The streets of Draeven whispered like a graveyard. Ash drifted from the sky though no fires burned that night, a ghostly reminder of the kingdom's suffering. The smell of charred wood and flesh had become part of the city itself—no one remembered a time it was absent.
Kael rode through the western quarter on a black stallion, his cloak dragging like a funeral shroud. People scattered at his passing, bowing not out of devotion but in terror. At his side walked Selara, her hand resting on the hilt of her blade as if she longed for an excuse to use it.
At a corner near the old well, the Silent Flame had dared to strike: three guards lay dead, throats slit clean, their blood painting the cobblestones. A message was scrawled in soot on the wall:
**"We do not kneel."**
Selara's eyes narrowed. She touched the words with her fingertips, smearing them into black streaks across the wall. "Defiance," she whispered, her smile curving sharp. "Good. It means they still believe they have hope. Hope is so very easy to destroy."
Kael swung down from his horse, boots crunching on the blood-slick stones. His silver eyes swept the silent crowd that dared watch from windows and doorways. "Bring me the first five who step forward," he commanded, his voice carrying like thunder.
The people froze, breaths trapped in their throats. Finally, a trembling man stumbled into view, dragged by fear more than courage. Behind him came a woman clutching her child, weeping openly. Two more followed—silent, resigned. The fifth was a boy, no older than twelve, pushed forward by rough hands desperate to stay hidden.
Selara clapped once, the sound echoing like a cruel bell. "Perfect." She stepped close to the boy, lifting his chin with her dagger. "Tell me, child—were you the one who wrote the words?"
The boy's lips quivered. "No… my lady… I swear—"
"Lies bore me." She drove the dagger into the wall beside his ear, making him cry out. Then she turned to Kael. "Shall we make an example?"
Kael nodded, his face calm as a blade. He drew his sword and spoke not to the prisoners, but to the watching crowd. "The Silent Flame has stolen your peace. They have murdered loyal guards. For their crime—**you will pay**."
One by one, he cut the throats of the chosen five, each stroke deliberate, each drop of blood another nail hammered into the city's trembling faith. The crowd sobbed, some collapsing to their knees. No one dared scream.
Selara leaned close, whispering into Kael's ear as crimson pooled at their boots. "Every rebellion begins with words, my love. And words are easiest silenced with blood."
When they left, Draeven's streets were painted red again, and the ash drifting from the sky seemed darker than before.
In the shadows beyond the square, Rennick watched. His fists were clenched so tightly his nails bit into his palms. He had seen cruelty before—but not this. Not the slaughter of innocents in such cold precision. And for the first time, his anger outweighed his fear.
The Silent Flame would not stop. They could not stop. Not now.
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