The grand council chamber of Qarth, usually a place of calm and calculated political games, was now an echo chamber of growing greed. The ornate room was filled with the Pureborn—Qarth's self-proclaimed elite, draped in silks and jewels, perched lazily on their thrones of ivory and gold. This was the pinnacle of Qarth's power, and for centuries they had ruled over the city with little to no challenge. But today, the room buzzed with an unusual energy as talk of Eden dominated the conversation.
"Eden, a fairy tale spun by desperate slaves," one of the elder Pureborn grumbled, his voice thick with disdain. He waved a gnarled hand dismissively. "It's nothing but a myth conjured to give the lower castes false hope."
The older members of the Pureborn nodded in agreement, their arrogance blinding them to the changing world. For them, Eden was a fabrication, and the runaways seeking it were deluded fools.
But the younger members of the council, their minds sharper and less burdened by the arrogance of age, remained silent, watching with calculating eyes. And then, a member of the Ancient Guild of Spicers stood. He was not as flamboyant as the Pureborn, but his wealth and power were undeniable, and his opinion carried weight. His eyes gleamed with amusement as he surveyed the room.
"Fairy tales do not fill the coffers of the Guild," he said calmly, letting his words settle like a stone in the still waters of the chamber. The murmurs quieted immediately as the Pureborn turned their attention toward him. "And our coffers have been overflowing, thanks to this so-called Eden."
A hush fell over the room. Even the eldest Pureborn, who had spent decades dismissing anything they didn't understand, were now listening intently. Coin spoke louder than anything else in Qarth, and the Spicers were rarely wrong when it came to trade and profit.
The Spicer took his time, letting the tension build before continuing. "Exotic spices," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "More potent than any we've seen in centuries. Perfumes that intoxicate the senses. Silks so fine, they feel like water running through your hands. And jewelry that would shame the greatest artisans of our city. All of it... from Eden."
At that, the Pureborn leaned forward in their seats. Whispers began to circulate, greed flashing in their eyes. The Spicer smiled knowingly. "You doubt me still? Then let me show you."
He gestured to the massive doors of the chamber, and with a great creak, they swung open. Two heavily guarded merchants entered, their travel-worn faces betraying nothing but confidence. Between them, they carried large, wrapped bundles. The room watched in rapt attention as the merchants laid their goods on the long table.
With a dramatic flourish, the first merchant unfurled a large, colorful poster. The image of Mark Lantrun, the ruler of Eden, came into full view. His face, with its ethereal beauty and commanding presence, seemed almost too perfect to be real. His eyes stared out from the poster, serene and yet piercing, as if he could see straight into the souls of those who looked upon him.
Gasps echoed throughout the chamber. The image of Mark left the council speechless. His beauty was unmatched, almost unearthly, and the quality of the poster was beyond anything they had ever seen.
"This... this is one of the rulers of Eden?" one of the Pureborn asked, his voice thick with awe.
The second merchant stepped forward and laid down another poster, this one of Clara Lantrun. Her radiant beauty was just as striking as her son's, but there was a warmth to her expression, a motherly kindness that contrasted with Mark's more aloof visage.
The merchants then began to reveal their wares—statues of astonishing craftsmanship, silks of the finest quality, and jewelry fit for the most powerful kings of the world. The Pureborn, usually unimpressed by material goods, found themselves speechless as they gazed upon the treasures laid before them.
"It is real," the first merchant said quietly. "I have walked through the gates of Eden myself. It's no myth. It is a city like no other. No slaves. No masters. Just free men and women. And it's growing. Day by day."
The silence that followed was palpable. The Pureborn were no longer skeptical. Now, they were ravenous.
"If we can take this Eden for ourselves," one of the Pureborn whispered, loud enough for all to hear, "imagine the wealth we would control. A city of such riches, under our command."
Another, older Pureborn leaned forward, his voice sharp with determination. "Then let us take it. We have the means. An army large enough to conquer any city in Essos. Let's bring Eden to its knees and claim its treasures."
But in their plotting, the council failed to notice the unseen presence lurking in the shadows. Invisible to the eye, spies sent by Mark moved among the chamber, silently gathering every word spoken. These spies, fanatically loyal to the Supreme Leader, had been stationed in Qarth for years, awaiting orders.
---
In an old, nondescript warehouse on the outskirts of the city, a group of those spies had gathered. The building appeared abandoned, once belonging to a minor merchant who had met an untimely death under suspicious circumstances. But inside, it was anything but abandoned. The walls were lined with weapons—guns, swords, bombs—and the shelves were stocked with deadly poisons. Upstairs, neat rows of bunks housed the spies, but now they gathered in a room equipped with advanced technology, far beyond anything seen in Qarth.
They huddled around a large screen, and one of them pressed a button. After a moment of static, the image of Mark appeared, flickering briefly before becoming clear.
"Supreme Leader," one of the spies greeted him, bowing slightly. The others followed suit. "We have urgent news from Qarth."
Mark raised an eyebrow, his expression calm but curious. "Go on."
"The ruling council of Qarth is planning an assault on Eden," the spy reported. "They see our city as a source of immense wealth. They've begun making preparations for an invasion."
Mark's lips curled into a small, knowing smile. "Predictable. Greed drives them, as it drives all tyrants." He paused, considering his next move. "Initiate Operation Pandemonium."
The spies nodded, understanding what needed to be done. The screen flickered, and Mark's image vanished.
---
That night, as darkness fell over Qarth, the city began to burn—not from an invading force, but from within. Mark's spies had planted the seeds of chaos, and now they watched as the city tore itself apart.
Political turmoil spread like wildfire as key members of the ruling factions were assassinated in their sleep, their deaths framed to look like betrayals from rival factions. Forged documents were carefully planted, implicating each faction in a conspiracy to destroy the others.
As word of the supposed treachery spread, the lower castes—long oppressed and beaten down by the upper classes—took to the streets. Fires erupted in the marketplaces as the poor and the downtrodden rose up in rebellion, seizing what little power they could from the chaos.
"Death to the Pureborn!" someone shouted, and the cry was quickly taken up by the growing mob. "Death to the slavers! Death to the tyrants!"
The once proud streets of Qarth, filled with merchants and nobles, were now battlegrounds. The rioting lower castes, armed with whatever they could find, clashed with the city's guards, overwhelming them in sheer numbers. Blood spilled onto the cobblestones as fires raged through the city's grand marketplaces and wealthy districts.
At the same time, in the upper echelons of Qarth's elite, the Pureborn were turning on one another. Each faction believed the others had betrayed them, and now they sought vengeance. Knives were drawn in the council chambers, and blood flowed as alliances crumbled into dust.
"What have you done?" one of the Pureborn screamed as he was dragged from his opulent home by a mob of angry citizens.
"We are taking what's ours!" a woman shouted, her face twisted with rage. "You've ruled over us for too long!"
The city, once known as the Queen of Cities, was now engulfed in flames—both literal and metaphorical. The streets were a battlefield, and the ruling classes were tearing themselves apart from within.
Mark's spies watched from the shadows, their mission complete. As the city of Qarth burned, they quietly slipped away, leaving behind a city in ruins. The Queen of Cities had fallen, not from an outside invasion, but from the chaos sown by its own people.
Back in Eden, Mark watched the reports with mild amusement, his lips curling into a satisfied smile.
"Qarth," he mused, "once the center of power and wealth, now reduced to ashes by its own greed." He turned away, already thinking of the next move. "No one challenges Eden and lives to tell the tale."