The crowd surged forward, a living tide of weary bodies pressing toward the city gates. Daglan kept his head low, his hood casting his face in shadow. The clink of tools and the shuffle of boots on packed dirt filled the air, masking his careful footsteps.
He moved with the crowd, his heart hammering in his chest as the guards loomed ahead. Their eyes scanned the sea of hunched shoulders and dirt-smeared faces. Daglan flinched as one of them barked an order, the voice sharp enough to cut through the haze of exhaustion clinging to the crowd.
Stay small. Stay invisible.
The crowd thickened as workers funneled into the entrance. Daglan kept his hood drawn low, the murmur of voices around him a steady tide that ebbed and flowed with unease.
Ahead, the guards stood like statues. Their steel-plated figures stark against the dim glow of the gate's lights.
"Move along!" one shouted, shoving an older man whose steps were too slow. The man stumbled, muttering something under his breath, and the guard's hand went to the hilt of his sword.
Daglan clenched his fists, every instinct screaming at him to intervene, but he held himself back. He couldn't risk drawing attention—not now, not so close to the gate. Beside him, the worker's jaw tightened, his voice a low mutter. "One day," the man growled, "one day, we'll see who's shoving who."
Ahead, the guards were becoming more aggressive, their inspections turning random and increasingly harsh. Each step closer to the gate tightened the knot in Daglan's chest further. His gaze darted between the armored figures, and the gate that loomed like a promise just beyond them.
A commotion broke the rhythm of the line. A woman's pouch slipped from her hands, spilling coins across the dirt. She dropped to her knees, frantically gathering the scattered pieces. The line stalled behind her, impatience rippling through the gaurds.
"Move it!" one of them barked, shoving her with enough force to send her sprawling. The woman's hands trembled as she scrambled to collect the last of her coins, clutching them to her chest like a lifeline. Her fear radiated in sharp, brittle waves, and for a moment, Daglan's breath hitched.
His heartbeat quickened, a drumbeat of urgency pounding in his ears. He couldn't afford to hesitate. As the guard's shouts grew louder, Daglan slipped into motion. His steps quickened, fluid and deliberate. Threading through the huddle of workers like water through a jagged stream. The guards' attention remained fixed on the woman, their voices rising with irritation. The soft crunch of his boots against the dirt was lost beneath the commotion.
The gate loomed closer, and Daglan's chest nearly tightened to collapse. With a silent breath of relief, he slid through the gate and into the shadows beyond. The chaos behind him masking his escape. His pulse roared in his ears, but he didn't dare look back.
Almost there… You can do this. Daglan told himself, keeping his stride measured. Forcing down the primal urge to run. Each step felt like an eternity as he melted into the flow of workers now spilling into Melstien's dimly lit streets.
The city rose before him, the cramp and dilapidated living conditions a mirror image of Bolgue's. The factories squatted along the gulf like hungry beasts, their smokestacks belching endless plumes into the sky. Between them, buildings leaned against each other like drunken revelers, their walls stained with decades of grime and neglect. Windows stared out like hollow eyes, cracked or boarded over with rotting planks.
Daglan breathed a sigh of relief as he was finally inside, but his entrance hadn't gone completely unnoticed. Murmurs from the workers came like a gust of wind, their sideways glances sharp and searching. One man, his face marked by soot and exhaustion, leaned in just enough for his breath to tickle Daglan's ear.
"You're quite the fox," he murmured, his voice rough like gravel. "But why would a fox weasel its way into the hunter's den, I wonder?"
The question hung in the air, its weight pressing down like a heavy, damp cloth. Daglan glanced at the man trying not to draw attention, voice low and steady. "I'm looking for a man. One red eye, one blue. Wears a black suit." The color drained from the worker's weathered face, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. His mouth worked silently, before he shuffled off into the shadows, shoulders hunched as if warding off a blow.
Daglan frowned, his gaze drifting down the cobbled path ahead. What did the man know—and why had the mere mention of that description sent him scurrying away like a spooked rat? An unsettling tension clung to the air, thick and suffocating, as though something unseen was watching, waiting. He turned, unwilling to linger, and continued down the street, his steps growing heavier with each passing moment.
His search led him deeper into the maze of crumbling streets, each turn revealing yet another scene of decay. People walked by, faces hollow with hunger, clothes threadbare and patched, their eyes avoiding his with a practiced fear. Whispers followed him like shadows, and when he broached the name Vilrux, the response was always the same: fear, followed by an abrupt retreat.
"You'd best not ask about such things 'round here, youngin'." The old man's voice cracked like dry wood, and his gnarled hand tightened around his cane. His eyes were sharp, haunted, as he leaned heavily against the crumbling wall. Smoke curled from the cigarette clenched between his yellowed teeth, the haze swirling around him like a ghost. "You'd best be on your way. It ain't safe these days." With a final wave of his cane, dismissive and urgent, the old man retreated into the gloom, vanishing into the maze of streets.
Daglan stood in the shadow of the decaying buildings, his heart drumming a nervous beat. Another lead lost to fear. He glanced around, but the faces of those nearby offered no answers—only more silence, more fear. And beneath it all, a creeping doubt gnawed at him. The weight of those hurried glances, the unspoken terror, pressed down on him like the unrelenting grey sky.
What am I even doing here? The thought rang through him, raw and hollow, like an echo in a forgotten ruin.
"Don't mind that old coot." The words drifted from behind Daglan, casual yet weighted with something else. A young man sat sprawled against the wall, his fingers absently working at the sparse stubble on his chin like he was solving a puzzle. "Why are you looking for the Wolf?"
"Who?" Daglan settled onto the ground, matching the man's cross-legged pose, the cobblestones cold and uneven beneath him.
The man's forehead creased, confusion rippling across his features. "The guy you've been asking about? They call him the Wolf?"
"He slicks back his hair and travels with the Knights?"
"Yeah, that's the guy. Why you looking for him?"
"He killed my parents and took my sister." His words were measured, even.
"And what are you going to do about it?"
"Kill him."
Laughter erupted from the man, bouncing off the decaying walls. The sound echoed through the maze of broken stone and rotting wood, hollow and sharp.
"What's so funny?" Fury reared up in Daglan's chest, raw and primal. His fingers curling like claws against the stone.
"You're going to kill the Wolf?" The man's mirth danced on the edge of hysteria. "I'm sorry kid, but if he's half as deadly as they say, you might wanna train some more." His eyes met Daglan's, and the laughter died in his throat. He stared deep into Daglan's eyes with a strange knowing.
"What?" The word came out as a growl, fury mixing with his own voice.
"Nothing." The man's gaze skittered away, fixing on some point down the alley. His face went carefully blank, a mask pulled on too quickly.
"Do you know about the Wolf or not?"
"He comes through here sometimes. On his way to the Capital." His words came slower than before. Eyes still avoiding Daglan's. "But there really isn't much to tell you kid. He's... strange for sure. If you ask me he's playing the Knights for fools, he only cares about himslef. I've seen him helping the Knights one day, then ignoring citizens breaking the law the next. Once..." His voice splintered like dry wood. "Once I saw him standing in the town square during a riot. This Knight, young one, probably fresh from training, got caught by the mob. The Wolf just stood there, watching. Those mismatched eyes of his didn't even blink as the kid screamed. He just... observed."
The man's words hung in the air like smoke, heavy and acrid. Daglan watched as a group of Knights marched past, their armor gleaming dully in the weak light.
"You should leave," the man said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I can't leave," Daglan said. "Not until I can get more information."
The man shook his head and pushed himself to his feet. "Your funeral, kid." He paused, glancing over his shoulder. "Though if you're dead set on staying, you might want to find shelter before nightfall. These streets..." He trailed off as two workers brushed past, exchanging something between them that disappeared quickly into pockets.
Daglan remained seated against the cold stone wall as the man nodded and disappeared into the maze of streets. Another dead end, another person too afraid to speak plainly about Vilrux. He pressed his palms against the rough cobblestones and pushed himself up, legs stiff from the cold.
A gust of wind carried the stench of the factories, along with snippets of hushed conversations from nearby. Daglan caught fragments of words before the speakers noticed his presence and quickly dispersed. Something weird is going on here…
Daglan stepped away from the wall, keeping his hood low as he began walking. As he continued to wander he noticed the knights patrolled in much larger groups than Bolgue. He was right. I need to find somewhere to stay. He thought, realizing the Knights numbers only rose with the rising moon.
He turned down another narrow street, searching for an inn or boarding house that wouldn't ask too many questions. Each street was as uninviting as the last. Broken windows stared down at him like empty eyes, and the few lit lanterns cast more shadows than light. A group of workers huddled in a doorway fell silent as he passed, their conversation dying like a snuffed flame. Above him, the perpetually grey sky had deepened to an ominous black.
Then, a door creaked open nearby, and a woman's figure appeareding in the threshold. Her face was drawn with exhaustion, but there was something more. Anticipation, maybe?
Her eyes locked on him, sharp and assessing. "You look new here. Need a bed?" Her voice barely a whisper.
Daglan nodded, his gaze flicking nervously to the empty street. She looked both ways, then gestured for him to come closer, her hand beckoning him with a subtle urgency. "Two silvers. No questions asked."
"Lot of Knights out tonight," he commented carefully, testing the waters.
"Aye, and more coming every hour." She held out her hand for payment. "Best to have a roof over your head when the rain starts falling, if you take my meaning."
Daglan handed over the coins, and the woman ushered him inside quickly. The boarding house's interior was dim and musty, but cleaner than he'd expected. As his eyes adjusted to the weak lamplight, he noticed something odd about the other lodgers. Specifically those hunched around a table in the corner. Their clothes were worker's garb, but their postures were too rigid, too alert.
"Your room's upstairs, last door on the right," the woman said, but her attention was fixed on the group in the corner. They exchanged a subtle nod that made Daglan's spine tingle with warning.
He climbed the creaking stairs, counting doors and windows in case he needed an early exit. Through the thin walls, he could hear urgent whispers and the occasional metallic sound that reminded him too much of weapons being checked and cleaned.
The room was small, with only a narrow bed pushed against the wall and a window that overlooked an alley. Daglan approached it cautiously, keeping to the shadows as he peered out. In the twilight, he could make out figures moving between buildings with purpose, passing small bundles between them. One package slipped, spilling what looked suspiciously like arrowheads across the cobblestones. At least I can get out this window if they come after me.
A sharp rap at his door made him spin around. "Dinner's ready," the woman called, but there was an edge to her voice that hadn't been there before. "You might want to be quick. Night's not safe for strangers." The words twisted in Daglan's stomach, a cold knot of dread tightening with each syllable.
Daglan opened the door carefully, just enough to peer out. The woman was already halfway down the stairs, but she paused to look back at him with strange fiery eyes.
As he followed her down, the men from the corner were gone, leaving behind empty cups and what looked like chalk marks on the table, hastily smudged but not quite erased. Through the front window, he caught glimpses of more Knights patrolling, their armor reflecting the last light of day. But now he noticed something else. The workers they passed straightened ever so slightly. Their eyes tracked the Knights' movements with calculated intensity.
The woman set a bowl of thin stew in front of him. "Eat up. And I'd recommend you stay inside until you're ready to leave.' She gave him another searching look before turning to help other lodgers.
Daglan spooned the stew slowly, watching more shadows slip past the windows. The beast in his chest paced restlessly, sensing the tension in the air.
A crash from outside made everyone in the boarding house freeze. Through the window, Daglan saw a Knight shoving a worker against a wall, demanding to know what was in his bag. The worker's face remained carefully blank as he opened it to reveal only bread and tools.
The woman touched his shoulder, her fingers trembling slightly as Daglan was already half-way out of his seat. "Like I said. Best to stay inside."
Just then, another commotion erupted outside. Shouts and the sound of something heavy hitting stone. In the dim streetlights, Daglan saw a group of Knights surrounding someone, their armor gleaming dully as they landed kicks and jabs with their weapons.
"Thought you could sneak in, did you?" One growled. "No papers, no entry. That's the law." The figure on the ground tried to rise, and Daglan's heart stopped. He knew that face. He knew those defiant eyes, that white hair now speckled crimson.
Kento.
"I was just looking for–" Kento's words cut off in a grunt as a Knight's boot connected with his ribs.
A beast of rage and violence tore through Daglan's chest. His vision went red at the edges. Fury coursed through him. Primal and raw. Drowning out all thought. He was moving before his mind could catch up. Bursting past the wide-eyed woman who barely managed to stumble out of his way.
The world blurred into streaks of shadow and streetlights as he charged forward. Each foot forward sent shocks up his legs. But he felt nothing. Nothing except the fury propelling him forward. Workers scattered from his path, pressing themselves against walls and into doorways.
The Knight never saw him coming. Daglan's shoulder caught him square in the chest like a battering ram of a hundred men. The sound of their collision echoed through the city like a thunderclap– metal buckling, air forced from lungs, armor plates shrieking as they gave way. The Knight flew forward, his body going limp before he even hit the ground. When he landed, the crack of his armor against the cobblestones rang out like a signal bell. He lay motionless, his breastplate caved, ribs jutting out at unnatural angles.
The remaining Knights wheeled to face this new threat. Swords sung from scabbards and guns cocked back and ready. Lamplight danced along their blades and barrels. But Daglan barely saw them through the red haze of fury. Each breath was a wave of flames that seemed to incinerate the very air around him.
"Step back you filthy dog," one Knight snarled. Kento managed to get to a knee, blood covering his face. His eyes widened as they locked with Daglan's.
The remaining Knights spread out in a semicircle, their sword points aimed at Daglan's chest. The one closest raised his blade. "You'll die for assaulting a Knight!"
Before he could move, a rock sailed through the air, striking his helmet with a resounding clang. From the shadows, there was a slight movement. Subtle at first. A shuffle here, a whisper there. The workers who had been watching from windows and doorways began to emerge. But not in panic or retreat. They moved with purpose. With a tension that spoke of long-suppressed rage. Tools that had spent the day working were now gripped like weapons. Lengths of pipe gleamed dully in calloused hands. Here and there, the unmistakable glint of proper steel caught the light– weapons that had been hidden away, waiting for this very moment.
More shapes appeared in windows above, dark silhouettes that seemed to multiply with each passing second. The air grew thick with anticipation, like the moment before a storm breaks. Workers who had been hurrying home now stopped and turned, their faces transformed by something fierce and hungry. The Knights' heads swiveled as they realized the growing crowd was no longer cowering.
From an alley, the scrape of metal on stone, a gun being loaded, a sword being drawn. From the rooftops, the whispers of a bowstring being tested. Behind carts, the soft clinks of chains being unwrapped.
"Back away!" The lead Knight commanded, but his voice held an edge of uncertainty now. "This is your only warning!"
His words hung in the air for a moment, meeting only silence. The Knights drew closer together, their previous confidence eroding as they realized how badly the odds had turned. Where moments ago they had been in control, now they stood encircled by a sea of shadows and steel, each face in the crowd bearing the same look of grim determination.
One of the Knights shot a flair to signal for reinforcements. The movement caught the lamplight, and in that flash of reflected flame, the powder keg that was Melstien finally ignited.