Rednar crouched atop a building, watching the guards come and go from the post across the street. They moved like bees in a disturbed hive, their stingers, the spears they carried, pointed skyward.
His face was dark and serious, but he had cause for it.
“You’re going to bring rain wearing a thundercloud like that,” Olphira said, slapping his shoulder lightly.
She sat down next to him, peeking above the roof’s ledge, examining the guards below.
“It’s almost time,” Rednar said simply.
Olphira nodded, saying nothing. The two sat in silence for several moments, enjoying each other’s company, or perhaps stalling.
“You know, it’s easier talking about ‘giving everything to the future’ than it is to actually do it,” Olphira said suddenly.
The two stared down at the street in silence once again.
“Easier when you think that ‘giving everything’ only means you life, too,” Rednar said quietly.
Olphira put her hand on his shoulder, sidling closer. The silence stretched, both trying to enjoy the moment while it lasted.
“I guess the question is: is the Rennet worth not just your life, but your soul?” Olphira posed. “For me, it is.”
Rednar nodded slowly.
“For the Rennet,” he said, his jaw firming.
“For the Rennet,” Olphira replied, squeezing his shoulder.
————————————
Rednar squeezed into the guard post just before the door closed, slipping in after a pair of guards exited. Inside was a frenzy of activity, with people rushing to and fro, weapons and armor being disseminated, and a low hum of constant voices.
He only took moments to glance around and gather his bearings before heading over to the equipment rack. He donned a few steel plates over his chest and shoulders, pulling a helmet over his head. He grabbed a spear from the wall and followed the line of guards out of the post.
They raced through the city, their single line diminishing with every major thoroughfare they passed as groups of guards split off. Rednar followed the person directly in front of him and was led to the Needle.
The strange tower at the center of the city was a source of mystery and rumor for the locals. Starting as a squat stone building, it gradually tapered into a multi-story tower that stretched above all the other buildings, but even that was not the strangest part.
A thin spire of metal speared out from the ceiling of the building, shooting up nearly to the top of the Guardian’s shell, too thin to be of any use, yet too unique not to do something. It was rumored that the Needle was the source of the magic field blanketing the city, but no one knew for sure, and officials were tight-lipped.
Before the Needle, a crowd filled the enormous circular path surrounding it. They shouted and chanted and roared their dissatisfaction, and Rednar’s grip on his spear tightened.
This was it.
He pushed through the crowd, taking his place in front of the building among a line of guards that stood almost shoulder-to-shoulder, keeping the ravenous crowd at bay.
Rednar participated in the defense for around ten minutes, pushing the crowd back—sometimes physically—whenever it advanced too far, yet the people did not lose their mettle. Indeed, tensions only escalated, with some of the guards becoming rougher with every push.
He saw a guard bash a man’s head with the butt of his spear and decided it was time. There was no more waiting, no more putting it off. Tensions were now at their highest, and he was to be the catalyst to boil them over.
For the Rennet! he screamed internally.
“Get back! Cease your violence!” he shouted toward a man in front of him, pushing him with the haft of his spear.
The man looked confused at the sudden shout for a moment, but his fire returned, and he pressed forward, aiming to push Rednar back.
Rednar grit his teeth, his jaw firm, his mind set.
And he stabbed.
“Ack!” the man cried, collapsing as Rednar withdrew his spear.
The man fell on his back, gagging, as blood poured from his chest. A brief silence descended over Rednar’s small section of the crowd, both civilians and guards staring at the man in shock as he bled out.
“He killed him. A guard stabbed him. Killed the man in cold blood! It was him! He’s the killer!” Olphira shouted, pointing at Rednar, spittle flying as she accused.
The crowd surged forward, groping and grappling with the line of guards, attempting to wrestle the weapons from their hands. Rednar struggled with several civilians before, with violent force, the spear was wrenched from his hands.
For the Rennet, he thought, watching almost in slow motion as the point of the spear flew toward him like judgment from a god, damning his soul forever.
——————————
Nephthys watched as what could only be described as a brawl broke out in front of the Needle, the crowd fighting the guards and then each other as chaos quickly turned the protest into an unmanaged riot.
“Reports from all over the city are coming in. It seems chaotic, Mythmaker. Riots and violence that started small are now spreading across the city. This escalation was far too quick. I suspect there are agitators present abetting the escalation, but for what purpose, I do not know,” Moirenea reported.
“Yes, I am witnessing one at the Needle as we speak. There was a guard who stabbed a civilian, but the response was too quick, too organized. Jace’s men are very likely attempting a version of the same chaos they sowed in—” Nephthys said, interrupting herself to scan the crowd below.
Fuck, where did he go?!
Jace, who had been standing in the crowd, watching the events unfold calmly, had vanished while she was distracted with Moirenea’s report. He was like a mouse in tall grass. If she had her eyes on him, it was easy to track his movements, but the instant she lost him, it became difficult to find him again. His presence was…slippery.
“Keep me updated, Moirenea. I have lost sight of Jace. I need to find him,” Nephthys said, cutting the communication and gliding down from the building she was perched on.
Damn it all.
——————————
Marquis Douglas’ eyes opened, bloodshot, with dark circles surrounding them. He coughed into the silent shadows that blanketed his chamber, reaching toward his night table and knocking an empty chalice over.
“Damn…fucking…” he muttered, sitting up and flinging his legs over the edge of the bed.
He stood and immediately had to grip the canopy's top with both hands as his world spun. He closed his eyes and waited for the spell to pass, noting that it took nearly a full minute. That was not good. He needed his medicine.
Stumbling over to his desk, he poured the remaining wine from an elaborate decanter into the cup from last night, ignoring the stains, which were quickly covered by the stale draught.
“More wine!” he shouted into the silence, never doubting that someone would be nearby to hear his demand.
Waddling over to an armoire that sat against the wall by the door, he nursed his wine, sipping and savoring it, as if it were bringing him back to health. He dug, shoulder-deep in the armoire, eventually withdrawing a glass vial from a false back and leaving it hanging open. The compartment was empty now, anyway.
He popped the cork, ignoring the words scratched into the golden filigree around the bottle—his son’s name—and shook the vial over his wine, grimacing when only a few tiny flecks of his medicine floated down into the drink.
“Dammit, I need more! Where is my refresh?!” he screamed, throwing the vial and stomping over to the door to furiously ring a bell that hung from a chain next to the frame.
He waited a few moments, growing increasingly irate with each passing second that he failed to hear the scuffle and scurry of footsteps. He gripped the handle, intending to throw the door open and storm out, but movement in his peripheral vision drew his attention back to his unmade bed.
His son.
The pallid skin seemed to glow in the darkness, his lifeless eyes gazing from his head, lulled over the pillow, stared into Douglas’ soul. His son was lying across the bed, as if his corpse were discarded carelessly by some delivery boy.
A cold sweat dripped down the marquis’ forehead, and he buried himself in his goblet, sucking the drink down as if a panacea for his ails. When he returned his eyes to his bed on the opposite side of the room, he found it empty, just as he had left it.
With a relieved sigh, he turned, opened the door, and strode into an empty hall. He stood before his chamber door for a few seconds, taking in the barren corridor as he continued to nurse his drink. Finding no one to direct his ire, he marched down the hall toward the entryway, a darkness hugging his features, as if stuck.
When he reached the stairs, he began to hear a ruckus, as if the entire city were gathered before his manor. Yet still, he encountered no one, no servants running with water for the plants, which were long dead in their vessels. No delivery people wandering the halls to deposit their messages or cargo. No servants. No one at all.
His manor appeared to be vacant.
Descending the steps, the low din grew into the roars and jeers of many combined voices. Once he reached the bottom step, bangs sounded against his front door. There was a crowd at his door; they were angry and breaking in.
“My son wasn’t enough?! What more do you wish to take?!
“Very well! I will not be cowed in my own home!” he shouted, throwing his chalice to the side, which clanged loudly across the floor.
He yanked a sword and shield from a display on the wall, leveling them at the door in a combat stance.
“Come and face me, miscreants. I’ll not roll over like my useless spawn,” he growled through gritted teeth.
The doors burst open, a crowd of angry citizens rushing in like a tsunami wave. The last thing Marquis Douglas noticed before meeting his violent end was the lack of guards, both inside his manor and out.
He had been abandoned.
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