Ashira's Bargain
The Council chamber stank of ink, damp wool, and sweat. Candles guttered in their sconces, dripping wax onto old parchments that had once promised justice but now reeked of compromise. The chamber wasn't filled with voices so much as murmurs, whispers sliding through the benches like snakes in grass.
Ashira stood at the center, her cloak heavy with rain, her jaw tight enough to crack. Every instinct told her to lash out, to curse these men and women who had let the city rot while stuffing their granaries. But she kept her nails biting into her palms, her voice low and measured.
"You want safety," she said, eyes glinting. "You want your caravans to move without ambush. You want your coffers filled. Then stand with me. Dominion cannot afford your hesitation."
A murmur of approval rippled—but one Councilor, Lord Varret, lifted his chin, the only face not lowered. His voice was sharp:
"And what if your strength fails, Ashira? What then? We bind ourselves to you, and when you fall, we fall with you."
Ashira's chest burned with fury. She wanted to spit: I do not fall. Instead she leaned forward, her whisper cold as steel:
"Then bind yourself elsewhere, Varret. Bind yourself to hunger, to thieves, to the mobs clawing at your gates. See if they give you more than I will."
Varret faltered. His gaze darted to the others—already nodding, already calculating. He sank back into silence.
Ashira straightened, every word a stone placed in the foundation of her power. But inside, a voice hissed: They do not follow you. They follow their bellies.
Serenya's Poisoned Ink
The print shop reeked of oil and ash. Stacks of cheap paper leaned against the walls, ink-stained rags blackening the floor. Behind the press, Master Kett—the printer who had once given her poems a home—sat with his sleeves rolled high, his grin sharp as a blade.
"Well, well," he said, tapping ash from his pipe. "The dove comes bearing carrion. I thought you'd die clinging to your purity, girl. But here you are."
Serenya stiffened. "Just print them."
He chuckled. "Oh, I will. Dominion loves a new hymn."
She sat at his scarred desk, quill trembling in her hand. The words came like poison, each stroke tearing at her chest:
Ashira feeds us,
Ashira shields us,
Ashira cuts the rot from our bones.
When the ink dried, her stomach churned. These weren't verses—they were chains.
Kett plucked the sheet from her trembling fingers, holding it to the lamplight. "Look at that. A song for a butcher. The people will eat it up." His grin widened. "And so will I."
Serenya turned away, bile burning her throat. The paper was no longer hers; it belonged to Dominion now, and to hunger.
Kaelen's Guild
The workshop stank of rust and sweat. Kaelen stood over the long table, his hands raw, his eyes hollow. The engineers watched him, waiting for orders—but their loyalty was threadbare.
"Work or starve," Kaelen said, voice flat. "No more coin for idlers. No more bread for those who do not mend the city."
A murmur of discontent rippled through the room. One man—Jarek, who had once been Kaelen's closest ally—stepped forward, fists clenched.
"So you've become her," Jarek spat. "Ashira in a different coat. Cutthroat and cold."
Kaelen's chest tightened. For a heartbeat, he wanted to deny it. But the faces around him—the hollow cheeks, the gnawing hunger—left no space for lies.
"I am not Ashira," he said. "But if survival makes me seem her shadow, then so be it. I will not watch Dominion crumble while we wring our hands."
A small sound drew his gaze—a child peeking through the cracked door, eyes wide, ribs sharp beneath rags. Kaelen's breath caught. His hand twitched toward the sack of bread on the table. But he forced it still. His voice rasped:
"Earn it, or watch it rot."
The door closed. Silence. Then, one by one, the engineers picked up their tools. Hammers struck, sparks flared. The workshop lived again—driven not by loyalty, but by necessity.
Kaelen watched, his jaw tight, knowing each clang was another nail in the coffin of his ideals.
The Shadow of Malrik
In the taverns, whispers slithered louder than the storm.
"They say Malrik Draeven rides at night, his horse black as pitch. He breaks the skulls of debt-collectors and leaves gold in the gutters."
"No—he burns villages that fail him, leaves children begging at the gates. He laughs while they starve."
Every version contradicted the next, savior and monster tangled into one. But in every mouth that spoke his name, fear lived like a second tongue.
In a corner booth, Serenya gripped her cup, knuckles white. The moment his name drifted past her ear, her hand froze. She stared at the ale but didn't drink.
The voices kept circling: Malrik the liberator. Malrik the butcher. Malrik the shadow behind every law.
She swallowed hard, her pulse quickening. His absence was louder than any presence.
Ashira's Balcony
Night settled heavy over Dominion. Ashira stood on her balcony, rain slick on her skin, her cloak clinging like a second shadow. Below, the city whispered her name, a chorus of awe and fear.
She closed her eyes, recalling faces: the guild leader she exiled, the mob that had begged for bread, the engineers who bent beneath her command. Each cut she made left its ghost.
She whispered, voice cracking:
"Did I save them… or only carve myself a throne of bones?"
The storm quieted, as if the city itself held its breath. The silence inside her chest was louder than the cheers below.
For a moment, she almost wished the cheers would turn to screams. At least then, she would know what she had truly become.
The Oracle's Whisper
The mist coiled tighter. Somewhere in the black, the Oracle's voice slithered—not booming, not clear, but like a memory she could not un-hear.
"Mercy dies first in this city…
Pity rots in the alleys…
What they keep alive is what keeps them alive…
And when you no longer feed their fire, child…
They will watch you drown… with dry eyes."
Ashira's breath caught. She could not tell if the words were warning or prophecy.
But she felt eyes on her through the mist. Watching. Weighing. Waiting.