Pulth fidgeted restlessly in the police station. He and Kent had spent a small fortune hiring four Black Clerics to ambush and kill Arno, yet the attempt had failed miserably—they hadn’t even gotten close. It was impossible not to feel irritated; he’d shelled out fifty gold coins, only to see it wasted. The Black Clerics were mercenaries through and through: pay them once, and they’d act, but they had no sense of responsibility as assassins.

  Of course, this also related to their success rate and the consequences of a brazen assassination.

  A sudden, mysterious death paled in comparison to a public assassination in terms of shock and terror. That was precisely why they’d hired the Black Clerics. If Arno were killed on the main road in broad daylight, they could exploit the incident endlessly, making it clear to everyone who truly ruled this city.

  No one had expected Blair, Arno’s lackey, to successfully protect him. It was infuriating.

  News of the casino incident reached them immediately, and Pulth had someone notify Kent right away. At this point, it was impossible for Pulth not to feel regret and fear. He’d been at the city gate that day and knew full well that Arno must have sensed something was wrong and figured out they were behind the attack. That’s why Pulth was avoiding the limelight—he wasn’t afraid to admit he feared Arno’s revenge.

  He was different from Kent. Legally, Pramisburg was still under direct royal jurisdiction. Arno was merely an imperial employee tasked with managing the city, so his power wasn’t absolute like a lord’s. While Arno could appoint or dismiss the police captain, he couldn’t arbitrarily dismiss city guard officers—he had to apply to the capital, and any changes required approval from the military authorities in Bell Capital.

  So he’d pushed the matter onto Kent, hoping to avoid Arno’s scrutiny. Removing a police captain without cause was unjustifiable, even for a noble, and Pulth had enough connections to put up a fight. Kent, however, didn’t care—Arno couldn’t act against him immediately, and the approval process for transfers or dismissals took time, so he was willing to take the blame.

  But now, Pulth’s unease grew. He felt something sinister brewing, his eyelids twitching violently, as if a storm were approaching. Just as he couldn’t sit still, a panting police officer rushed in, doubling over with hands on knees, gasping for breath. “Boss, something terrible happened… Captain Kent… he’s dead!”

  Pulth shot to his feet, strode over, and grabbed the officer by the collar, yanking him up. The man trembled—everyone in the police force feared Pulth, both for his entrenched power and his perpetually stern, square-jawed face.

  “Say it again, clearly—one mistake and you’re dead!” Pulth threatened, though he himself was terrified of the city lord in the mansion. How could Kent be dead? Who killed him? Would he be next? Assassination or something else?

  A barrage of unanswered questions gnawed at his sanity. The officer didn’t dare hold back. Taking a sharp breath, he blurted out, “Several people died at the casino; the city guard has the scene under control. When Captain Kent rode to the site, he collided with a cart on Ma Dou Street. He was thrown off and crushed two puppies. Then the stray dogs—their parents—attacked him while he was helpless and tore him apart. It was horrific: his neck was bitten through, his intestines spilling onto the ground…”

  Pulth’s grip on the officer’s collar loosened involuntarily. “Are you saying… Kent was killed by dogs?”

  The officer nodded. Pulth was speechless. He released his hand and said hoarsely, “Get out.”

  Sinking back into his seat, he propped his head in his hands, squinting in thought. Killed by dogs? It sounded like an absurd story. Could Kent really have died that way?

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  He felt both absurd and horrified, a cold sweat breaking out.

  How could such a coincidence exist? A casino incident, rare as it was, occurred in broad daylight, and Kent happened to crash into a cart, kill puppies, and get mauled by stray dogs? Even the wildest tales didn’t stretch credibility this far. These “coincidences” reeked of manipulation—Kent was likely murdered, and the dogs were a cover.

  He couldn’t stay in this city anymore. The city lord was ruthless, more cunning than any native of Pramisburg, discarding all noble pretense to strike in the dark. Today it was Kent; tomorrow, it could be him. For his own safety, he had to flee. With money in his pocket, he could live comfortably anywhere.

  Kent’s family was in the capital, and this city was too dangerous. Without a word to anyone, he packed lightly and rode out of the city. Once through the gates, he spurred his horse down the main road, heading for the capital to fetch his family and escape Bell Province, to a place where Arno could never find them.

  After galloping for ten minutes, a charred stretch of land came into view by the road. Pulth’s stern face flickered with regret. Why hadn’t they killed Arno that day? Useless trash, taking his money and failing!

  Distracted, he caught sight of a figure standing on the road ahead. Instead of slowing, he dug his spurs into the horse’s flank, panic driving him. The horse, in pain, neighed and surged forward. The figure, backlit by the sun, was indistinguishable. Pulth frowned and drew his longsword from the saddle.

  The shadow drew its blade in unison, standing firm against the charging horse. In the sunlight, the sword’s polished steel gleamed coldly. The figure leaped into the air, and with a flash of steel, Pulth watched in horror as a headless rider raced past, the body soon slumping to the ground.

  Blair gripped the severed head by its hair, spitting on the face. “Took you long enough.”

  He whistled, and his warhorse, grazing peacefully in the distance, pricked its ears, raised its head, and galloped over, nuzzling his hand. Its warm, wet tongue lapped at the blood, the salt a tempting treat. After cleaning his hands and arms with noisy licks, it eyed the grisly trophy.

  “Scram, you filthy beast!” Blair shoved the horse’s head away, mounted, and yanked the reins, riding in the opposite direction of the city.

  …

  Barto chewed on a wild grass stem, its bitter tang keeping him alert. The previous day, he’d taken a job to escort goods to Mutter City, a day’s ride from Pramisburg. The merchant paid fifty silver coins—a fair sum, though for his mercenary group, the real value was training the new recruits.

  Bored in Pramisburg, Barto joined the trip to Mutter City for a night of fun. Just after lunch, ready to depart, the merchant approached again, asking to send goods back to Pramisburg for thirty silver. Barto agreed without haggling—he didn’t care about the money, especially after recently receiving a small fortune from Sarkomo.

  The return cargo was three heavy boxes, but no burden for the cart. As dusk fell, they sighted Pramisburg’s walls. Something was off: the usually dark battlements were lit up, and the gates remained open.

  Before Barto could wonder, a rider burst from the gates toward them. He drew his sword, signaling his men to ready themselves, only lowering it when he recognized the rider.

  “Missed me after just a day? Came this far to greet me? Out with it—what do you want?” Barto was harsh with outsiders but indulgent with his crew, knowing well the importance of loyalty after witnessing too many betrayals.

  But the rider’s next words left Barto speechless:

  Kent was dead, Pulth was missing, and the city was in chaos!