder and began to climb. Another followed closely behind, then another, until a line of armoured men ascended toward the hatch.

  Suddenly, the wooden hatch above creaked open.

  The lead padin barely had time to gnce upward before a sloshing sound filled the air. A bucket tipped over, spilling a torrent of oil down the dder. The thick, pungent liquid spttered across armour and soaked into the undershirts of the soldiers. They shouted in confusion, trying to shield themselves from the unexpected deluge.

  Before anyone could react, another bucket followed – a reckless toss that shattered on the stone floor, spshing more oil in every direction.

  “Get out!” one of the padins shouted, panic creeping into his voice.

  But it was too te. A burning torch was carelessly dropped through the hatch, tumbling end over end before nding with a dull thud on the oil-soaked floor.

  The room erupted in fmes.

  The fire surged with a feral hunger, consuming everything in its path. Padins screamed as the inferno engulfed them, their polished armour becoming ovens that seared flesh beneath. The confined space amplified the heat, turning the chamber into a hellish cauldron. Some tried to escape, but the narrow doorway became a bottleneck, trapping them inside.

  From outside, Aric heard the first agonized screams. He turned sharply, his gaze snapping to the chamber door just as a wave of fire exploded outward. The force of the bst threw the door off its hinges, and a column of fmes surged into the street.

  The sight froze Aric in pce. He could only watch, horrified, as bck smoke billowed from the chamber, carrying with it the acrid stench of burning flesh.

  “No…” he whispered, his voice trembling with disbelief.

  The surviving padins stood in stunned silence, their eyes wide with shock and fear. The gruesome loss of their comrades had shattered the confident resolve they had dispyed earlier.

  Aric clenched his fists, his mind racing. What can I do? How did this go so wrong? He had too little knowledge of siege tactics, too little experience in urban warfare. His faith had carried him this far, but now he was staring into the face of failure – and he had no pn to counter it.

  “Archers!” he barked, his voice sharp with desperation. “Take down the insurgents on the wall!”

  The archers moved quickly, nocking arrows and aiming toward the top of the wall. But the angle was too steep, and the narrow, winding streets of the Low Quarter provided no clear line of sight. The few shots they managed to fire cttered harmlessly against the stone or disappeared into the void above.

  “They’re too high!” one of the archers shouted, his frustration evident.

  “Pull back!” Aric ordered. “We’ll find another position – on the High Quarter side of the wall!”

  The troops began to move, retreating toward the gate. But Aric couldn’t shake the sinking feeling in his chest. The rebellion had outmanoeuvred him, their tactics brutally effective. As he led his men toward the retive safety of the High Quarter, he cast one st gnce at the wall, its walkway still dominated by the shadowy figures of the insurgents.

  The ughter of the Low Quarter residents echoed in his ears, mingling with the crackle of fmes and the distant cries of dying.

  “Archers, prepare positions!” Aric commanded as they reached the open space on the other side of the gate. His voice carried a cold edge, desperation masked by authority.

  The archers fanned out, raising their bows toward the wall’s walkway. Yet as they steadied their aim, a grim realization dawned.

  “There’s… no one up there,” one of them muttered, lowering his bow slightly.

  Aric’s eyes darted toward the top of the wall. The shadows that had previously moved with deadly intent had vanished. The walkway was eerily still, as though abandoned.

  His heart sank further. “What trickery is this?”

  Before he could issue a new command, a figure emerged from behind a small building to their right. Cd in dented filthy armour that looked more like scrap metal than a uniform, the man carried a crude stick with a ragged white cloth tied to the top. His steps were slow and deliberate, as though weighed down by the absurdity of his role.

  “Surround him!” Aric barked. “Archers, maintain cover and watch the wall!”

  The padins moved swiftly, they formed a ring around the approaching man, their shields up and weapons drawn.

  Aric pushed through their ranks, his presence unmistakeable. He stopped a few paces from the man, who stood calmly in the centre of the encirclement, gripping his makeshift fg of surrender.

  “Speak,” Aric commanded, his voice sharp and demanding.

  The man raised his head, revealing a face etched with grime and exhaustion, but also a quiet confidence. Despite the imposing dispy of force, he seemed only mildly intimidated.

  “My name is Orvin,” the man said, his voice rough but steady. “Leader of the Grey Cloaks here in the Low Quarter – or what’s left of them.”

  Aric’s eyes narrowed, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword.

  Orvin continued, “I’ve been sent by Kyrell. He ordered me to lead you, Aric Ellensar, to a pce where we can discuss terms of surrender.”

  “And why should I trust you?” Aric asked, his tone icy.

  Orvin smirked faintly, though his expression remained serious. “Because if you kill me here and now, Kyrell will ensure that no shipments arrive in the High Quarter. No ore for your forges, no grain for your tables. He’ll starve the High Quarter into submission. He’s already begun intercepting supply routes, and believe me, he’ll make good on his promise.”

  The words hung in the air like a curse. Aric’s jaw tightened. He could not allow such a threat to materialize, but the idea of walking into what was undoubtedly a trap churned his stomach.

  He took a long breath, his mind racing. Finally, he made a decision.

  “Very well,” Aric said, his tone resolute. “I will go with you. But only with ten of my men as a guard. The rest will remain here.”

  He turned to his remaining soldiers. “Search for survivors – both among our fallen and the citizens. Heal them if you can. Show them that we are still protectors of this city.”

  The padins hesitated, their faces etched with unease, but they obeyed. The heavy cnk of their armour resounded as they dispersed, the sound blending with the distant ughter of the Low Quarter’s residents.

  Aric turned back to Orvin, his hand never leaving his sword. “Lead the way.”

  Orvin nodded and began walking toward the winding streets of the Low Quarter. Aric and his ten chosen guards followed, their polished armour now dulled by ash and dirt.

  As they moved deeper into the district, the ughter of the Low Quarter’s residents grew louder, more deliberate. Groups of people stood in doorways and alleys, their faces twisted with mocking smiles. Some even cpped slowly, as if watching actors in a tragic py.

  Aric’s grip on his sword tightened. The eerie warmth of their ughter made his skin crawl. These people, who had so little to begin with, now mocked the very men who had come to protect them.

  The small group finally arrived at an unassuming building not far from the wall. Its wooden frame leaned slightly, and the shutters hung crookedly over windows caked with grime. Orvin stopped at the door and turned to Aric.

  “Inside,” Orvin said simply.

  Aric stared at the building, his unease deepening. His instincts screamed to turn back, but he silenced them. This was his duty, his calling.

  He nodded, motioning for his guards to surround the entrance. With a final gnce at the sneering residents, Aric stepped toward the door and prepared to face whatever y within.

  Aric stepped in, his boots clicking softly against the creaking wooden floorboards. The living room was dimly lit, the flickering light of a single oil mp casting dancing shadows across the walls. A simple desk sat in the centre of the room, cluttered with papers and inkpots. Behind it, in an unassuming wooden chair, sat Kyrell.

  Aric’s first impression was one of disbelief. The figure seated before him was no grizzled warlord or cloaked sorcerer but a young man, likely younger than himself. Kyrell’s pin attire and slender build only added to the bewildering contrast with the reputation that had preceded him. His dark eyes, however, were anything but ordinary – they gleamed with a quiet, unnerving intensity, as though they could see straight into Aric’s soul.

  Opposite Kyrell, another chair waited. Aric hesitated for the briefest of moments, then crossed the room and took a seat. He sat stiffly, his armour clinking faintly as he settled in. Despite Kyrell’s ordinary appearance, there was something unsettling in the air, a subtle pressure that made Aric’s skin prickle.

  “I understand we are here to discuss a surrender,” Aric began, keeping his voice steady, projecting confidence. “But I am not na?ve enough to believe we are talking about your surrender.”

  Kyrell didn’t respond immediately. He leaned back slightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes locked onto Aric’s, unblinking, unyielding. Then slowly, he rose from his chair.

  Aric tensed as Kyrell began to pace the room, his hands csped loosely behind his back. “That girl you talked to…” Kyrell began casually, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. “Serenna, was it? She is very beautiful.”

  The words hit Aric like a physical blow. His heart skipped a beat, and his mind raced. How could Kyrell know about Serenna? We have only spoken privately, in a secluded garden.

  But Kyrell wasn’t finished. “And your mother,” he continued, his voice smooth, almost amused, “she has some truly spectacur pns for that ga. It’s quite the affair, from what I hear.”

  Aric’s breath caught in his throat. He fought to keep his composure, but a cold dread crept through him. How did Kyrell know these things?

  “And that force you gathered,” Kyrell went on, stopping to gnce at a patch of peeling paint on the wall, as though the topic were of little consequence to him. “What was it? Sixty padins, twenty horses, ten archers. Very impressive. And no doubt expensive – 5.712 gold coins, if I’m not mistaken.” He turned to face Aric directly now, his dark eyes glinting. “Or perhaps more, that was just what I saw when I visited your study.”

  Aric froze, the blood draining from his face as the implication struck him. Kyrell had been in his house. He had watched him, observed him, read his pns, and come and gone as he pleased, leaving no trace.

  For the first time, Aric felt truly vulnerable.

  Kyrell’s smirk deepened as he saw the dawning realization in Aric’s eyes. He leaned casually against the desk, his arms crossed in front of him, exuding a calm confidence that felt utterly out of pce in the tension filled room.

  “Oh, don’t act so surprised,” he said, his tone light but ced with mockery. “The High Quarter sent spies to me, so naturally, I had to return the favour.”

  Aric clenched his fists, his armoured gauntlets creaking under the strain. The young padin wanted to retort, to deny Kyrell the satisfaction of his fear, but the man continued before he could gather his words.

  “If my men had met you in open battle,” Kyrell said, standing straighter now, his voice turning thoughtful, “I’m sure we would have been in trouble. I mean, you didn’t come to py. But what good would that have done anyone?” He gestured vaguely toward the door as though the streets beyond held the answer to his rhetorical question.

  Kyrell’s dark eyes locked onto Aric’s, and for a moment, the faint glimmer of amusement vanished. “I’m sure I don’t have to threaten you. You’re not dumb, just… inexperienced.”

  The words stung, though Aric refused to show it. He kept his face as composed as possible, but inside, the sharp critique pierced his pride.

  “I will not portray myself as a liberator to you, as I did with Orvin,” Kyrell said, pacing slowly once more, his hands csped behind his back. “You wouldn’t believe a word out of my mouth, and honestly, I don’t bme you. No, I’m not here to weave some noble story or to convince you that I’m fighting for justice or equality or whatever lofty ideal you might expect.” He stopped pacing and turned back to Aric, his lips curling into a faint, knowing smile.

  “No,” he said softly, with an air of finality. “I only want one thing from you.”

  Aric’s brow furrowed in confusion, the tension thick in the room.

  “Tell your mother,” Kyrell said, his voice rich with amusement, “that I want an invitation to the ga. And,” he added, his smirk widening, “I’m going to hold a speech.”

  The audacity of the request left Aric speechless. Of all the things Kyrell could have demanded – gold, hostages, a truce – he wanted this? A pce at a High Quarter event? It was absurd, preposterous even, but something in Kyrell’s expression told Aric that he was deadly serious.

  Kyrell watched Aric’s reaction with a flicker of amusement, his dark eyes glittering in the dim light of the room. He stepped closer to the padin, tilting his head as though studying a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.

  “Well,” he said, his tone casual, “all the influential people will be there, or am I wrong?” He gestured loosely with his hand, as if the answer were self-evident. “What better way to come into contact with the elite? It’s efficient, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Aric’s jaw tightened. His mind reeled with the audacity of the demand, but before he could voice his outrage, Kyrell’s expression hardened. The pyfulness in his tone gave way to something colder, sharper.

  “Also,” Kyrell said his voice dropping into a quiet, almost apologetic register, “if – and I am sorry that I have to be so blunt now – if anyone decides to attack me during the ga…” He paused, letting the words hand in the air before finishing with deliberate cruelty, “I will kill one-third of the popution of the High Quarter.”

  Aric stared at him, uncomprehending. “What…?” he breathed, his voice almost failing him. “How could you – “

  Before he could finish the question, the answer came.

  The room seemed to darken, its edges blurring into shadow, and an unshakeable pressure gripped him. A cold sweat broke out on his brow, and his breathing quickened.

  Then he looked at Kyrell.

  The man sitting across from him no longer seemed like a young rebel. His features began to shift, subtly at first – a flicker in the light, a shadow that seemed to linger too long. Then the transformation accelerated. Kyrell’s skin darkened and cracked, as though his flesh were burned parchment, glowing with veins of molten fire beneath. His eyes were no longer human; they gleamed with an otherworldly brilliance, twin pits of smouldering amber.

  Shadowy tendrils writhed around him like living things, twisting and curling as if seeking something to devour. His once simple clothing turned to ragged, bloodstained robes that whispered of ancient violence. His form grew taller, impossibly so, until he seemed to tower over Aric, his presence filling the room with an overwhelming sense of dread.

  Aric tried to tear his eyes away, but Kyrell’s voice, deep and guttural now froze him in pce. “You think you can save them?” he intoned, his voice reverberating like a drumbeat in Aric’s skull. “You think you can defy me?”

  The walls of the room dissolved into swirling shadows, and Aric’s mind was consumed by a torrent of horrifying visions.

  The High Quarter appeared before him, transformed into a hellscape. The mansions and estates stood bckened and crumbling, their elegant facades marred by deep cracks that bled molten fire. Shadows danced across the streets – no, not shadows. They were figures, twisted and grotesque, their faces contorted in eternal screams as they cwed at their surroundings.

  Aric’s mother appeared, but she was not the woman he knew. Her skin was ashen, her eyes hollow and bck. She reached for him with trembling hands. “You let this happen,” she whispered, her voice a brittle echo. “You brought him here, Aric. You led him to us.”

  Behind her, Serenna emerged, her beauty destroyed. Her gown hung in tatters, and her face was a mask of terror. Her lips moved, forming words he couldn’t hear, but her expression was clear: she bmed him too.

  Kyrell stepped forward, his shadowy form looming even rger. The tendrils surrounding him shed out, striking the ground with a sound like cracking thunder. His voice rang out, deep and cold. “Do you see it, Aric? This is what your faith brings. Death. Destruction. Your god has abandoned you.”

  Aric stumbled back, his legs nearly giving way as he tried to escape the suffocating presence before him. The visions only grew worse. He saw his fellow padins, their shining armour turned to rusted, bloodstained husks. They y scattered across a battlefield, their faces frozen in anguish. He saw the High Quarter’s gates torn asunder, its people herded like cattle by shadowy figures with burning eyes.

  Kyrell’s face filled his vision, his monstrous features twisting into a cruel smile. “You will fail them, Aric Ellensar. You will fall, and when you do, I will be there to watch.”

  Aric gasped, his hands gripping the chair beneath him so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The vision ended as abruptly as it began, the room snapped back to normal.

  But Kyrell still sat there, unchanged yet somehow more terrifying than before. His dark eyes met Aric’s, and for the first time in his life, the padin felt utterly powerless.

  Kyrell leaned forward slightly, his movements deliberate and precise, his shadow stretching across the desk like a predator closing in on its prey. Kyrell’s voice, calm yet dripping with venom, cut through the oppressive silence like a bde.

  “Aric,” he began, “when you ensure that I receive that invitation – sent here, to this house – along with fitting attire for the occasion” – he reached into his jacket and slid a folded note across the table with two fingers – “then, and only then, will I make sure that the Low Quarter behaves. There will be no attacks, no uprisings. The ga is in two months. You have plenty of time to ensure everything is done to my specifications.”

  Aric’s eyes darted to the note resting on the desk before him. It seemed like such an insignificant thing, a scrap of paper, yet it carried the weight of an entire city’s fate. His hand trembled as he reached for it, but he stopped short when Kyrell’s voice sliced through the air again.

  “I will be in contact with you from time to time,” Kyrell continued, his tone colder now, like frost creeping over steel. “I’ll provide additional instructions as needed. You will comply.”

  Kyrell’s eyes bore into Aric’s, unblinking, relentless.

  Aric pushed himself to his feet, his legs heavy as stone. His mind was a tempest, and his chest felt tight with dread. He moved toward the door, his steps deliberate, his hand trembling slightly as it touched the handle. The air in the room seemed heavier now, stifling him, but something cwed at the edge of his mind, refusing to let him leave without asking the question burning inside.

  He turned back to Kyrell, forcing the words out through the lump in his throat. “What…are you?”

  Kyrell’s gaze locked onto Aric’s. For a long moment, he simply stared, his expression unreadable. Then, a slow, chilling smile crept across his face, and he spoke a single word, his voice dripping with menace:

  “Varyndros”

  The name hung in the air like a curse, it carried a weight he couldn’t understand, a malevolence that made his skin crawl. He didn’t dare ask for crification. He didn’t need to. The way Kyrell said it made it clear – it was something ancient, something terrible. Something that should not exist.

  Without another word, Aric turned and stepped out of the room, his boots heavy against the floor as he rejoined his men. The fresh air of the street did little to clear the haze of fear clouding his mind.

  “Sir,” one of the padins said, stepping forward with concern etched on his face. “What happened in there? Are you all right?”

  Aric’s lips parted, but no expnation came. He shook his head and muttered, “I’ll tell you another time.” His voice was firm but distant, as though speaking from far away.

  The men exchanged uneasy gnces but didn’t press him further. With Aric at the lead, they turned back toward the wall that separated the Low Quarter from the High Quarter.

  The streets seemed quieter now, the ughter of the citizens repced by a tense silence that echoed ominously. Aric kept his head high and his stride purposeful, but his mind was adrift, repying the name over and over.

  Varyndros.

  It was a name he would never forget.