The stench of raw meat and blood from Butchers’ Square clung to Edmer like a shroud as he ascended the creaking wooden stage. His bodyguards—Karel and Ryn, hired for their silence and steel—flanked him, their black gambesons stark against the roughspun tunics of the crowd. Sweat trickled down his spine despite the crisp autumn air, each bead carrying the weight of his gamble. He could still turn back, abandon this mad scheme before it consumed him entirely. But no—the die had been cast. His inheritance was gone, converted into coin that now lined pockets across Olgard. Today would decide whether he became a legend or a cautionary tale.

"Brothers! Sisters!" Edmer called out, his voice cracking on the first syllable but gaining strength as faces turned toward him. A butcher paused mid-stroke, cleaver buried in pork; fishwives ceased their haggling, baskets dangling forgotten at their sides. "I bring you truth—a truth long buried beneath lies and gold!"

He scanned the sea of faces, searching for signs of doubt or hostility. Instead, he found curiosity, anger, even hope. These were people who had lived under Ravenod rule for generations, their lives shaped by its prosperity but also bound by its chains. They hungered for something more than bread and ale—they craved justice.

"Many of you have heard whispers," Edmer continued, his voice rising like a tide. "Whispers of betrayal, of murder cloaked in shadow. Let me tell you the story of Count Alden and his daughter—the Flower of the Bay."

An old woman near the front nodded vigorously, her gnarled hands clutching a basket of onions. "My grandmother spoke of her! Said she fed hungry children from her own table!"

"Yes!" Edmer seized upon her words, weaving them into his tapestry of truth and fabrication. "She was beloved by all, highborn and low alike. But Count Alden’s nephew, Davard Ravenod, coveted what was not his. On a storm-black night, he led armed men onto the ship where father and daughter slept at anchor in our bay. The loyal crew fell to their swords." He paused, letting the horror sink in. "Count Alden died defending his child. And the Flower? She was cast into exile, left to die in poverty and squalor."

A murmur rippled through the crowd, growing louder with each passing moment. Some shouted curses at the Ravenods; others whispered prayers for the lost countess. Four guards pushed through the throng, their polished badges glinting like predator's eyes. Edmer saw them but pressed on, raising the black book above his head like a sacred relic.

"And I have proof!" he cried. "Proof of their treachery, their greed, their blood-soaked legacy!"

"That’s enough!" The guard captain’s voice cut through the square like a blade. The crowd parted reluctantly as the officers advanced, their hands resting on sword hilts.

Edmer felt Karel tense beside him, ready to draw steel if necessary. But open battle wasn’t part of the plan—not yet. Still, the guards’ approach sent a tremor through him, a reminder of how precarious his position truly was.

Myrt loved market square commotions. They were easy money after all – a perfect opportunity to cut a few purses and to disappear into the crowd. So, she went to work, Varin on her side, acting as cover and a muscle, if need would arise.

She moved through the unusual people’s gathering like a snake through the grass. Varin, a keen eye, slightly nudged her, pointing to a small game merchant with a hefty purse on his side. Her partner moved so his wide back would leave their target hidden from other people. Myrt in one move slashed the laces by which the purse was strapped, softly catching the prize in other hand and making no sound. The weight of coins settled into her palm, a small victory for today. Yet even as she moved deeper into the crowd, her attention drifted back to the man on the stage. There was something familiar about him, though she couldn’t place it immediately. It wasn’t until he raised the black book that realization struck her like a blow.

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That damn book.

She’d hoped it would vanish into obscurity, gathering dust in some collector’s library until another thief came along to steal it. Instead, here it was again, thrust into the heart of a rebellion she wanted no part of. Myrt had survived this long by staying clear of politics, by avoiding fights that didn’t concern her. But fate had other plans.

As the guards closed in, Myrt’s mind raced. If the speaker talked—and he looked like the kind who wouldn’t stay silent under interrogation—it wouldn’t take long for questions to lead back to her. Cold stone cells awaited those who crossed the Ravenods, and she had no desire to see one from the inside.

“Let him speak, you bastards!” someone shouted. A rock arced through the air, striking the guard captain squarely in the temple. Blood streamed down his face as his helmet clattered to the cobblestones. The attacker bolted, weaving through the crowd with desperate speed. To Myrt’s astonishment, she recognized him as one of Varin’s drinking companions from the night before—one of the “insiders.”

“Hey—” she started, reaching out instinctively, but he slipped past her like smoke.

Pandemonium erupted as the guards charged after him, truncheons swinging. Merchants scrambled for cover, shouting curses and prayers alike. Amid the chaos, Myrt spotted Varin several paces away, his expression unreadable. Their eyes met briefly, and in that moment, they shared an unspoken agreement: this job had just become infinitely more complicated.

Varin hated crowds. Too many bodies, too little space to maneuver. When the rock struck the guard captain, Varin knew trouble was coming. He glanced at Myrt and closed the distance between them in seconds.

The first guard lunged toward him, truncheon raised high, but Varin met the blow with a deft parry, steel ringing against wood. His opponent stumbled backward, caught off guard by the resistance, leaving an opening for Myrt to capitalize on. She struck with her blackjack, catching the guard under the jaw with a brutal efficiency that sent him sprawling. His head snapped to one side, and he collapsed onto the cobblestones like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

The remaining guards were already unsheathing their swords, their faces twisted with rage or fear—or perhaps both. Varin didn’t wait to find out. "Myrt," he hissed, grabbing her arm. "Time to go."

They dove into the chaos, using the surging mass of panicked citizens as cover. Bodies surged past them, some fleeing, others converging toward the commotion. Varin expertly navigated the melee, pulling Myrt along behind him as they slipped through gaps in the crowd. When they finally broke free, they sprinted down a narrow alleyway, their boots slapping against damp cobblestones.

The alleyways swallowed them whole, shadows wrapping around them like a second skin. Myrt’s breath came in ragged gasps, her legs burning from the sudden sprint. Varin was already several steps ahead, his silhouette blending seamlessly with the darkness.

“What now?” Myrt asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Varin stopped, turning to face her. In the dim light, his features were sharp, almost predatory. “We lay low. Figure out what’s going on. That stuff—it’s trouble, Myrt. Bigger trouble than we signed up for.”

Edmer vanished the moment the fighting erupted. Karel and Ryn did what they were paid to do—hold off the guards with steel in hand while he slipped away. Now, alone and moving like a shadow through the labyrinthine backstreets, Edmer felt every step as if it might be his last. The plan relied on the city guard reacting predictably: descending heavily upon the commotion at the market square, leaving few men to chase after stray escapees. For now, it had worked.

He stopped before an unremarkable wooden door tucked into a narrow alley. Two knocks, firm but quiet. Moments later, the door creaked open, revealing a man with a blade already drawn. He scanned Edmer briefly, then dipped his head slightly.

"Welcome, Lord Edmer."

The safehouse was cramped, its air thick with the scent of oil and sweat. Inside, a dozen armed men—former street thugs turned soldiers—sat around a battered table littered with weapons. Swords, daggers, clubs—all gleamed dully under the flickering light of lanterns. Most of them were cleaning or inspecting their gear, their movements efficient and practiced. On the wall hung a large black banner bearing a single silver flower at its center, stark and unmistakable.

Edmer took in the scene, his gaze lingering on the banner. It wasn’t just a symbol; it was a promise—a declaration of greater ambition. But where will this ambition lead?

"Is everything ready?" he asked sharply, cutting through the murmured conversation.

One of the men stood, a wiry figure with sharp eyes and a scar running down his jaw. "We're ready," he replied. "The arms are accounted for, and everyone knows their role. Word hasn't spread yet—we've kept our heads down."

Edmer nodded, though unease gnawed at him. Trusting these men was a gamble, but there was no turning back now. The weight of command settled over him, heavy but familiar. If this was to be his final stand, let it be on terms he chose.

For now, the game continued.