Orvin paced slowly across the training ground, watching the men – what was left of them, anyway – trying to recim a sense of discipline. They were stationed in the barracks near Bckhold Square, not far from the heart of the low Quarter. This was a modest but well-fortified outpost, far from the ruin of the barracks further outside. It had a training ground with a dusty expanse of worn-out targets, practice dummies, and enough open space for drills.
Kyrell was there too, always a dark, looming figure at the edges of every drill or gathering. His silent presence had shifted something within the Grey Cloaks. The first days had been tense; the men muttered under their breath, casting uneasy gnces at him, the memory of the nightmarish vision he had woven into their minds still vivid. But now, after almost a week, a grudging acclimatization had set in. It was as if Kyrell’s presence, his power, was like a lingering fog. At first stifling, but now, with each passing day, it seemed to settle into the bones, leaving everyone a little numb.
Orvin knew it wasn’t easy for them. Every man under his command had tasted fear – real, skin crawling, mind-ripping terror. It had shattered many of their perceptions of invincibility, and though none would openly admit it, a few had even looked to Orvin with something close to gratitude. He supposed they felt that as long as Kyrell was on their side, his wrath would be directed elsewhere.
Now, Kyrell was stepping up his demands. Orvin watched from the edge of the training field as Kyrell approached Sergeant Dorn, a grizzled fighter with nearly twenty years in the Grey Cloaks and the most skilled bde in the Low Quarter. Kyrell’s voice was cm but clipped as he said, “I need training with a longsword.”
Dorn hesitated, the muscles in his jaw clenching. He gnced at Orvin, who gave him a single, steady nod. Reluctantly, the sergeant nodded back, and with a huff, retrieved a practice bde from the rack.
“Hold it like this,” Dorn said, demonstrating the grip with his own weapon before handing the practice sword to Kyrell. “Keep your feet wide, and always make sure your bance is steady. It’s as much about control as it is about strength.”
Kyrell accepted the sword with unfamiliar hands, his grip rough at first, though he quickly adjusted, fingers shifting until the weapon felt somewhat comfortable. Orvin could tell it wasn’t natural to him. There was a stiffness in the way Kyrell moved, but he was watching Dorn closely, mirroring every stance and every swing with surprising focus.
Dorn took a step back, evaluating, before he began a slow, methodical demonstration of basic strikes and parries. He showed Kyrell how to hold his ground, how to strike without overextending, and how to block and step with precision. Kyrell’s swings were powerful but unrefined, each movement a little too hard and a little too sharp, but he had an undeniable intensity, his gaze unwavering.
At first, the other Grey Cloaks kept their distance, eyes flickering from their own drills to the strange scene unfolding between Dorn and their new overlord. Slowly, they grew accustomed to the sight of Kyrell in the training yard, to the sound of his grunts and the metallic cng of swords meeting. Over the course of several days, he practiced relentlessly, refining his stance, his speed, and the steadiness of his grip.
As Kyrell’s skill with the longsword grew, he alternated between that and archery practice. Orvin noted with quiet respect how quickly Kyrell was improving, how the fws in his stance faded and his strikes grew sharper. While Kyrell’s gaze was on the targets or on Dorn’s bde, Orvin could see the determination in his eyes – focused, single-minded, as if he were willing his own hands to bend to his demands.
The Grey Cloaks were, at first, tense under his watch, their movements rigid when they saw him with a sword in hand, but Orvin made a point to reassure them each evening. He reminded them that, despite the darkness surrounding him, Kyrell’s quarrel wasn’t with them. Gradually, some of the men even nodded their heads in silent respect when he practiced. Orvin suspected it was a blend of fear and cautious admiration.
But the routine of drills and whispers came to an abrupt halt one afternoon when a guard jogged into Orvin’s quarters, looking flustered. “Captain,” he panted, “there’s…a woman at the gate asking for Kyrell.”
Orvin’s brow furrowed. It was strange enough for anyone to seek out Kyrell openly, let alone a woman.
“Did she give her name?”
“Yes sir. She said her name is Elda.”
Elda. The name struck him with a strange familiarity. She was someone from Kyrell’s past, piecing together scraps of information he had gathered during the search for the stone. A friend, perhaps. Orvin took a steadying breath and walked to the gate, gncing back to see if Kyrell had noticed the commotion.
To his surprise, Kyrell was already striding toward him, his expression dark but curious. Orvin stepped aside as Kyrell approached the gate, where a young woman stood. Elda’s face was lined with worry and determination, her eyes filled with a strange mix of relief and anger as she met Kyrell’s gaze.
For a moment, the air was thick with an unspoken tension, the whole training ground eerily silent as if the men instinctively knew that whatever was about to be said, was not for their ears.
Orvin gave a nod to his men, signaling them to disperse. As they left, Elda’s eyes didn’t leave Kyrell; a mixture of anger, fear, and betrayal was painted on her face.
“I’ve had no idea where you were,” she began, her voice tense and just a touch above a whisper. “The rumours… I heard you were murdering Grey Cloaks all around the Low Quarter. What’s gotten into you? And now you’re leading them?” She shook her head, words spilling out in desperation. “I don’t understand it, Ky. None of this makes any sense!”
Kyrell looked at her, the silence between them stretching uncomfortably. He felt something stir deep within, not the sympathy or warmth he had once felt in her presence, but a cold distance, an utter ck of interest. In pce of any human response, a dark calmness settled over him, solid and unyielding, as if whatever part of him might cared, had been repced with stone. He tilted his head, studying her with a strange, clinical detachment, as if he barely recognized her.
His gaze grew darker, and as he narrowed his eyes, he allowed a small ripple of fear to wash over her. It was barely a whisper, but enough to make her shudder, her shoulders stiffening, her breath catching as she felt his will press on her mind.
“None of your business,” he replied, his voice low, cold. Without another gnce, he turned away, making it clear that their conversation was over. He raised his hand and gestured to Orvin, who stepped forward without a word, his gaze shifting uneasily between the two of them. Elda’s face remained frozen, her confusion and hurt shimmering behind her wide eyes as she stood rooted in pce, watching him go.
Without pausing, Kyrell strode back toward the barracks, Orvin following a few steps behind him, gncing back only once at the young woman standing alone in the fading light. Kyrell did not turn back. His mind had already moved on, his thoughts occupied with the matters ahead as he led Orvin back to the Captain’s office, each step quiet but deliberate, echoing through the barracks as the door closed heavily behind them.
In the dim glow of the shared office, Kyrell settled into the Captain’s chair once more, folding his arms with a calm yet commanding presence. His gaze met Orvin’s, unwavering and cold.
“Alright,” he said, his tone clinical, devoid of any hint of warmth. “I think enough time had passed for the Marshall to send out some spies. We’re going to find them, Captain, and you’ll bring them to me. That will be your orders for tonight.”
Orvin listened closely, every word making his pulse quicken.
“Ask your men if they’ve noticed anyone suspicious, they’re to act on them tonight. Raid any house or inn room where these spies are staying and bring them here. I’ll question them myself, and after I’m through, I’ll inform you of our next steps. In the meantime, I want that report on the Marshall and Lord Estan ready for me as soon as I’m finished with the spies.” Kyrell’s voice held the weight of finality, the orders as cold and precise as a bde.
Orvin’s jaw tightened as he nodded. “Understood.” He replied, voice steady. He left Kyrell alone, swiftly gathering his sergeants and reying the orders. His men, though still shaken, were eager to prove themselves; this was their first direct command from Kyrell, and they had no intentions of failing.
The Captain had anticipated this order. Even before tonight, he had posted small teams to keep watch across the Low Quarter, eyes on inns, alleyways, and abandoned structures where the Marshall’s agents might skulk in search of information. With Kyrell’s direct command, the Grey Cloaks went to work, each one hoping to uncover the threat before their captain ordered it.
One squad moved toward a decrepit inn on the outskirts of Bckhold Square. The informants had noted a few strangers seen around there in the past days, with no indication that they belonged to the Low Quarter. The Grey Cloaks moved in silence, splitting off around the inn’s perimeter. The leader of the squad, sergeant Dorn, raised a fist to signal them to halt. A low flicker of light leaked through the shuttered window, and voices murmured within. Dorn gave a nod to the two Cloaks behind him, who proceeded to pry the window open just enough to eavesdrop.
Inside a pair of men dressed in pin travel garb conversed in hushed tones. They spoke of recent unrest, the Marshall’s frustrations, and hints of orders to monitor anyone connected to Kyrell. Dorn’s expression hardened as he signalled his men forward, moving quickly to the inn’s entrance. They kicked in the door, catching the spies off-guard before they could reach for the weapons on their belts.
The fight was swift, one of the men managing to draw a dagger but failing to strike as Dorn knocked him unconscious with the hilt of his sword. The second spy threw his hands up, surrendering on the spot. Within moments, the Grey Cloaks had bound and gagged both men, dragging them out into the night.
At another location closer to the docks, two Cloaks named Bren and Orlic approached a run-down house where yet another suspicious figure had been spotted. Word had spread about a well-dressed man seen slipping into the residence in the early hours, a time when no honest merchant or sailor had business on this side of Makar. Bren and Orlic drew their weapons, edging along the narrow, creaking porch as they peered through a crack in the doorway. They saw the glint of polished leather shoes and the flicker of a man scribbling something onto a parchment.
Orlic nodded at Bren, who took a firm step back, smming his shoulder against the door and shattering the lock. The man barely had time to react before Bren was on him, wrestling him to the ground as Orlic confiscated the parchments scattered across the table.
“Orders from the Marshall, it seems.” Orlic muttered, catching sight of a seal in the top corner of the document.
“Lucky night for you,” Bren sneered, yanking the man to his feet, hands bound behind him as he forced him outside. “Lord Kyrell has a few questions for you.”
The man paled, eyes wide with a fear that spread faster than any bde.
Two more suspected spies were apprehended in simir fashion, pulled from hidden rooms in inns and back-alley hideouts. The Grey Cloaks worked with an urgency that had rarely been seen among them, their discipline and fear in equal measure driving them to capture anyone who might be connected to the marshal.
Orvin watched his men bring each captive into the barracks, lining them up in a secured room under close guard. The five spies, bruised and bound, sat huddled together, casting fearful gnces at the door as they awaited whatever fate Kyrell had pnned.
Satisfied with the night’s work, Orvin turned and sent word to Kyrell. His mind raced as he anticipated what would come next, but there was no doubt in his mind: he and his men had followed their orders, and they would do so again.
Kyrell entered the dim room where the five captured spies knelt, bound and bruised, under the vigint watch of Orvin and his guards. He stepped forward without ceremony, his presence subdued, almost mundane – no ominous aura, no shadow cloaking him. He looked, in every sense, like an ordinary man. It took only moments for the spies to notice, and as was often the way with men whose lives had long been stepped in false bravado, they quickly masked their fear with scorn.
One of the spies, a wiry man with a half-split lip, chuckled derisively, nudging his shoulder toward the others. “That’s it?” he sneered, a mocking glint in his eye. “This is the monster everyone’s talking about? What are you, barely old enough to carry a sword?”
The others, catching his lead, began to snicker, small threads of tension loosening. “Maybe we’re supposed to be scared of his bedtime stories.” Another quipped, his voice dripping with contempt.
A guard standing nearby clenched his fists, every fibre in him ready to beat the sneer off the man’s face. But before he could act, Kyrell raised a hand, silently signalling him to hold back. With an unreadable expression, Kyrell walked up to the scoffing spy, then crouched down until they were eye to eye, close enough that the spy could see every detail of his calm, almost pcid expression.
They locked eyes, and Kyrell simply stared. No expression. No movement. A silence so absolute it hung in the room like a bde, suspended, wating to drop. The smirk faded from the spy’s face, inch by inch, his breath catching as the silence stretched taut, each second winding his nerves tighter.
Then in a heartbeat, Kyrell unleashed his power.
Fear washed over the five men like a tidal wave, crashing into them with such force it felt as though the air had been sucked out of the room. The guards themselves felt its faint edges but quickly shielded themselves with practiced stoicism, eyes fixed forward as the wave of terror hit its true targets.
For the spies, it was unlike anything they had ever felt. Horror cwed through them, gnawing at their minds, twisting everything rational into a nightmare. In the space of a few seconds, the room became a hellscape of shadow and dread; to their hallucinating eyes, Kyrell was no longer a mere man. He was a spectre cloaked in death itself, with horns curling from his head and wisps of ghostly, wailing souls spiralling around him. Their breaths grew ragged, limbs paralyzed as dread coursed through their veins like venom. Even after he withdrew the power, the images lingered, burned into their minds.
The five men sat there, reduced to hollow shells, no longer sneering, or ughing. They knelt trembling, their bodies locked in stiff, horrified silence, their faces damp with sweat.
Kyrell straightened, then tilted his head to look at each of them with a calcuted calm. His voice, low and steady, broke the silence. “I won’t waste time torturing you for information. That method takes too long, and frankly, I don’t care for the mess.” His gaze settled back on the one who had mocked him, who now stared to the ground, wide-eyed and visibly shuddering. “You will be separated. Each one of you will give one guard everything of value you know. Whoever provides me with the best intelligence…” he paused, gncing down at the man’s legs. “…keeps his legs.”
He didn’t linger to watch their reactions. The door opened, and the spies were ushered out one by one, taken to separate rooms where individual guards would listen, record, and rey every word.
Orvin, who had observed the entire exchange, found himself continually surprised. He had expected Kyrell to toy with the men, to draw out their pain for a sliver of satisfaction. But this? It was efficient, almost disturbingly methodical. He kept his thoughts to himself, watching as Kyrell’s tactics made the spies break without so much as a single touch.
Within an hour, sergeant Dorn returned to Kyrell’s office, carrying a collection of hastily scribbled notes from each interrogation. He reyed what had been revealed: mostly expected information. The Marshall, as Kyrell suspected, was indeed preparing an assault to recim control over the Low Quarter and was growing impatient for updates. The Grey Cloaks of the Low Quarter, had been identified as a liability after their captain’s public decration and, as far as the Marshall was concerned, needed to be eradicated or coerced back into loyalty.
But one piece of information stood out. Dorn hesitated, then shared it. “One of the spies… he cims he saw the Marshall a few days back, with a woman,” Dorn said, choosing his words carefully. “She was described as… striking. Red-haired, from what he said, they seemed close. More than acquaintances, sir.”
Kyrell took in the details with a faint glint in his eyes, already seeing the potential in this small connection. A soft, predatory smile flickered across his face.
Orvin and his sergeants gathered in the dimly lit office, standing rigidly at attention as Kyrell closed the door behind them. His expression was unreadable, but his voice carried and edge of satisfaction that was impossible to ignore. He let his gaze settle on each of them, one by one, before speaking.
“I have to say, I am impressed by the quick results.” He said, his tone devoid of menace, almost cordial. “The way you handled the search, the questioning… it’s clear you all took this assignment seriously, and it paid off. Each of you has done your part well, and I acknowledge that.”
Orvin exchanged a subtle gnce with his men, noting the faint flicker of pride that passed over their faces. Recognition form Kyrell, however slight, seemed to steady them, lending a newfound purpose that softened the lingering unease from their earlier encounters with him.
Kyrell continued, his voice colder now but still composed, as he outlined the next steps. “Here is what I need you to do now. You will acquire four wooden boards, with leather straps affixed to hang around a neck. On each board, write ‘High Quarter Spy’ clearly enough for anyone to read. At dawn bring the prisoners to the training ground. There four of them will lose their legs to the axe. But contrary to what I told them, leave the one with the weakest information intact. He will watch the execution and after we let him go. If we let the man go that told us about the red-haired woman, we risk that he warns the Marshall.”
One of the sergeants shifted uncomfortably, but the men held their silence as Kyrell spoke. Orvin’s mind turned over Kyrell’s instructions, grasping the purpose behind this brutal dispy. The message was clear. And while Orvin still didn’t understand the depths of Kyrell’s intentions, he could see that this execution was meant to provoke – to goad the Marshall into action, to force his hand in some way.
Still none of the Grey Cloaks spoke against Kyrell’s orders. The morbid task was grim, but there was an iron logic to it. Fear and power needed to be reinforced, and Kyrell knew how to use both with precision.
Kyrell looked around the room one more time, then nodded to Orvin. “Execute the orders, and make sure it’s seen. By noon, I want them dispyed in Bckhold Square.”
As dawn broke over Makar, the Captain and his sergeants stood grimly in the training grounds. The prisoners, bound and trembling, were lined up before them, each faced marred by fear. Four were chosen to face the punishment. The fifth was forced to watch.
As the first man was forced to kneel, Orvin steeled himself, gripping the axe tightly. His sergeants held the man down as Orvin raised the bde, his mind clearing as he focused on the necessary brutality of the act. The axe fell swiftly, severing flesh and bone in one sickening motion. The man cried out, writhing as blood pooled beneath him, the wound pouring crimson over the cold ground. His ragged breaths grew weaker as the life drained from him, his eyes gzed in shock and pain.
One by one, the condemned spies were brought forward. With each swing of the axe, Orvin’s men watched, their faces frozen with a mixture of revulsion and a dark understanding. This was Kyrell’s warning, his answer to the Marshall’s intrusion.
Once the bodies were loaded onto a wagon, Orvin turned his attention to the st spy, the one with worthless information. The man sat bound and broken, his face drained of colour. Orvin signalled for his men to untie him, speaking firmly. “You have seen what happens to those who betray the Low Quarter. Go, and make sure word of what you saw reaches your superiors.”
The man stumbled to his feet, nodding shakily, a sense of abject terror etched into his face as he staggered off into the waking city.
The execution complete, Orvin and his men led the wagon to Bckhold Square, arranging the bodies for all to see. Each corpse bore the same board around its neck, the words ‘High Quarter Spy’ scrawled in bold, condemning letters. It was a message that could not be mistaken, a dark procmation that Kyrell’s rule was not to be challenged lightly.
As the square slowly filled with onlookers, murmurs spread through the crowd. Whispers of fear, of awe and perhaps even a grim respect for the new, ruthless order of the Low Quarter.
