Witches poured over the wall like a silver tide, angling their broomsticks downward in coordinated lines. Their lights cut through the mist still hanging in the basin, as the flights fanned outward toward the nearest towers.
Others hurried toward the docks, where grapnels still hung from broken rails and barges bumped into each other like carcasses in a slaughterhouse. A smaller group headed straight for the fortress at the city’s center, where red stone rose above the warehouses and merchant houses, its banners torn, and its parapets crowded with men who had spent the last hours trying to kill their brothers.
Orion hovered over the main avenue and observed the takeover unfold with a strange kind of detachment.
You’d think this wasn't their first time, with how quickly they are taking control of the crucial infrastructure. I wonder if the Sanctum has war drills.
Below him, roofs had been torn apart by stray blasts and falling bricks. Here and there, bodies lay half-buried under rubble in crimson coats, some face down, some twisted in their last movement.
A few civilians moved like ghosts between doorways, dragging the wounded away and ducking whenever a broom shadow passed overhead.
Then, gradually, as the roar of dragons faded and it became clear the street fighting was over, the shutters began to creak open.
A child’s face appeared beside a woman’s shoulder, and the woman pulled him back so quickly that Orion only saw a flash. Further down, a man cracked open his door just a little and looked at the nearest watchtower, where witches had landed on the battlements and were talking to the soldiers there.
The soldiers didn't look happy, and he moved closer to listen, curious whether there would be resistance.
The tower was one of the main defenses along the river, a thick-walled structure with a squat ballista platform, scorched black, and a ward-anchor ring embedded in the stone like a crown.
Half a dozen men in crimson stood at the top, gripping spear shafts and crossbows with white knuckles. Their captain, a hard-jawed man with a neat beard, looked down at the witches with narrow eyes.
He didn’t appear to be trying to intimidate them, but he obviously wasn’t pleased with their request that he give up command to them.
One of the soldiers spat over the parapet, the saliva disappearing into the rain before it could hit the street, while another raised his spear, as if trying to make a point.
Should I intervene? No, I doubt they’d look favorably on another unknown jumping in.
The takeover continued everywhere around him. A wardwright touched the anchor ring and murmured to it, causing the tower’s ward-line to flicker before stabilizing under a new hand. A Magistra pointed at the ballista platform, and a witch beside her jotted something down in a journal.
The captain’s mouth tightened, and he deliberately chose not to order his men to stand down, but he also didn't order them to strike, and that was as close to surrender as possible.
Orion could have stayed there longer, watching the small politics of pride and fear unfold, but Pauline slipped into his peripheral vision.
Her chin tilted toward the inner city, and when Orion hesitated, she repeated the motion, more sharply this time.
He obeyed, guiding his broom around and following her through the fading rain.
They flew low enough for Orion to notice details he would have missed from higher up, like a row of carts abandoned in the middle of a street, a shrine to a local river-saint toppled over, its offerings scattered in the mud, or the two men in crimson dragging a third by the arms, his boots leaving dark tracks as his head lolled.
“Shouldn’t we be helping out down there?” Orion asked.
Pauline kept her gaze fixed ahead, guiding him toward the fortress looming before them. “We have enough healers for everyone, and we could speed the rescue even more, but we’re trying not to spook them too much.”
“But is that worth leaving the injured on their own for longer?” He asked.
Pauline shrugged. “They are not our responsibility. We’ve already saved them once, and our troubles are just beginning. We can’t do everything.”
“The dangerous part is over,” he replied. “Behenien and her flock are gone.”
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Pauline looked at him with a tired expression. “Behenien was a great danger,” she said. “But even she doesn’t compare to the forces that politics can unleash.”
They crossed over a wide inner wall and dropped into the fortress grounds.
The main courtyard was a tidy rectangle of wet stone, lined with arched walkways and bordered by towers that looked older than the city around them.
Witches stood at the gates and along the walls, remaining unobtrusive but making it clear they were in charge, while soldiers in crimson moved in tense groups, closely watched by Magistrae.
Orion landed beside Pauline and dismounted, feeling his stump throb as the adrenaline finally started to fade. He adjusted the flow of mana to his stone foot, then looked around for his mother.
He found her near the center of the yard, speaking to the man who had met her on the walls.
Up close, he was even more unsettling than he had seemed from afar. Tall, thin, immaculate despite the soot and rain, with hair slicked back so precisely it looked oiled into place. His coat draped over his shoulders as if it had been tailored that morning, and his eyes were the pale gray of a winter river, watching Asteria with a measuring gaze.
Elder Candra, on the other hand, was nowhere in sight.
Orion’s eyes shifted to the nearby battlements, gates, and fortress entrance. The lack of a Veil Priestess in a foreign power’s position was likely to cause trouble, and Orion suspected that the Crimson Wheel’s internal conflict hadn't made them lenient.
Before he could ask Pauline where the Elder had gone, Asteria looked up and saw him.
She raised her hand in a quick gesture that served as both a command and an invitation, and Orion stepped toward her across the wet stones.
The slim man’s eyes tracked him, sharpening as Asteria laid a hand on his shoulder.
“This is my son,” she said, and for the first time, the man’s composure cracked. Not much, just a slight widening of the eyes, a recalculation behind the gaze that Orion had seen before on Commander Rusk’s face and on Warden Voss’s.
He reached out his hand as he stepped forward and shook with a firm grip.
“Master Voidwalker,” the man said. His voice was smooth and low. “Welcome to the Scarlet Hall. I am Ser Havel Ormont, steward-militant of Stillport under the Consortium’s charter.”
Asteria didn’t let them chat idly. “We are going inside,” she said. “We need to get down to business.”
Havel inclined his head a fraction. “As you wish, Veil Priestess.”
Asteria led the way, with Orion at her shoulder, while Pauline was a step behind, and three witches flanked them. Three crimson-clad soldiers also joined, though they kept their distance.
Inside, the corridors were spacious, with floors inlaid with dark, sturdy wood, and walls adorned with tapestries depicting ships, wheels, and stylized waves.
“This place wasn’t built by merchants,” Orion murmured.
Havel glanced to the side before giving a nod.
“It was once the property of a petty king,” he explained. “One of the river-lords who believed his blood made him destined for greatness.” His tone lacked reverence for kings, only showing a kind of historical disdain. “When the Crimson Wheel was formed—back when it was just a loose alliance of weapon-sellers, shipmasters, and a few rich men—the Hall was seized from him entirely when he failed to pay his debt. This was among the initial victories that transformed the Wheel from a mere guild to what it is now.”
Of course, they got their big break by collecting debt.
They climbed a staircase that looked like it belonged in a palace, then walked along a corridor lit by lanterns filled with pure crystal light, a rare sight outside the Sanctum.
The meeting room they were led into was sleek, sharply contrasting with the feudal halls Cyril cherished. The table was long and polished, with identical chairs arranged symmetrically. Thin gold lines traced along the walls, and even the decorations, maps inlaid with gems and mother of pearl, were practical.
At the far end of the room sat a corpulent young man, who could not have been over twenty, maybe even younger, though the softness of his face was masked by the confidence with which he sat in the chair. His fingers were heavy with rings, his coat expensive and tailored to hide his bulk, while his eyes sparkled with intelligence and ambition.
Beside him stood Elder Candra, whom the young man occasionally eyed like a sleeping tiger.
She must have gone to find him. Who is he to require a Veil Priestess?
“Veil Priestess, Master Voidwalker,” Havel said neutrally, though his eyes narrowed as they fell on the other man. “This is Marcellus Tomehenian, chartered weapons-merchant of the Crimson Wheel, holder of three river contracts and six ironworks shares.”
Marcellus stood up, gesturing warmly with his hands. “An honor,” he said, eyes on Asteria, then sliding to Orion for a quick assessment. “The Wheel is fortunate you arrived when you did.”
Orion began to feel the pieces of the puzzle fall into place.
A coup. A city in chaos. Mercenaries in matching coats stabbing each other against the walls. A young merchant whose wealth came from trading weapons and heavy equipment, who seemed respected enough to attend such a high-level meeting, yet had no guards of his own.
Or maybe that wasn’t entirely true. Candra was positioned at his shoulder to stop anyone in the room, from Havel to the guards who were eyeing Marcellus with narrowed eyes, from getting any ideas.
If he is the cause of the civil war we encountered, it makes sense that Candra was sent to find him, but he seems very calm despite our presence. Either he’s an excellent negotiator, which I can’t dismiss considering his age and political influence, or he’s confident he won’t be harmed. He must have someone even more influential watching his back in the upper ranks of the Consortium. But who would tolerate such a coup? Only someone who knew about it in advance, and maybe even instigated it.
A tray was soon brought in by silent servants, and tea and mou were offered. The aroma was very familiar to him, enough so that he wondered if this was where the main bulk of the mou sold in Valderun came from.
He accepted the cup without hesitation and immediately felt revitalized from the first sip as the warmth spread through his body.
Asteria did not touch her cup of tea, but she tapped a nail against its rim, clearly lost in thought.
Eventually, she looked up and met Marcellus’ and Havel’s eyes, fixing them with her amethyst gaze. Orion watched as the young merchant’s confidence visibly wavered for a moment before he managed to regain it.
“You have two sides,” Asteria said, voice calm, almost conversational. “Two groups of men with the same livery, the same weapons, the same oaths, yet they killed each other while my people fought in the sky to keep your city standing, ignoring the dragons and the fleeing ships that fell to them.”
Marcellus opened his mouth to speak, but her gaze sharpened, and the words got caught in his throat. She clearly wasn’t finished yet and wouldn’t accept any attempt to dodge responsibility.
Asteria leaned forward just enough to make the sunlight catch her eyes and give her an ethereal quality.
“Those are the facts of the matter, and believe me, I will get an explanation. But before we discuss your internal squabbles,” she continued, “you will answer one question, and you will answer it truthfully, or the consequences will be severe."
Silence fell over the room. The servants withdrew, and even the soldiers, the only ones armed, pulled back.
“Now then,” Asteria said, looking from Havel to Marcellus, “shall we talk about what caused the mess we came across?”
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