The streets of Montreal boiled with defiance. Torches painted the night in crimson and gold, chants echoing through alleys and squares:
"Down with the Empire!""Freedom for the North!""Voclain! Voclain!"
From the balcony of a government building, Sebastian stood with his fists raised, his breath misting in the winter air. His voice thundered over the sea of bodies:
"They think wealth can chain us! They think dollars are stronger than dignity! But tonight, we prove them wrong—tonight, the North stands free!"
The crowd howled back, intoxicated by his fire. For a moment, it looked like revolution.
But in the shadows, Arthur's influence was already taking root.
The Ashford Web
Inside an unmarked van two blocks from the square, Eva's fingers flew across her keyboard, hacking into live-stream feeds. Half the world was watching Sebastian's fiery speech.
"We've replaced ten percent of the live captions already," Eva said coolly. On the screens, Sebastian's words were altered mid-broadcast, twisted into contradictions.
"We will starve together!""Reject progress—embrace poverty!"
Bella, monitoring from the back, gave a satisfied nod. "By morning, he'll look like a fool in every city that matters."
Nora leaned against the wall, arms folded. "His street soldiers won't care about captions. They follow blood, not words."
Arthur, seated at the center, raised a gloved hand. "That's why we cut his bloodline at the root."
He tapped the map projected before them: a glowing grid of Sebastian's organization.
Inner Circle: 12 advisers
Street Captains: 42 enforcers
Supply Nodes: 18 warehouses
Candy whistled. "You've got him dissected like a frog."
Arthur's lips curved faintly. "Every movement is a business. Break the logistics, and the rebellion dies."
Infiltration
The next night, Sebastian met with his closest circle in an abandoned cathedral.
"We march again in two days," he told them, spreading crude maps across the altar. "This time, we target the Ashford supply depots. If we seize their food, their people will turn against them."
But one of his advisers—a lean man with sharp eyes—remained silent. His name was Marcellin. Unknown to Sebastian, Marcellin had been bought by Arthur three weeks earlier.
He spoke finally, his voice measured. "We should hit their depots on the south docks. It's their weakest point."
Sebastian nodded, not suspecting the trap.
Arthur's agents would be waiting at the south docks with cameras rolling.
By morning, the world would see Sebastian's rebels attacking Ashford charity food convoys feeding Montreal's poor.
A Lesson in Control
In Manhattan, Arthur watched the plan unfold with the calm of a maestro conducting an orchestra.
"Finance is the bloodstream of the world," he mused, swirling a glass of cognac. "Sebastian thinks it's about fire in the streets, but fire burns out. Money flows. Money endures."
Vivian, ever the politician, smirked. "You're not just bleeding him—you're making him drink poison from his own cup."
Arthur's gaze sharpened. "No. I'm teaching him what every opponent must learn: rage without structure is only noise."
The Young Lion's Burden
That night, Sebastian returned to his quarters, exhaustion weighing on him. Alone, he stared into a cracked mirror.
For the first time, doubt flickered in his eyes.
His rallies drew thousands, yet food was scarcer every day. His "allies" whispered of hunger, of bribes, of Ashford bread filling bellies his slogans could not.
He clenched his fists until blood welled from his palms.
"I will not lose," he whispered.
But the web was already tightening.
The next move would not be his.
It would be Arthur's.