The nobility of Bellacia did not emerge from a single lineage of kings, nor did they rise from the divine right of one ruler. They were the remnants of a fractured past—leaders of once-sovereign nations, forced to stand together when survival demanded unity. Before Bellacia existed, the land was a mosaic of independent states, each with its own customs, rulers, and ambitions. That is, until Shinhana's war banners cast their shadow over the east.
The Great War had left no room for petty squabbles over borders or pride. Faced with annihilation, the scattered nations forged an alliance, merging their lands, their armies, and their rule into a singular kingdom. Bellacia was not founded through royal decree, but through desperation—born on the battlefield, shaped in the crucible of war. When the bloodshed finally ceased, the question arose: who would govern this new nation?
The answer had been simple in theory, but complex in execution. The rulers of the former nations retained their power, no longer as sovereign monarchs, but as nobles—an aristocracy that would oversee their respective territories under a single crown. The system worked, for a time. The families that had once stood as equals now found themselves locked in a different kind of war—one of influence, wealth, and control.
The noble houses were not merely stewards of tradition; they were a fragile balance of old rivalries and shifting alliances, each grasping for more power while clinging to the history that had granted them their place. To the common people, they were rulers. To one another, they were competitors in an unending game.
The slums of Brelith stretched out before them, a maze of crumbling stone and weather-worn wood, where the streets narrowed into winding alleys and the scent of filth clung to the air. Rell and Mick moved with purpose, their steps quick but careful, the thrill of success still lingering in the air. But beneath that victory, something gnawed at Rell—an unease, a bitter taste that hadn't left her since the moment she swapped the contracts.
They passed rows of shuttered homes, the distant murmur of the city's sleeping underbelly providing a strange sort of comfort. It wasn't until they reached a fork in the road, where the path split between the outskirts and the deeper heart of the slums, that Mick slowed his pace.
"I, uh—think I'm gonna check in on the guys," Mick said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Make sure Pierce and Simon made it back alright."
Rell arched her brow. "They weren't at the keep," she said flatly. "You sure they even went?"
"That's what Declan told me," Mick shrugged. "Probably got sidetracked. I'll be quick."
"Right," she muttered, watching as he turned down a side street. Something about it didn't sit right with her. Mick wasn't the type to ask questions, but she was. And tonight, she had far too many.
Instead of heading back to the camp, Rell doubled back, keeping low as she followed Mick from a distance. The buildings in this part of the slums loomed over the streets, their second stories jutting out just enough to cast deep shadows. She slipped between them, unseen, watching for any sign of where he was headed.
Mick took a winding route through the district, cutting through alleys and side streets. He knew exactly where he was going. Somewhere he was familiar with.
Rell pressed herself against the wall of a dead-end alley, peering around the corner just in time to see Mick enter a narrow gap between two abandoned buildings. She crept up to get a better look, sticking to the shadows. The passage led to a shadowed alcove where three figures already waited—Pierce, Simon, and someone else.
She scowled as her eyes fell on the last figure.
Declan.
The old war veteran leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his calculating eyes scanning over the gathered men. There was an ease in his stance, but not a trace of amusement on his face.
"Took ya long enough," Declan hissed, his eyes narrowing as he shot Mick a venomous glare.
Mick stiffened, his shoulders tensing, quickly falling into a more rigid stance. "S-sorry, sir!"
"Where'd ya ditch the girlie? She heading back alone?" Declan asked, his voice dripping with disdain. Rell's ears perked up at the mention of her.
"Yeah, she's heading back to the camp," Mick muttered, his voice barely audible. "She made us go slow, 'spected it was a trap."
"Too damn suspicious, just like her father," Declan sneered, waving a dismissive hand. "Eh, no matter. The job's done. The raid'll kicks off at dawn."
Rell's heart raced as she processed his words. What was this old snake planning? What did he mean by raid? Was her father involved with Declan somehow? She wasn't sure, but whatever it was, it didn't sound good.
Declan turned his back on Mick, addressing Pierce and Simon. "The job is done, right?"
"Well…" Simon's voice faltered, uncertainty crawling into his tone, but as Declan took a measured step toward him, his resolve crumbled. A glint of steel caught Rell's attention—the vicious mace in Declan's right hand gleamed under the scarce light that filtered through the ruined roof.
"The youngest wasn't in 'is bed," Pierce blurted out, the words tumbling from his mouth in a panic. "But we got the rest of–"
He never finished. With a snarl, Declan shoved him against the wall with a brutal force. The hard, wooden handle of the mace pressed against Pierce's throat as Declan's anger exploded. "Imbeciles!" he shouted, his voice jagged with rage.
Rell's hand twitched at her side, her instincts screaming at her to act. She hated Declan, but Pierce and Simon, as much as she despised their loyalty to him, were still part of the community. They were people she'd known since childhood, their faces familiar even if they'd all changed in ways she wished she could forget.
They were orphans, just like her. She had simply chosen a different path, refusing to follow in the footsteps of those who preyed on the frail. But those three, they had latched onto a poor authority figure, someone who set them down a dangerous road, and now here they were, getting crushed under the weight of his cruelty.
But it wasn't just that. The refugees were her family. She'd seen too many innocents hurt in this world, seen too much of the system that trampled them down, and though these men weren't innocent, they didn't deserve this kind of treatment.
Her breath came in shallow bursts, her fingers brushing the hilt of the dagger hidden beneath her cloak. She could make a move now, disrupt the scene before it escalated further—before Declan's mace came down on one of them. But it wasn't just about her. There was the matter of what comes next. If she acted now, would she be able to derail Declan's plans? If she went back to the camp right now, she could warn Kempford that something was brewing.
She bit her lip, hesitating in the shadows. Watching Declan's face twist with contempt, his fist tightening around the weapon, she felt a surge of anger—and a familiar pang of guilt. She couldn't ignore this, if she did, she would be no better than the nobility turning a blind eye to the plight of the commoners.
Rell's mind was resolute, the decision made in a heartbeat. She could no longer stand by and watch. With a surge of anger, she pounced from the shadows, her blade flashing through the dim light. Declan was too distracted by his rage and the trembling men in front of him to notice her approach. Her blade connected with his skin, slicing a deep gash across his left cheek and eye. Blood sprayed, hot and visceral, as Declan let out a startled grunt.
The three boys froze, their eyes wide with shock as they registered the sudden intrusion. For a split second, the air was thick with confusion, but that moment didn't last long. Declan, despite his age, was still a veteran of the Great War. He recovered quickly, his old bones moving with terrifying speed as his mace swung viciously toward Rell.
His strike came in low, aiming to crush her side. She rolled back just in time, narrowly avoiding the blow, but the distraction had allowed her to regain her footing.
A voice rang out, slicing through the chaos like a blade of its own.
"Stop!"
Rell's heart skipped. She knew that voice. Kempford. The reverend, what was he doing here? A wave of relief swept through her. The perfect mediator to resolve this conflict. He could stop the fight and help to stop whatever Declan was scheming.
The tension in the air didn't waver, but Declan faltered. His gnarled fingers loosened their grip on the mace, his ferocious glare flicking toward the sound of Kempford's voice.
"She cut me!" Declan spat, furiously yet he lowered his weapon anyways. Rell relaxed her grip on her own weapon, though her every muscle was still coiled in readiness.
Kempford's voice came again, soothing and commanding, "Enough. Let's discuss this. Violence is never the answer."
Rell turned her gaze, trying to locate the reverend. Her eyes searched, but found no sign of the man she'd heard just moments ago.
"Where—" she began, but her voice was cut off by a sickening sound—crack.
The blow came from behind her, a bone-crushing impact that sent a wave of nausea flooding down her spine. Agony surged through her skull, and the world tilted before she toppled forward. She collapsed to the ground, unable to brace herself as everything turned black.
Rell's eyes fluttered open, the light painfully bright as it filtered through the cracks of the shack. Her head throbbed in a dull, persistent ache, and her thoughts felt sluggish, like they were stuck in a thick fog. She tried to sit up, but her body betrayed her, leaving her groggy and disoriented. She looked around, trying to make sense of her surroundings.
The scent of wet straw and something musky filled the air. She could tell by the odor—this was still somewhere in the slums. But this place... it wasn't like anything she was familiar with. The walls of the shack were rough-hewn planks of wood, wide gaps between the boards. There were no windows, just a few holes in the walls that let in slivers of daylight, weak beams slicing through the gloom of the shack.
Her head spun again as she tried to recall how she'd ended up here. She couldn't remember a thing from the night before. Just blank space.
Rell blinked a few more times, trying to clear the haze from her mind. A fire crackled in the center of the room, small and contained in a makeshift fire pit. A woman sat hunched over the fire, stirring a pot that hung suspended above the flames, steam curling from its contents. The smell of whatever she was cooking wafted into Rell's nose—smelled like a stew of some kind.
The woman didn't seem to notice Rell yet, her focus entirely on the pot. She was older, her graying hair tied back in a loose, practical bun, wearing a faded tunic and a well-worn apron.
Rell let out a languid breath and finally pushed herself up onto her elbows. Her body felt stiff and sore. Dizziness swelled as she changed position.
"You're awake," the woman said as she turned to face Rell.
Rell cleared her throat, trying to sound steady despite her disorientation. "Where... where am I?"
The woman paused before responding, her tone thoughtful. "A safe place. Just lay back down for now, you need to rest."
Rell frowned, trying to piece together what had happened. "What happened?"
The woman's eyes softened, but she didn't offer any more explanation. Instead, she simply stirred the pot, letting the silence hang between them. Rell's thoughts continued to swirl, but her memory was too fuzzy to make sense of anything.
Rell's mind raced as she tried to piece together the events leading up to this moment. She laid back down while she thought about the day before, she closed her eyes to help with concentration. She remembered hunting and the satisfaction of a good barter. Her conversation with Declan echoed in her mind, she hated him. And then... the contract.
Her breath caught in her throat as the memory slammed into her with alarming clarity. She had the contract, and it was important. A forgery that would let them pay off their debt after all these years.
Rell's eyes snapped open, and she sat up too quickly. The room spun violently around her, the sudden rush of movement only intensifying the throb in her skull. A jagged pain pierced through her, and she winced, her fingers instinctively reaching to the back of her head. She felt linen, a bandage? The linen bandage wrapped around her scalp felt tight and constricting.
She prodded at the fabric with trembling fingers, pushing gently through the cloth. She had hoped it was just a bump—something minor—but her touch found something else. Something wet. A wound?
Her stomach turned as she pressed into the bandage, feeling the sticky wetness beneath. The pain spiked again. Her scalp felt softer than it should. She winced, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth.
What happened? How had she gotten here? The memory felt so fragmented, like trying to grab hold of smoke.
With a soft groan, Rell sank back onto the straw bed. The coolness of the rough sheets against her skin offered some comfort, but she knew that there was something urgent that she had to do, if only she could remember what it was.
"Here, eat this," the woman said, kneeling down beside Rell's makeshift bedding, sitting her up and offering a crude bowl with a spoon.
Rell's hands trembled as she took the bowl, her eyes settling on the brown broth inside. Strings of meat floated alongside slices of carrot. She fished out a chunk of meat, eyeing it with suspicion.
"What is this?" she asked, her voice raspy.
The woman hesitated, uncertainty crossing her face. "It's... uh, rat from the plains. Apparently, it's a—"
"A delicacy?" Rell finished for her, as she remembered the rat trade. Normally, she would have found the situation humorous.
"Yes! How did you know?" The woman sounded genuinely surprised, her brows furrowing in curiosity.
"Just a lucky guess, I 'spose," Rell muttered, deflecting the question as she shoveled the tough meat into her mouth. It wasn't her first time eating vermin. She quickly finished the bowl of stew in silence.
"Are you still hungry?" the woman asked, motioning toward the pot with a gentle nod.
"No, thank ya," Rell replied politely, though her voice still held a faint tremor. She started to push herself up, wincing as the world tilted around her. There was no time to waste—she needed to get back to the camp. Someone there had to know what happened to her.
"Wait, wait. You can't get up yet. You're hurt," the woman said, panic rising in her voice as she hurried to stop her.
Rell pushed herself up, her vision swimming. "I'm fine. Really, I'm fine. I'll pay ya back. Don't worry 'bout me." She tried to sound convincing, but the pain in her skull made it hard to keep steady.
The woman's expression shifted to a stern-look. "You're not fine," she said firmly, kneeling beside her. "If it wasn't for my healing artes, you'd still have a crater in your skull and wouldn't be breathing right now."
Rell's brow furrowed at the seriousness of the woman's words. "What happened? How'd I get here?"
The woman hesitated, glancing down at her hands. "I don't know what happened to you. I was just passing through when I saw you—barely breathing, unconscious on the ground. I recognized you right away." She swallowed hard, clearly battling emotion. "I did my best to keep you alive until you woke up."
Rell's heart tightened, she didn't recognize this woman. "How do ya know me?"
"You helped my daughter once. Gave her medicine—herbs from outside the city walls. You might not remember. It helped her pass in peace. You gave her that."
Rell stared at the woman, she had helped many of the slum dwellers, but didn't specifically remember her.
"I'm sorry," Rell apologized. "But I need to go. I need to get back to my people. I've got a feeling that somethin' bad's gonna happen."
The woman responded quickly, her tone flat. "They're gone."
Rell sat up straighter, her mind racing. "What do ya mean?" she asked, the seriousness in her voice unmistakable. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"They're gone," the woman repeated, her voice steady. "The guards raided your convent. But I heard most of them got away. Left the city somehow." She watched Rell carefully, gauging her reaction. "...Two days ago."
Rell's heart plummeted. A numbness spread through her chest as the weight of the woman's words sank in. Two days? Had she really been unconscious that long? Her thoughts spiraled. What had happened to everyone else? Should she feel relieved that they were alive—or devastated that they had left her behind? And why had the guards raided them in the first place? Too many questions that she didn't have answers for.
"Do ya know why?" Rell asked, her voice quieter now, tinged with uncertainty. Her mind flashed back to the contract. Could a single piece of parchment really be worth all this?
The woman hesitated, lips parting before pressing together again. A flicker of something unreadable crossed her face as she weighed her words. Finally, she exhaled and spoke, her tone blunt, "Best you see for yourself," she said. "Rest for now. I'll take you there later."
Rell kept her head down as she followed the woman through the winding streets of Brelith. The borrowed cloak hung loosely over her shoulders, its hood pulled forward to obscure her face. Strands of her coppery hair, barely tamed by the bandages wrapped around her head, peeked out despite her efforts.
She moved stiffly, her body still feeble from injury, but she forced herself to keep pace. The woman leading her—who had yet to give her name—walked briskly, weaving through the alleys and roads with practiced ease. Rell's mind swam with unease—two days lost, the convent raided, her people gone. She had to see it with her own eyes.
The streets widened as they neared the public square, the hum of voices swelling into a constant murmur. The square itself was a large circular space, typically used for performances, events, and public gatherings. Today, however, the energy felt different—more tense, expectant. A wooden platform stood in the center, a handful of figures atop it.
Rell's gaze flicked to the man who commanded attention. He was large, broad-shouldered, with a thick blond beard and a nobleman's attire that fit snugly over his girth. A cane rested in his grip, but he hardly seemed to need it. His presence alone held weight.
She didn't recognize him, but she didn't have to. The murmurs of the crowd filled in the gaps.
"...Hammond Léveque, I thought he had joined the wardens…"
"...What choice do we have? By right he is still a Léveque…"
"...The poor boy…"
"...I heard they captured the ringleader of those…"
Rell listened intently, but the overlapping voices made it difficult to fully discern what was being said. But she was able to piece together the man in question, Hammond Léveque. She hadn't heard of him before, but she had heard of the nobility sending their own to join the wardens.
A deep, resonant hum filled the square as the thaumaturgic device at Hammond Léveque's side flared to life. When he spoke, his voice rolled through the crowd like a tide, steady and commanding.
"My friends, my people of Brelith—today, we stand in mourning."
A solemn hush fell over the gathering.
"You all know the tragedy that has befallen our great city. My dear half-brother, Jacques Léveque, and his beloved family, struck down in the dead of night. Murdered in their beds. A coward's attack. And now, only young Noah remains—the last of his line, the last of his father's noble legacy."
He paused, letting the words settle. A few gasps rippled through the crowd, a murmur of sorrow. Hammond's expression tightened with grief.
"I grieve with you. I grieve as a brother, as a man of Brelith, and as a faithful servant of the gods. But I cannot afford to grieve as a ruler, for this city needs strength in its time of loss."
A shift in the crowd. Heads nodded, but there was some confused murmuring amongst the crowd.
"I will see to it that Noah is cared for, that he is raised to lead, as is his birthright. Until he comes of age, I will watch over Brelith in his stead. Not as a king—no, no, for I claim no throne—but as a guardian, as a steward. As a man who will see this city secure once more."
The murmurs grew, this time with approval.
"Brelith was built on the foundation of faith. Free faith. We have never dictated who our people must kneel to, never demanded one god above another. That is the pride of our city. The pride of our people. And how, I ask you, have we been repaid?"
He let the question hang, his gaze sweeping across the square.
"By betrayal. By bloodshed."
The weight of his words pressed down on the gathered crowd. Anger grew in their eyes, anger his words stoked into a roaring flame.
"Not by outsiders, no. Not by invading armies. But by the very people we welcomed with open arms. The refugees of Glaslow, who we took in when they had nowhere else to turn. The same wretches who turned on their saviors, who plunged their knives into the very hands that fed them."
A low growl of outrage rippled through the masses. Hammond lifted his cane and struck it against the wooden platform—a resounding crack that silenced the whispers.
"And worst of all—these traitors worship Ephydra. Our goddess. The same goddess the Léveques have honored for generations. They took her name and twisted it, turned it into a banner under which they slaughtered our kin."
He exhaled, shaking his head as if the mere thought disgusted him.
"I will not let this stand. I will not allow our generosity to be repaid with daggers in the night. And so, for the good of Brelith, new measures must be taken."
A pause. He knew how to shift, how to make bitter medicine palatable.
"Faith will remain free. Of course it will—this is still Brelith! But worship will be done right. No longer will heretics be allowed to twist the gods in secret corners and back alleys. Worship will take place only within the sanctioned temples, where it is pure, where it is true."
Some nodded in agreement, others hesitated, but Hammond pressed forward.
"To keep you safe, there will now be a curfew once the sun sets. No more shadows to hide in, no more foul rogues. Those who have nothing to hide have nothing to fear."
Approval. Agreement. The people who moments ago may have bristled now found themselves soothed.
"To ensure order, we will bolster our city guard. Patrols will increase. And," he lifted a gloved hand, "to further ensure that order is maintained, the Wardens will walk among us. Some of you may know of them. Warriors of discipline, of honor. They will keep us safe, as we should have always been."
That last part—as we should have always been—was the final stone that sealed the wall of their conviction. If they had been safer before, if such measures had already been in place, perhaps Jacques Léveque and his family would still be alive.
Hammond bowed his head as if in thought, then lifted his gaze.
"I know this is difficult. I know there are those among you who will say, 'This is not the way of Brelith.' But I ask you—what choice do we have? Would you rather more of our people be slaughtered in their sleep? Your family? Your children? Or will we stand together? Will we protect our city?"
A murmur of agreement swelled into a wave. People were nodding, clapping, shouting yes from the crowd. Hammond pressed a hand over his chest in gratitude, his expression solemn.
"Together, we will endure. Together, we will rebuild. And together, we will ensure that Brelith never suffers such betrayal again."
Applause erupted across the square. Hammond Léveque had spoken.
And the people of Brelith believed him.
Rell shuddered, pulling her cloak tighter around herself as dread settled in her chest. Hammond spoke with the same polished confidence as the noblemen who had razed her village and cut down her father—men who cloaked cruelty in eloquence, who turned justice into a weapon. He was winning them over, feeding on their grief and anger, molding their fears into chains they would wear willingly. But she saw through the facade. This wasn't just retribution; it was the foundation of something far worse. This wasn't the end. It was the birth of a tyrant.