Chapter 45:
Our Doubts Are Traitors
> As ordered, four detachments have been dispatched to Centria. Whispers of heresy persist, but the proletariat remains in ignorance—for now. Manufactory records have been suitably doctored, presenting an image of stability to the noble Houses. Yet the shadows in the Lower City grow thick with secrets, and each day they loom closer to the surface. This quiet cannot hold. We must prepare for what may come.
>
> — Codename Echo, to High Magister Orimund
Adrian called forth the exercise, dividing his mind into two fully independent streams, each prepared to argue a separate, opposing position. This was the test: to summon two contradictory beliefs, each compelling enough to stand on its own, and pit them against each other without letting the boundary between them blur. The mental division had to be absolute, with neither side swaying the other, like two philosophers locked in relentless debate.
In his left mind, he held firmly to the idea that the forced labor economy of Centria and the great Cities led to stagnation. The accumulation of capital among the wealthy contract-holders—families fortified by the power of the Hand or Tongue—resulted in vast, hoarded fortunes, blocking any chance for new ventures. Their political clout and extended lifespans only deepened the disparity, choking innovation and leaving those at the bottom with no hope of change.
His right mind, however, argued the exact opposite: that the forced labor system fostered economic growth. The security that came with long-term contracts allowed for high levels of specialization within noble houses, leading to gradual improvements in technology and quality of life. Even the countrysides, where crop-sharing provided some stability, benefitted from the system. This balance, his right mind insisted, created a buffer against economic disaster, bringing steady progress to society at large.
Adrian immersed himself in the debate, drawing each argument from the tome in front of him—a piece of scholarship that might have fascinated an academic but served as little more than an exercise tool to him. His feelings about the text were irrelevant; all that mattered was the discipline of holding two oppositional ideas as if each was a truth unto itself. And as his minds argued, a sense of accomplishment welled up in him. Just last week, he had failed to maintain such a perfect split. Now, each mind was its own entity, fully committed to its stance. It was the first taste of true mastery.
But as his thoughts settled, Adrian knew he had only scratched the surface. This exercise, though a breakthrough, was something taught to Knights—a stepping stone from Soldier to Knight, not a technique for a Squire. Why had Hadriq chosen him to learn it? Adrian hadn’t dared ask, but he’d wondered if Hadriq had seen something in him, something worth accelerating. The thought filled him with a peculiar curiosity, a sense of possibility. If he could skip steps like this, what else could he accomplish?
Hadriq had hinted that true progress required finding a link between mind and body, a link that allowed power to flow more naturally, without constant strain. He was told it was the difference between Squire and Soldier, the factor that unlocked Control at a whole new level. Adrian could only imagine what that might feel like, though he sensed it must be more efficient, more instinctual than his current efforts. He was nearly there but hadn’t yet discovered the key.
The Hunters, however, seemed less cautious about revealing such secrets. While the Magisterium jealously guarded its knowledge, Hunters wanted their Squires to ascend, their Soldiers to reach Knight as quickly as possible. Operational security depended on a swift rise, and that urgency reminded Adrian of the night he’d seen Godfrey.
Only a month ago, he’d watched his friend emerge from that wreck of a house, the door torn off its hinges, reduced to splinters. Even now, the memory lingered, chilling him. His friend—the one who had trained at his side—was entangled in something dark enough to attract the Hunters’ scrutiny. But the Hunters weren’t known for patience. They would pursue their target relentlessly, and Adrian knew from experience that they rarely failed.
A pang of betrayal twisted in his gut. Godfrey, a fellow Squire, had been responsible for the deaths of Imperial soldiers. Adrian had been part of the detail that combed through the bodies, Hand soldiers among them. And there, deep in the basement of the wrecked house, they had uncovered a cell. The stench had been overpowering, the walls slick with grime and waste. The men they’d found, hollow-eyed and gaunt, had clung to life with an intensity that unsettled Adrian. What had they done to end up there? And did any crime warrant such punishment?
Around him, his brothers were rousing, the barracks coming to life. They’d been stationed here two days, waiting to move. Their orders involved watching over the black sites, each one recently exposed by the Magisterium in a fit of panic. Despite the Magisterium’s efforts to keep a lid on things, unrest was festering in the manufactory district. The Rot—a plague, allergen, or drug that had infested the poorest areas—was spreading, making the district even more volatile. Adrian scowled at the thought of it. As if Centria didn’t have enough to deal with.
In the affluent areas he’d patrolled, there had been no signs of disorder. The black sites lay quiet beneath the surface in the nicer neighborhoods, and no trouble roamed these cobbled streets. And yet, the shutters were locked, doors bolted as though a storm were brewing just out of sight. The silence, the eerie stillness, spoke of a tension that ran deeper than simple fear.
The heavy wooden door of the barracks eased open, barely making a sound on its well-oiled hinges. In stepped Hadriq, his bespectacled gaze sweeping the room until he found Adrian, already awake amidst the dim forms of his slumbering brothers. With a curt nod, Hadriq beckoned him over.
Adrian rose quietly, picking his way around the sleeping forms sprawled in the low-ceilinged barracks. The hall was cluttered with personal effects, the belongings of Soldiers and Squires who bunked together in close quarters. Only the Knights and Soldier officers had separate quarters—a distant privilege, and one that Adrian had yet to experience.
Halfway across the room, Hadriq motioned for Adrian to pause, signing for him to gather his kit. Adrian responded with a swift salute, quickly grabbing his gear before moving to join his mentor. With barely a creak, he slipped through the door, following Hadriq outside.
The early morning air held a biting chill, and in the courtyard, Adrian’s gaze fell upon a small, intense gathering. Nyx, Briscus, and Garrick stood in a half-circle around Master Kieran, the black sable coat he wore obscuring his lean frame as he spoke in low, clipped tones. Each of the three Hunters leaned forward, listening with sharp focus, their breaths misting faintly in the cool air.
As Adrian and Hadriq approached, Kieran’s gaze flicked over to them. He nodded once in acknowledgment, a silent signal that spoke louder than words. The circle opened to make room, and as Adrian stepped into place beside his brothers, he felt the weight of their attention shift subtly. Whatever Kieran had called them for, it was no simple matter.
“Glad you could make it, Adrian.” Kieran offered him a brief smile before turning back to Garrick, who looked ready to unleash a monologue of objections to the plan Kieran had been laying out.
Hearing his own name felt strange. Adrian had noticed that among the Hunters, titles and ranks mattered less; officers called their inferiors by name rather than rank or family. His time in the Hand had been brief and rigid, its structure built on strict deference to superiors. Here, though, things were different. The Hunters felt more like a close-knit pack, where skill counted more than hierarchy and officers often sought input, treating their subordinates as partners rather than mere tools.
“As I was saying,” Kieran continued, “we’ve got an incident simmering in the manufactory district. Seems some belligerents are stirring up a mob. Magister Mopatis wants us to handle it but also insists we maintain eyes on his little sites. So, we’re being stretched thin. Yes, Garrick,” he cut in before Garrick could speak, “I know exactly what you’re about to say, but my hands are tied. We accepted this mission and Mopatis’ oversight, so we’ll tackle both tasks with the same efficiency we bring to all our work.”
Garrick, barely keeping his frustration in check, shook his head. “Kieran, sending a team into the manufactory district without proper city guard support is asking for trouble. We go in loud, we’re a target. We go in quiet, no uniforms, maybe we’ll slip by. But we’re too clean and too well-fed to pass as factory laborers. And if we go in unarmed, we’re risking our necks. This is bad business.”
Kieran’s expression tightened, though he managed a dry smile. “Believe me, I hear you. But the Magisterium’s informants have been going dark down in the pit, one by one. They want us to investigate, and they’re pushing hard.” He glanced at Adrian, a curious gleam in his eye. “Take young Adrian with you. I think he might come in handy.”
Kieran held Adrian’s gaze, studying him for any hint of hesitation. Adrian’s chest tightened with excitement and a flicker of nerves. This was it—his first real mission with the Hunters. A chance to prove himself, to put his new skills to the test.
“Dismissed,” Kieran said, snapping them back to the present. “Garrick, take your team to the manufactory district, double-time. I’ll send word with a Magisterium bird to guide you. We don’t have an exact location, but we’re seeing crowds gathering. Follow the movement, it’ll lead you close enough.”
Garrick’s jaw tightened in acceptance. “Understood, sir. Briscus, grab the mounts. We’ll ride as far as the Lower City gates, then continue on foot. The horses will only slow us down in the tight alleys.”
He turned to leave but paused, glancing back with a grim expression. “And bring triple rations. Whatever Kieran says, I’ve got a bad feeling. If we’re out past the wire, we may not see an exfil until things settle.”
With Garrick gone, Briscus wasted no time. “Nyx, Hadriq, Adrian—triple rations, kitted for stealth. And Nyx, that means no crossbows, no Grecian fire. Let’s not draw attention if we don’t need it.”
They split off, each heading to gather supplies. Hadriq rolled his eyes slightly behind his glasses as Briscus took charge, but as he passed Adrian, he gave him a quick wink before making his way to the quartermaster. Adrian, though, was already prepared; his increased appetite had him carrying quadruple rations wherever he went. As he moved to his bunk, he dropped off his glaive and heavy shield, swapping them for gear more suited to a covert op. Around him, his brothers were throwing complaints at him as he noisily prepared.
A pair of long knives strapped to his shins, a shortsword at his waist, a dagger at his side. He shrugged into a dark coat over his civilian clothes—the Hunters had been out of uniform since the beginning of this inter-City operation.
Logistically, he was ready. But he felt a strange tension twisting through his thoughts, and it was harder to ignore now as he waited for his team to regroup. His attitude toward violence, toward duty, had shifted since that day in the ruins. Once, he had only cared about three things: besting men in combat, drinking fine wine, and enjoying the company of good women. But ever since that day… Adrian stopped himself. He couldn’t quite think of Godfrey as a traitor, not yet. Ever since Godfrey had… infected them, with whatever that Song was. Since Rinthess, that damnable Speaker, had manipulated them all. As if a group of young Squires and Scribes would have stood against the cunning of an ancient Speaker.
Where his heart had once been full of bluster and charm, something darker had taken root. A bitterness had been creeping into his thoughts of late, an edge that felt foreign. He didn’t know if it was simply the rapid shift in his life since the day he’d first met Godfrey in that wagon, or if something else was at play. Perhaps he was just getting older.
He shook off the thought with practiced ease. Dark thoughts had no place here. He plastered a grin onto his face, letting it light his eyes, even if it felt hollow.
He was here to quell a mob. To do his duty. He wasn’t here to examine the state of his own soul.
It was all fucking rotten—every last bit of it—but he had learned to ignore that too.
XXX
Zayd moved carefully through the crowd, his physician’s kufiya scarf double-wrapped around his mouth and nose—not just to block the stench of sweat, smoke, and industrial waste, but for fear of the Rot. Light seemed to pulse faintly around him, though he told himself it was just his imagination. The people he maneuvered around did not murmur or glance his way as he passed. Their eyes were locked forward, fixed on some unseen point ahead with a yearning so deep it seemed to weigh down the very air.
But it wasn’t their gazes that haunted him—it was their voices. Every throat in the crowd hummed with a sound that was both beautiful and terrifying. A single, unbroken note hung heavy and reverent, eerie in its harmony. The deeper tones of larger men mingled with the lilting hum of women and the frail, high pitches of children, merging into a resonance that felt alive, woven from ten thousand voices all raised in quiet desperation.
And every person—each voice—was hunched, worn down by time, by starvation, by labor, and now, by the Rot.
Here, they had come. For their salvation.
They had come here for salvation.
Zayd felt a troubling familiarity as he moved through the throng, something that stirred memories of colonnaded prayer halls back in his homeland. This wasn’t some unruly mob—it was a congregation.
He followed the hum toward the square at the district’s center, its dry fountain now surrounded by grime-streaked streets and towering buildings that belched smoke into the air. The manufactory district, once a hub of wealth and commerce, was now little more than a generational labor camp, the people bound not by iron but by debt—debts that clung to children and grandchildren like chains. In Centria, the sins of the father did not die with him; they were passed down, heavy as stone. Born in smoke, these people would die in it.
Even the Lower City, with its poverty and limits, felt open compared to this. Here, shut behind high gates, the poor suffocated. And he had never ventured in, had never offered his help. Not because they didn’t need it or because he lacked the skill. No, he had stayed away out of cowardice, afraid of what he might see, of what he might fail to mend. For that, he damned himself.
The crowd thickened as he neared the square’s dry, cracked fountain, once a symbol of prosperity, now a symbol of decay. He stumbled, jolting from his reverie, and looked down to find a small girl on her hands and knees. She rose, gazing up at him with a strange, quiet joy that hollowed his heart. Dark spots dotted her cheeks, her nose, her ears—the Rot, advanced, its marks ravaging her tiny body. She wouldn’t last the week. The Zahr had done its work, transforming into a plague exactly as designed in the dark labs of Uptar nar-Dal.
Yet the child’s eyes held no fear, no pain—only joy. Her little mouth lifted in a smile, and hope gleamed in her eyes like diamonds in coal.
Zayd had seen that look before, in the prayer halls of his homeland, knew its flavor on the tongue. Deliverance.
Such fervor could be more dangerous than the Rot itself if placed in the wrong hands. Or, perhaps, in any hands at all.
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And there he was, exactly where Zayd had known he would be—at the center of ten thousand hollowed souls: peasant debt-slaves, criminals, the broken and the crippled. He was not hiding anymore.
Zayd’s voice cut through the hum, fracturing the spell that bound the crowd immediately around the man.
“Godfrey.” His voice wavered, unsteady against the strange unity surrounding them. “What… what is this?”
Godfrey stood silently as a desperate woman approached, a baby cradled in her trembling arms, her eyes bright with the impossible hope of the once-damned. The infant was barely breathing, a thin and rattling cough escaping from its tiny lips. Zayd’s chest tightened at the sight—the Rot had taken hold, thickening the child’s mucus membranes, turning each labored breath into an unbearable struggle. The mother flinched at the sound, each cough striking her like a heavy blow, yet she held her baby toward Godfrey as if he were her last sanctuary.
Zayd moved closer, his voice urgent. “This isn’t subtle, Godfrey. Do you think they won’t notice? The authorities will crush this ‘gathering’ for fear of a mob. What exactly do you think you’re doing?” He dropped his voice lower, harsh. “Imitating some kind of messiah? Have you seen the way they look at you? Granting false hope to people you can’t actually save is crueler than hurting them outright.”
But Godfrey merely smiled, serene, as if he had long since made his peace with the danger. “I could not allow this to fester, Zayd. I hope you will forgive me.” His gaze held a calm that somehow softened his words, yet his intent was resolute.
Without another word, he took the baby from its mother’s arms, holding the child with a gentleness that stilled the woman’s desperate shaking. Zayd watched as Godfrey leaned close, his eyes darkening, deepening to an obsidian black as he began to murmur. The words were rapid, a staccato chant that pulsed with rhythm before slowing, easing into a low, subtle tune that hummed through the air. Zayd felt the hum in his bones, an unsettling resonance that seemed to vibrate the very ground beneath them.
And then, to Zayd’s astonishment, the baby began to stir. Its tiny lips quivered, then began to move in time with the soft rhythm of Godfrey’s voice, as if the song itself breathed life back into its frail form. The child’s weak, jerking flails became slightly stronger, turning into exploratory tugs and squirms. Its color did not fully return, but the skin warmed to a soft flush, and dark muck escaped from its nose as it let out a strong sneeze, followed by a thin wail that shattered the silence of the crowd.
Zayd could only stare. In that moment, he understood—if only an inkling—what those in the prayer halls must have felt when the Mamluk delivered his sermons.
Godfrey, unperturbed, passed the more lively baby back to the mother, her face radiant with gratitude as she pressed the child close, overcome by the impossible transformation.
Godfrey’s voice remained quiet as he addressed Zayd, his gaze distant, reflective. “I’ve seen them in my time wandering the Lower City, Zayd. Turned away in droves from the respitals. The Tongue fears losing its Speakers and Listeners to the Rot, but that doesn’t excuse abandoning these people. I can help them, but my power is as a salve, not a cure,” He glanced over the crowd, his expression softened by a strange sadness. “But I didn’t ask you here just to witness this.”
Zayd watched as Godfrey opened his mouth, and a deep, resonant pulse of sound rippled outward, vibrating through the crowd. The people moved with it, amplifying the sound, sending it outward as if guided by some invisible thread. Within moments, Zayd noticed a small figure cloaked in black pushing through the crowd, the masses parting before her as though an unseen force compelled them aside.
From the dim, smoky shadows of the forge-fires, Rinthess emerged. Her eyes blazed with defiance, a flicker of rage at being summoned so publicly. Yet, when her gaze settled on Godfrey, Zayd noted the tension in her stance, the subtle but undeniable fear—a slight hunch in her shoulders, the way her eyes slid away from his and flicked back only briefly.
“What do you want, Godfrey?” Her voice was sharp, cold. “I have matters to prepare, and it takes no small effort to keep these plague-rats away from me.”
A hot flare of anger surged through Zayd at her callous words. The crowd before them was broken, suffering—people struggling to survive in the wasteland of the manufactory district, ravaged by the Rot and years of hard labor. And yet she dismissed them with such ease, such contempt. He saw Godfrey’s brow tighten, just a fraction, the only sign that her comment had struck a nerve.
But Godfrey’s voice remained level, his gaze unwavering as he asked, “Tell me, Rinthess. What do you see in the faces of these people?”
Rinthess’s lips curled in disdain, a mocking smile barely concealing her disgust. “What I see,” she sneered, “is you waving a massive red flag to the City authorities and every other power hungry enough to crush this place beneath their boot. The Magisterium is in a frenzy over a potential peasant revolt, and this… display… will be like a spark to dry tinder. This city will erupt after tonight, won’t it, Godfrey?”
She stepped closer, her gaze intense, her tone dripping with scorn and fervent belief. “But you knew that. I warned you myself, and still you insist on this reckless game.” Her voice lowered, each word heavy with an almost desperate conviction. “You need to invoke the Song, Godfrey. This isn’t enough—hundreds of thousands are fading away, clinging to life in the city proper. The Song could heal them, every last one, and you know it. Look around you.” She gestured toward the suffering masses, her eyes flashing with something between challenge and zeal.
Godfrey nodded slowly, then turned to Zayd, his gaze steady and unflinching. “Tell me, Zayd. You’ve been investigating the Zahr infestation in the city for months now. What are your conclusions?”
Zayd exhaled, shoulders heavy. “From what I’ve gathered, large shipments of Zahr entered Centria through a Grain Gate wagon train about eight months ago. I tracked the trail of bribes—until I hit a wall, the sort that usually signals blood in the water. So, I dug deeper. Turns out, the wagon train came down the Centria Road from Westport, having originally arrived by ship. The manifest listed its last port of call in southern Somara.”
He paused, grimacing. “But the timelines didn’t match. A journey by warm-water routes would have taken far longer. The only explanation? That ship sailed the frozen northern waters of Brella at the cusp of winter.”
Godfrey’s brow lifted, the faintest hint of interest in his otherwise calm expression. Zayd continued, his tone edged with grim satisfaction at having pieced it all together.
“This means the planners paid far more than usual. Only madmen sail north during early winter. Whoever commissioned this was desperate—willing to risk lives, perhaps the entire shipment. Speed was of the essence, and it shows. The whole plan stinks of something hurried to the breaking point, almost sloppy.”
Zayd’s gaze swept over the crowd, his voice lowered. “Once the shipment entered the city, operatives began distributing Zahr-tainted food to the population—soup kitchens, bread lines. It spread fast. And now,” he gestured to the huddled, broken people around them, “here we see the result, exactly as designed: a plague to cripple the city from within, a biological weapon unleashed on an innocent population by someone very wealthy, very desperate, and running out of time.”
Godfrey’s face remained unreadable, but his eyes flickered with an intensity that belied his calm. He looked back to Rinthess, whose expression hardened at Zayd’s revelation, though she quickly masked it. For a moment, silence hung between them, thick with the weight of understanding and the implications of Zayd’s words.
Godfrey looked to the sky, the bowl of Centria with its great, brutalistic buildings forming a ring, with him at its center.
Godfrey’s expression remained placid, unreadable—but with a flicker of strength, of something unyielding, his presence took on a weight that even Rinthess could not dismiss. The hum of the crowd pulsed around them, a strange, unified rhythm that seemed to vibrate through the air itself.
Godfrey extended a hand while speaking one quiet word. Rinthess’s defiance faltered, her knees buckling as if an unseen force pressed her down. She fell to the ground, kneeling before him, her shoulders slumped even as her eyes burned with indignation.
“What is it you wanted, Rinthess?” he asked, his voice soft, as if addressing not just her, but the very soul of the city around them.
Rinthess’s mask of composure cracked. Her voice was taut, tinged with a desperate urgency. “You’re moving too slowly, Godfrey. This is no idle march through history—it’s a sprint, while the Empire remains blind to the threat you represent. If you want to survive, if you want to change anything, you need more people under the Song. Not just those petty few you bonded with in the ruins, but real power. Mass devotion. All of them.”
Godfrey shook his head, his gaze sorrowful as he looked out over the crowd. “The Song is not some simple weapon to be wielded, Rinthess. It does not serve, nor can it be controlled. It alters, it changes, reshaping those who touch it—and those who are touched in turn. The Song does not bind people together; it consumes them. This isn’t unity. It’s control on a scale that even the Tongue would never dare to wield.”
“Control?” Rinthess’s tone was biting. “You’re afraid to use the very gift that could free them all? You think the Empire’s chains are somehow kinder?”
Godfrey’s gaze was steady, a deep, unwavering calm behind his words. “Control wielded to destroy one tyranny only plants the seeds of another.”
He took a step closer, his voice soft yet carrying an eerie resonance that seemed to echo through the square. “If we strip away their autonomy, if we reshape their souls to fit our vision of freedom, what are we freeing them into, Rinthess? More darkness? A world made of their dreams, or only ours?”
Rinthess’s jaw clenched, her posture tense even as she knelt, trembling, under the weight of his presence. “You’re a fool. This power is a weapon, Godfrey, and whether you wield it or let it rot, the world will see it either way. The Empire will come for you, and all your restraint will mean nothing when they tear down everything you’ve tried to preserve.”
A flicker of something unreadable crossed Godfrey’s face, as though he looked past her, past the buildings, into the heart of the world itself. “The Song is not mine to command, nor yours to twist. It’s not freedom if we force them to sing it. The world doesn’t need another tyrant—even one who claims to act for its sake.”
Rinthess shook her head slowly, and a hollow, broken laugh escaped her lips—a sound edged with desperation, bitterness, and the remnants of a hope turned dark. Her laughter built, sharp and unhinged, filling the air like a discordant note in the crowd’s steady hum.
“So we are damned, then?” Her eyes flashed, and her voice was almost a plea, twisted with irony. “Would you hear it from me, Godfrey? Yes, I sent the Zahr into this city. Yes, I sought to destabilize it, to break its bones and build it anew with the people’s gratitude, to forge a foundation for power that would last.” Her laughter grew sharper, her eyes gleaming with a terrible satisfaction. “And now—now you have no choice but to take them into your Song. Bind them to you, or they will all die. You can see it, can’t you? They’re rotting from within, fading before your eyes.”
She laughed again, the sound hollow, knowing she had achieved her goal, even if she might never see it reach its full, twisted fruition. She had set the pieces, and now he stood in their center, with all the crushing force of the choice she’d placed upon him.
Godfrey’s sad eyes flickered, and for the first time, a glint of fire sparked within them. His hand moved to his belt, drawing his longsword with a measured, lethal grace. The blade caught the dim light, casting a cold gleam that matched the edge in his gaze as he stepped toward Rinthess.
But a firm hand pressed against his shoulder. Zayd stood beside him, his expression grave, yet resolute.
“She is mine, Godfrey.” His voice was steady, quiet, but filled with a depth of resolve. “I owe that to this city. To these people.” He looked past Godfrey to the suffering throngs, the lives Rinthess had twisted and condemned in her schemes. “I have failed them in ways I cannot undo, but I can do this.”
Godfrey held Zayd’s gaze, a silent understanding passing between them. The fire in his eyes softened, and he nodded, stepping back, lowering his sword in a gesture of solemn respect.
Rinthess’s laughter faded, her gaze darting between Godfrey and Zayd, a calculating glint flickering in her eyes. She shifted on her knees, her posture turning from submissive to predatory, even as her situation grew dire.
Then, before either man could react, Rinthess’s mouth twisted into a smile—a thin, merciless line. She whispered words too low to hear, but the effect rippled instantly through the crowd. The humming shifted, deepened, voices catching on her command as the air warped the partially invoked Bladesong from peoples’ minds. The people closest to her straightened, their faces empty, eyes glassy as her influence took root, and they
With a low, resonant note, Rinthess invoked the Tongue, amplifying her control, and the crowd around her responded, moving like puppets. The mothers clutched their children closer, hands trembling, eyes blank. The sick and feeble gathered in a shield around her, human walls she twisted to her defense.
Godfrey’s hand tightened on his sword hilt, his jaw set with barely restrained anger, but he hesitated. Zayd, too, held back, his shoulders tense. They couldn’t strike—not without harming those she had ensnared.
As Rinthess backed into the crowd, the shield of mothers and children surrounding her in a ring, a mocking smile crept across her face. She tilted her head, her voice cutting through the silence with chilling clarity.
“Oh, Godfrey,” she hissed, her voice cracking, a wild glint in her eyes as her smile twisted into something frenzied. “You could stop me—you know you could! End it all, right now. Just invoke the Song—take them all, every soul here, under your sway, and I’d be at your mercy. I’d have no choice but to answer for every crime. Isn’t that what you want?”
Her arms flung wide as she gestured to the people around her, their faces empty, bodies stiff under her command. “Look at them!” she shrieked. “You’ve already started, haven’t you? Just one more step, one more breath, and you’d have the power to bring me to my knees! To heal them all, not just keep them alive like a fish in a tank! So why hold back, Godfrey? What are you waiting for?”
Godfrey’s hand tightened on his sword, a cold fury flashing in his eyes, yet he held himself in check, his restraint as sharp as the blade in his grasp.
Rinthess’s laughter bubbled up, high-pitched and jagged, like the edge of a broken glass. “That’s it, isn’t it?” she spat, her voice dripping with contempt. “A man of principles, strangled by his own precious chains.” She spread her arms wider, a mockery of surrender, even as the crowd surged around her, shielding her with their vacant stares. “Hold onto those ideals, Godfrey. They’ll do nothing for you—or them. But believe me, boy, the Empire will fucking strangle you with them.”
Zayd looked at Godfrey, then out over the masses, their faces hollow, bodies sagging with exhaustion and illness, yet glinting with a fragile hope. He took a step forward, a fierce determination flashing in his eyes as he prepared to follow Rinthess into the crowd. But Godfrey placed a steady hand on his shoulder, holding him back.
“She’s beyond you, Zayd,” Godfrey murmured, his voice soft but firm. “And she’s right.”
Zayd turned to him, desperation etched into every line of his face. “Is it true?” he whispered. “Could you… could you heal them?”
Godfrey’s shoulders slumped slightly, and he exhaled, a weight of sadness pooling in his gaze, a sadness that spoke of years he hadn’t lived and burdens he hadn’t asked for. He nodded, slowly. “I can, Zayd. But to do so would be to destroy what they are—their hopes, their dreams, their loves and their hates. That was the legacy of the Thals.”
Zayd’s brow furrowed, his confusion mingling with dread. Godfrey continued, his voice like the edge of a distant, sorrowful song. “The Thals knew, long ago, that if they truly sought to defeat their enemies, they would need to destroy the very concept of peace and love as they knew it. The Song… it could change hearts, reshape minds in ways no empire or tyrant ever could. It could heal wounds, yes, but only by erasing what made them human.”
He looked out at the crowd, his eyes tracing the faces of the lost, the suffering, those who had come seeking salvation. “The Thals—who had seen ages of wisdom rise and fall—couldn’t bring themselves to wield it so freely, so recklessly. They saw what the Song could do, and even they couldn’t bear its price.”
Godfrey met Zayd’s gaze, a solemn weight behind his words. “Who are we to assume we possess greater knowledge, or the strength to take that risk? The Song heals, but it enslaves. If we rob them of their pain, we rob them of their will. We might destroy the Empire’s chains, Zayd, only to bind these people with ones far darker.”
“I’m just a doctor, Godfrey,” Zayd said, his tone tinged with weariness. “I wasn’t built for such ideals. Besides, how do you know you’d be enslaving them? These people seem… better for your Song. And I know your friends—Adrian, Riella, Thyra—they’re still themselves. They still have agency.”
Godfrey shook his head slowly, his expression distant. “No, Zayd. These people are only receiving a hint of the Song, enough to keep them going while we find a solution. Adrian, Riella, and Thyra have been changed, though they may not realize it. The Song has bound them in ways they don’t yet understand, tying them to a path they wouldn’t have chosen alone. They’ll play their roles in what’s to come, just as Rinthess will, in her own way.”
Zayd let out a sharp, frustrated bark, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose and kneading his glasses into his face. “Godfrey,” he sighed, exasperation lining his voice, “you’re not a prophet. And yet every day, you sound more like one.” He glanced at Godfrey, his gaze half pleading, half resigned. “I just hope you know what you’re doing. When the Empire comes sniffing around, there will be blood.”
Godfrey offered him a sad, knowing smile. “It always ends in blood, Zayd.”
Zayd opened his mouth to roll his eyes and respond to the pedantic comment, but Godfrey’s attention suddenly sharpened, his gaze fixed on something down the winding thoroughfare that served as the main artery of the manufactory district.
“They may share their opinion with us sooner than we’d like,” Godfrey murmured, a hint of steel in his voice.
A chill ran down Zayd’s spine as he followed Godfrey’s gaze. There, moving with purpose through the fringes of the crowd, were figures that didn’t flow with the tide of people. Their movements were efficient, deliberate, their eyes scanning as they closed in on the square.
Zayd’s eyes hardened, his posture shifting to match Godfrey’s as the weight of what lay ahead settled between them. A reckoning was upon them, and there would be no more room for hesitation.