Loras – The Waning Flame
The rain came down in thin sheets, silvering the neon alleys of Dominion. Loras walked them alone, clutching a damp stack of leaflets to his chest. His once-proud stride had shrunk into a weary shuffle.
At a tavern door, he knocked, smiling weakly at a group of old comrades. "Brothers, come to the square tonight. We'll remind them of the fire that once—"
The door slammed. From inside came mocking laughter.
Another alley. He caught sight of two men he once rallied beside. They averted their eyes, muttering:
"Loras again. The man doesn't know he's finished."
The words cut deeper than any blade. Still, he pressed on.
By dusk, he stood at the cracked steps of Solstice Square. Only a scattering of faces turned to him. The rain-slick cobblestones glistened beneath failing lamps, the glow of holo-feeds above the plaza flashing news of Councilor Marrec and Eryndor, not him.
Still, he raised his voice.
"Dominion! Hear me!" His words carried, but they sounded thin against the roar of passing transports. "We cannot bow to the Syndicate, nor lick the boots of the Council! We must stand together!"
A couple of passersby paused. Most kept walking.
His hand trembled, but he pressed on, shouting a line that had once ignited a thousand voices in unity:
"The city bends when the brave stand tall!"
Once, the words had shaken the square like thunder. Now, the rain swallowed them.
A boy laughed. A vendor packed up his cart and muttered, "The brave? He looks like a beggar."
Loras' voice cracked, desperation spilling. "Stand tall, I beg you!"
But Dominion had moved on.
Serenya – The Balcony of Doubt
Above the square, on the second-floor balcony of a quiet café, Serenya Veyra watched. The hood of her cloak shadowed pale eyes.
Her notebook lay open, ink blotted from the drizzle that reached even here. Words danced and broke across the page, fragments of a heart at war:
"He lit the match,
now smoke devours him.
I would cradle the flame,
but fire burns the hand…"
Her pen slipped. The page tore. She let the scrap flutter down. It landed in a puddle and was crushed under hurried boots.
Her chest tightened. She remembered the first night she had met him: a younger Serenya, hunched in a corner, whispering verses to herself. Loras had plucked the notebook from her hands, read aloud to the crowd, and turned her hidden words into living fire.
That man—the one who had dragged her voice from shadows—was not the husk below.
Yet misery spreads. She could feel it gnawing at her, a rot creeping inward.
Her lips trembled. She whispered to the rain:
"If I stay… I fall too."
The Backroom Confrontation
Later that night, the café's backroom filled with the smell of wet stone and despair. Loras stumbled in, drenched, his hair plastered to his face. His hands shook as he reached for her.
"Serenya," he rasped. "You saw them ignore me. But you—you still believe, don't you? Tell me you do."
Her silence cut him sharper than blades.
"Say it!" he snapped, voice raw. "Say you won't abandon me."
Serenya's lips parted, but only fragments came:
"I…"
"Do you remember your own words?" Loras' voice rose, cracked with bitterness. "'The city bends when the brave stand tall.' That was you, Serenya. Your verse. And now? You'd bend to Eryndor's smile? To Valen's coins?"
Her heart lurched. He had stolen her words and turned them against her.
Her reply came cold, though her hands trembled:
"A poem no one hears is ash. Dominion doesn't honor martyrs. It buries them."
Loras staggered, as if struck. His eyes blazed with hurt.
"You… poet of knives. You would cut the very hands that raised you."
Tears mixed with rain on his cheeks. He lurched to the door, voice breaking into fury:
"One day, you'll bleed for this. And I'll be there to see it."
The door slammed, leaving silence. Serenya sat in the gloom, her notebook open before her. The page was blank. For the first time in years, no words would come.
Eryndor – The Rising Flame
That same night, the Amphitheater of Glass overflowed. Laughter and music swelled as Eryndor, Dominion's golden orator, stood upon the stage.
"The Council claims it feeds us," he called, voice warm as wine. "But I ask—when was the last time you tasted freedom, not rations?"
The crowd roared. He smiled, pacing with the rhythm of a conductor.
"They sell us chains, and we clap for the shine. But I tell you this—our voices are the real gold!"
The amphitheater thundered his name. His presence lit the space like a dawn breaking over the ruins.
And in the balcony shadows, Serenya watched. Her chest tightened. Here was what Loras once was—what he could no longer be.
After, in a velvet-lit lounge, Eryndor raised a glass to her.
"Lady Veyra. I've long admired your verses. Shall we not weave them with my fire?"
His admirers buzzed around them:
"Serenya, we can get your poems onto CouncilNet feeds—anonymously if needed."
"Your words deserve gold. I will sponsor their publication."
"Speak with me tomorrow; I can arrange channels into the Lyceum's restricted halls."
Each voice was a door opening. Each offer, a tool in her hand.
Eryndor leaned close, his tone quieter, sharper:
"My fire burns brighter when your words ride its wind. I need you as much as you might need me."
Serenya sipped her wine, and for the first time that night, her lips curved.
The Poet Alone
Her quarters were dim, rain ticking against the window. Outside, faint cheers of "Eryndor! Eryndor!" echoed like ghosts.
Serenya sat before her desk, quill in hand. The candle guttered low. On the desk lay fragments of Loras' torn leaflets, stained with mud.
Her hand trembled as she traced them. She saw flashes of him: his first speech, his firebrand smile, the night he made her words fly.
She whispered into the silence:
"Loras?"
No answer came. Only the storm.
At last, she wrote, her hand shaking:
"I build my throne with borrowed light,
but shadows gnaw the base beneath.
Crowns shine bright, yet weigh like stones,
and every severed hand still bleeds."
The ink blurred as her tears touched the page.
Then she straightened, her voice hardening, cutting the silence:
"Better to weep in strength than smile in ruin. Dominion honors the rising sun, not the fading ember."
The Oracle's Whisper
And then—the room chilled. A voice like smoke wound around her ears.
"You have cut the rope, Serenya. The stone sinks… but stones in the river do not vanish. They roll. They sharpen. They wait. One day, the current may return them to your feet… and you will know the weight you cast aside."
The candle guttered out. She was left in darkness.
Law Etched in Dominion
LAW X: Misery spreads like plague. Shun the unlucky, the broken, the cursed—for their ruin will entwine with yours. Seek instead those who shine, and their fortune will cloak you in light.