Date: April 8, 541, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
The morning began with the sharp smell of tar and fresh lime—in Ligra's artisans' quarter, dyers and tanners started work before the first ray of sun touched the tops of the Estate's towers. Dur woke to the steady tapping of a hammer somewhere below. He lay motionless, listening to the sounds of the city, which had become a battlefield no less dangerous than the northern forests.
Maël was already awake. He sat by the window, whistling a tune, and was polishing his boots with a piece of old rag with surprising care. His movements had a strange, almost ceremonial precision. He looked cheerful and smiling, as if yesterday's discovery in the archives about the "Inner Circle" surveillance was just an annoying misunderstanding. Dur watched him and never ceased to wonder: how could this light, almost childlike carefree nature coexist in one person with the mind of a predator capable of calculating ten moves ahead?
"Today's an important day, Dur," Maël turned and flashed a dazzling smile. "You need to show yourself to Horn. If you hole up, he'll think his best tool has rusted. I'll take a walk to Onion Yard. They say they've changed the provisions suppliers for the garrison. That's a good excuse to listen to what the quartermasters are grumbling about."
Dur nodded, pulling on his leather armor. He still felt uncomfortable in the role of a "city employee," but Maël's logic was irrefutable.
"Try not to run into that woman from the tavern," Dur warned. "Her Spirit looks for inconsistencies. And you're one big inconsistency."
Maël just laughed, winking at him.
"That's my talent, Dur. Being everyone and no one at once."
They left the refuge separately. Dur headed for the northern gates, trying to stay on crowded streets. His copper token hung in plain sight, and patrols he met along the way gave him short, respectful nods. However, as he passed Justice Square, the situation changed.
The road was blocked by a checkpoint. But these weren't Horn's men, the ones Dur was used to seeing on the outskirts. These were guards from the Central Garrison—the "Iron Collars." Their armor was polished to a mirror shine, their cloaks were bright red, and on their faces was frozen a mask of arrogant indifference. If Horn's men were hard-working veterans, these were executioners and enforcers of absolute order.
"Halt," an officer commanded, blocking Dur's path with a long halberd. "Document and personal property check. Sarim's Decree No. 4. Due to Alvost saboteur activity, everyone is subject to inspection, including freelance personnel."
Dur froze. His forest instincts screamed danger. These men weren't looking for saboteurs. They were demonstrating power. The officer, a man with thin lips and cold gray eyes, clearly possessed an awakened Spirit. The air around his head vibrated faintly, like a heat haze over a hot road.
"My token was issued by Senior Patrolman Horn," Dur said calmly, extending the copper piece. "I'm going to report."
The officer took the token with two fingers, as if reluctant to touch Dur's hand.
"Horn is too trusting of forest trash," he hissed. "Turn around. Bag on the ground."
At that moment, as if by chance, Maël appeared around the corner. He carried a wicker basket with some roots and looked like an ordinary shop assistant—stooped, in a dirty apron, with a silly grin on his face. Dur nearly gave himself away when he saw his friend so close to the "Iron Collars." Maël, without stopping, began to squeeze past the checkpoint.
"Hey you! Stop!" one of the guards barked, grabbing Maël by the scruff of the neck.
Maël instantly "got scared." His basket fell, roots scattering in the mud.
"Oh, forgive me, kind sir guard! I'm just… I'm late for the shop, the boss will kill me!" he wailed, trembling slightly.
Dur watched this act with his heart in his throat. He knew Maël hated physical contact with such people. Looking at his face, Dur noticed how, for an instant, a dangerous, crimson spark flashed deep in his friend's brown eyes—that same trace of rage that Maël usually kept locked behind ten bolts. It was the fire of a man not used to being grabbed by dirty hands.
The officer with the halberd switched his attention to Maël. His Spirit—"Sharp Sight" (Anima)—began actively scanning the youth. Dur felt the pressure in the air increase. The officer narrowed his eyes, peering at the trembling "shop assistant."
"Something's not right about you, boy," the officer said slowly. "Your hands… they're too clean for someone who handles dirt. And your heart… it's beating too steadily for someone so frightened."
Maël kept his stupid grin, but Dur saw the muscles in his neck tense. Maël always tried to avoid conflict, but when cornered, he became frightening. Dur remembered stories about how bullies in orphanages sometimes disappeared after encounters with "quiet" kids. A rage capable of breaking all bounds slept within Maël.
"I'm just… I'm very disciplined!" Maël squeaked. "The master teaches: be afraid, but do the work!"
The officer snorted and drew back his hand to slap Maël—just for fun.
Dur understood: if he didn't intervene now, Maël might snap.
"Officer," Dur said loudly and clearly, drawing attention to himself. "My bag has been checked. My token is genuine. Horn doesn't have time to wait while you amuse yourselves with city fools. If my report is delayed, I'll tell him whose fault it is. Horn doesn't like it when the 'Iron Collars' interfere with his work."
The officer froze. The mention of Horn, known for his foul temper and direct access to Sarim, had an effect. He slowly lowered his hand and shoved Maël away.
"Get lost, trash. You too, Shadow. Go to your old man. But remember: in the central quarters, your copper trinkets are worth nothing."
Maël, wailing and gathering his roots, quickly scurried into an alley. Dur, without looking back, walked on. His heart pounded. This encounter had been on the brink of disaster.
***
They met an hour later in the shadow of an old mill on the city's outskirts. Maël sat on a rock, his face pale, his hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles were white. Not a trace of his optimism remained.
"Did you see that?" Maël whispered. His voice trembled not from fear, but from barely contained fury. "That contemptible worm… he was going to hit me. His Spirit… it barely touched the surface, but it felt something. They all feel it."
Dur sat down beside him, placing his bow on his knees.
"You nearly snapped, Maël. I saw your eyes."
Maël took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. His Spirit began slowly extinguishing the flash of rage, returning his usual mask.
"I hate them, Dur. Not the Family… but this mechanism that gives a stupid officer the right to think himself a god over others." He looked at Dur. "Thanks. You stepped in just in time. If I'd touched him… there'd be no going back."
"Ligra is a small city, Maël," said Dur, looking at the Estate's spires. "But there are too many people here who want to test our strength. Horn is waiting for me. He said they saw 'strange shadows' beyond the walls. Not Alvost saboteurs, but something… magical."
Maël instantly switched gears, his mind beginning to work feverishly again.
"Magical shadows? Could be a beast with a Spirit. Or…" he hesitated. "Or someone from 'inside' conducting tests. Either way, it's your chance to earn more reputation. Go to Horn. And I… I need to sit in silence. I have to wash the stench of the Central Garrison off my skin."
"We'll become stronger," Dur said, repeating their shared mantra. "Until we're stronger, we'll depend on their mercy. But one day…"
Maël raised his head and, for the first time that day, smiled his real, predatory smile.
"One day, Dur, we'll decide for ourselves who stands guard. Go. The forest awaits you. I'll keep an eye on the city."
Dur headed for the northern gates. He didn't yet know that not only the guards were watching this "checkpoint on the roads." From the window of a high tower, the cold eyes of the Whisperer observed them, noting in her report: *"Object No. 12-B displayed an abnormal reaction to aggression. Potentially dangerous. Bond with tracker strengthening. Second Circle involvement recommended."*
Ligra's web continued to tighten, and each step of the friends only added tension to its strands.