The wind howled outside the wooden walls of the dimly lit inn, rattling the shutters as if the storm itself sought refuge. Inside, the flicker of an oil lamp cast shadows over the faces of two women seated at a corner table. One, a seasoned Peach Rank, her 'Blossom Branch and Book' insignia embroidered on a faded coat, leaned back with a mug of cider in hand. The other, wore a similar uniform but with a white insignia showcasing an 'Open Hand and Candle Flame' and her white lining contrasting with her black uniform, clutched a steaming bowl of stew, her wide eyes soaking in every word like a sponge.

"Let me give you a piece of advice, little flame," the Peach Rank said, her voice low and smoky, a conspiratorial edge weaving into her tone. Her name was Marlis, though she hadn't bothered to offer it yet. "Don't trust a smile that comes with a crown, no matter how polished their gold or how regal their purple. There's rot in the roots of this land, and it trickles down into every branch, every leaf. Even us peaches."

The younger woman, Laira, blinked, clutching her spoon as if it might defend her from whatever dark tale was about to unfold. "Rot? What do you mean? The ranks are—"

"Pure? Just? Protected by the codes of our forebears?" Marlis snorted, setting her mug down with a thud. "That's what they'll tell you. That's what they told me when I first pinned this bloody blossom to my chest. But let me tell you, codes don't mean much when the ones who write them are the same ones breaking them."

Laira hesitated, the steam from her bowl obscuring her face for a moment. "I don't understand. Aren't the higher ranks supposed to guide us? How would they benifit from this?"

"Supposed to," Marlis said with a bitter laugh. "But power breeds greed, and greed is like rust—silent and hungry. It eats away until there's nothing left but a pretty shell." Her fingers brushed the insignia on her coat. "I learned that the hard way. We all did."

"What happened?" Laira's voice was barely above a whisper.

Marlis leaned in, her voice dropping further. "It started small. A shipment of grain gone missing on the road. Nothing unusual—bandits, we thought. Happens all the time. But then another. And another. Soon, the towns were starving. People were dying, and the local Blue Rank lord couldn't give a damn. Said it was a Teal Rank matter, and they'd sort it out. Only they didn't."

"So… you stepped in?" Laira guessed.

"We tried," Marlis said. "A handful of us—peaches with more sense than rank—started investigating. That's when we found out the truth. The shipments weren't lost. They were stolen. By the very people sworn to protect them. An Orange Rank and his lot, lining their pockets while children went hungry. We had proof, witnesses, everything we needed to bring it to the purples. Thought they'd handle it."

"But they didn't."

Marlis's expression darkened. "Oh, they handled it, all right. In their own way. The witnesses disappeared. One of my friends turned up dead in a ditch, throat cut ear to ear. And me? They are seding me south, out of sight, out of mind."

Laira stared at her, horror etched into her features. "Why didn't you—why don't you fight back?"

Marlis smiled, but it was a cold, weary thing. "Because fighting back means war. And war is for those with banners and armies, not for peaches and candles." Her eyes hardened. "But make no mistake, little flame. The rot doesn't care about you or me. It'll spread until there's nothing left. So if you're smart, you'll keep your head down. Do your job, earn your rank, and don't go sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

The wind lashed at the shutters again, as if punctuating her words. Laira sat in silence, her stew forgotten, her mind churning with thoughts she wasn't ready to voice. Marlis leaned back, draining the last of her cider.

"Welcome to the ranks, girl," she said. "Hope you survive them."

...

The storm had quieted to a restless whisper by the time Laira found herself alone at the table, her stew cold and untouched. The lamplight flickered, casting restless shadows that seemed to echo the turmoil in her thoughts. She'd worked tirelessly to climb here, her hands calloused from endless training, her mind sharpened by sleepless nights of study. To be a White Rank—a candle flame among the radiant stars of the hierarchy—was the first step on a journey she'd dreamed of since childhood. And yet Marlis's words hung heavy, like a damp cloak clinging to her shoulders.

Rot. Greed. Betrayal. The tarnish beneath the shine of the ranks. Could it really be as bad as the Peach claimed? Laira shook her head, pushing the thought away. I'll prove her wrong. I'll be different.

With that conviction steeling her, she stood, her boots scuffing against the wooden floor as she adjusted the crisp white insignia pinned to her coat. The inn had grown quieter, its patrons subdued by the late hour and the brooding storm. She made her way toward the door, weaving through the clutter of tables and chairs, the weight of her new rank both a pride and a burden.

Just as she reached the threshold, a man stumbled into her, his shoulder slamming against hers with enough force to make her stagger.

"Watch it!" she snapped, her tone sharper than she intended. The words spilled out before she could stop them, her frustration from the night bubbling to the surface.

The man turned, his face etched with irritation—until his eyes fell on the white patch gleaming on her coat. His expression shifted instantly, his anger evaporating into wide-eyed submission. "Sorry," he muttered, ducking his head like a scolded dog. Without another word, he scuttled away, his gaze firmly fixed on the floor.

Lira stood frozen for a moment, her heart pounding. The power her rank carried, even at the lowest rung of the ladder, hit her like a sudden gust of wind. It wasn't admiration that had driven the man's retreat—it was something colder. Something heavier. Fear. She felt a bit guilty but made for the exit without trying to give it too much thought.

As she was about to leave, she saw three figures enter, their movements heavy and deliberate. Green Ranks—Laira could tell by the gleaming green oak tree insignias embroidered on their coats. The air around them seemed to thicken with their presence, like a predator stalking into its territory. They weren't here for drinks or rest; they had a purpose. And it wasn't a friendly one. Among them stood a single man with orange stripe instead of the green against his black uniform, his outfit embroidered with an orange Flaming Sword insignia instead of the greens' Oak Tree with Intertwined Roots.

...

Her feet moved before her mind caught up. She retraced her steps, slipping back into a seat and trying to draw as little attention as possible. The room felt colder somehow, the raucous energy of the earlier patrons dulled by the Green Ranks' arrival. Laira crouched low, her heart thudding as she peered around the edge of the pillar.

Marlis hadn't moved from her corner. She sat slouched in her chair, one boot propped on the table, her mug of cider empty. She didn't flinch as the Green Ranks approached, but the way her hand hovered near her belt, at the hilt of her sword, told Laira she was anything but relaxed.

"Well, well," one of the Greens drawled, his voice thick with mockery. He was broad-shouldered and dark-haired, with a scar running jagged across his jaw. "If it isn't the mouthy Peach who thinks she's smarter than her betters."

Marlis didn't look up. "If you're here to lecture me, make it quick. I've had a long day, and you're not worth losing sleep over."

The other two Greens chuckled, though there was no humor in it. The scarred one leaned closer, placing a heavy hand on the table. "You've been sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, Peach. Asking questions. Poking around. It's starting to make people nervous."

Marlis finally looked up, her gaze cold and sharp as a whetted blade. "Good. They should be nervous."

The Green Rank straightened, his expression darkening. "Here's the thing. Nervous people do stupid things. Dangerous things. And we wouldn't want anything to happen to a harmless little Peach like you, would we?"

Marlis smiled, but it was a razor-thin thing, her teeth bared. "If you're trying to scare me, you'll have to do better than veiled threats."

The third Green, a wiry man with restless hands, shifted closer. "This isn't a threat, Marlis. It's a warning. Drop the investigation. Forget what you've seen. Or we'll make sure you're transferred to a place where peaches don't last long."

Laira's breath caught. The inn had grown eerily quiet, the other patrons avoiding even glancing at the confrontation. She pressed herself against the pillar, her mind racing. Investigation? This is about the shipments.

Marlis leaned back in her chair, her posture casual but her eyes blazing. "Tell your masters they'll have to do better than sending their lapdogs. I'm not so easily silenced."

The scarred Green snarled, his fist slamming into the table hard enough to rattle the empty mug. "You're going to regret this."

Marlis didn't flinch. "Probably. But not today."

The Greens exchanged dark looks, and after a tense moment, they backed away. "Last warning," the scarred one said. "Take it seriously." With that, they turned and stalked out, their boots echoing against the wooden floor.

Laira stayed hidden, her heart pounding in her chest. She watched Marlis carefully, expecting the Peach Rank to crumble under the weight of the confrontation. But Marlis just sat there, her face carved from stone, she picked up her empty mug, inspected it, and muttered, "Bloody bastards ruined my drink."

Laira swallowed hard, her mind a whirl of questions and fears. Whatever Marlis was involved in, it was dangerous. And Laira was suddenly very aware of how deep the rot might go.

The tension in the inn didn't have a chance to settle. No sooner had the Greens left that the door to the inn opened again, this time to the sound of deliberate, measured footsteps.

A man stepped in, flanked by a small entourage of Teal and Blue Ranks. The air changed instantly, a wave of unease rolling through the room as conversations died and heads turned. The man's purple cloak, trimmed with gold thread, marked him unmistakably as one of the few—an agent of the crown itself. His insignia, purple twin serpents encircling a crown, gleamed in the firelight. He carried himself with the kind of authority that needed no announcement.

Behind him, the Teal Ranks moved with quiet discipline. The Blues followed with hands on their sword hilts. Together, they filled the space with a sense of cold inevitability, like a tide that had come to claim its due.

Marlis stiffened in her chair, her hand falling instinctively to the hilt of her sword again. But she didn't move otherwise, her eyes narrowing as the Purple Rank scanned the room. He was tall, with sharp features and a voice that could cut stone. When he spoke, it was with a calm that carried the weight of absolute power.

"Orangs Rank Aber Korrik," he announced, his gaze locking onto the group of Greens huddled around the Orange ranker. His voice carried over the room like the toll of a bell. "By the authority of the Crown, I demand your presence."

The Greens froze, their confidence from moments ago dissolving into unease. From among them stepped a man with fiery insignia on his chest—an Orange Rank, his face pale but defiant. He was older than the others, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

"What is the meaning of this?" Aber's voice was rough, but there was a quiver in it. "I serve the Crown faithfully. You have no right—"

The Purple Rank silenced him with a raised hand, his expression unyielding. From within his cloak, he withdrew a scroll, the crown's insignia emblazoned on its seal. He unfurled it with precision, the parchment catching the light as he read aloud.

"Aber Korrik, Orange Rank, you stand accused of treason against the crown, theft of royal resources, and conspiracy to endanger the citizens of Eldoria. Evidence provided to this court"—he glanced briefly at Marlis, a flicker of acknowledgment crossing his otherwise cold demeanor—"proves your direct involvement in the misappropriation of grain shipments intended for the southern provinces among several other crimes."

The room seemed to shrink as the weight of the accusations settled on the patrons. No one dared to speak. The Purple Rank's voice remained steady, even as he delivered the final blow.

"By decree of His Majesty's court, you are hereby sentenced to death."

Aber staggered back, his mouth opening in protest, but no words came. The Greens around him instinctively stepped away, their loyalty vanishing like smoke in the face of the Purple Rank's authority.

"This is a mistake!" Aber finally choked out. "I was following orders! I—"

The Purple Rank raised a hand again, signaling to the Blues. Two of them stepped forward without hesitation, drawing their swords with a metallic hiss. Aber's protests dissolved into panicked gibberish as they seized him by the arms and dragged him toward the door.

Laira, still hidden behind the pillar, felt her breath catch. The scene unfolded with a brutal efficiency she hadn't expected. Marlis didn't move, though her knuckles whitened around the hilt of her sword. She seemed neither happy nor sad. Just curious and puzzled.

As Aber was dragged out into the night, the Purple turned toward Marlis. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second, and the faintest smile—cold and calculating—crossed his lips. Then he turned, his entourage following him into the storm, leaving the inn in a stunned, suffocating silence.

Marlis exhaled slowly, her hand finally releasing her blade. "And that," she muttered to herself, "is what happens when you play with fire."