《Shadows of the Silver Flower》


 I. The Bookkeeping Night

    The lock was stuck, again. Myrt crouched by the lattice wall, her lockpicks trembling in her hands. The ancient mechanism fought her at every turn, its innards stiff with rust and neglect. Her nerves weren''t helping¡ªnor was the nagging feeling that this job was different from their usual fare.


    "Just break it already," Varin growled, hefting his truncheon. His voice echoed through the abandoned library hallway like a temple bell.


    "Quiet!" Myrt hissed, throwing him a sharp glance over her shoulder. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she worked the picks, muttering a silent prayer to whatever god watched over thieves. The lock finally surrendered with a reluctant click.


    "Could you be any slower?" Varin muttered, but Myrt was already slipping through the gate.


    The room beyond was a maze of leaning book stacks that seemed to defy gravity. Decades of dust draped the spines like funeral shrouds. Something about the stillness made her skin crawl¡ªthis wasn''t their usual smash-and-grab. The client''s intensity when describing the book, that barely concealed desperation in his cultured voice, suggested deeper waters.


    "Let''s find it and get out," she whispered, pushing the thoughts aside.


    They combed through the titles with methodical haste, disturbing centuries of accumulated knowledge. Myrt''s fingers brushed faded leather bindings, but her mind focused only on their quarry. When Varin''s voice broke the silence, she nearly jumped.


    "Got it." He held up a black leather tome, its title embossed in worn gold: A Study in Noble Houses Forgotten.


    Before Myrt could reach for it, Varin tossed it toward her. She caught it with both hands, surprised by its weight. The brittle leather felt unnaturally cool against her palms, and a faint, sickly-sweet smell wafted from its pages¡ªlike flowers left too long on a grave. Varin had already turned away, scanning the shelves again with unusual intensity.


    "We''ve got what we came for," she said, tucking the book under her arm. "Let''s¡ª"


    A cascade of falling books shattered the silence. Myrt flinched as the crash echoed through the library''s empty halls.


    "Damn it, Myrt!" Varin hissed.


    "It wasn''t me!" she shot back, but the damage was done.


    The distant clink of metal-toed boots rang out, faint at first but growing louder. Myrt''s breath caught in her throat as the sound multiplied. More than one guard¡ªmuch more.


    Varin grinned, his truncheon resting casually on his shoulder. "Guess we''re doing this the hard way."


    Myrt''s stomach churned. She wasn''t a fighter, and Varin''s reckless confidence made her want to scream. Her fingers found the blackjack at her side, the familiar leather wrapping grounding her as she forced herself to focus.


    A shadow flickered at the corridor''s end. The guard who appeared was in his forties, streaks of gray threading through his hair. His gambeson bore the red-and-yellow colors of the University, and his eyes widened at the sight of them.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    "Hey, what the¡ª"


    Myrt moved before he could finish. She darted forward with practiced grace, her blackjack swinging low. The guard barely had time to shift his weight before the weapon cracked against his knee. He let out a strangled groan, stumbling.


    Varin followed through without hesitation. His truncheon connected with devastating precision, breaking the man''s nose with a wet crunch. Blood sprayed as the guard crumpled, unconscious.


    Their victory was short-lived. Shouts erupted from multiple directions, and the thunder of approaching boots grew louder.


    "Windows!" Varin barked, already moving.


    Myrt turned to see him smashing the latch of a stained-glass window. With a heave, he shoved the frame open, sending shards of colored glass raining to the floor like broken jewels.


    "Are you insane?" The words barely left her mouth before Varin grabbed her arm and leapt through the opening, pulling her with him.


    The ground rushed up to meet them. Myrt landed hard on the manicured lawn, pain shooting through her legs and spine. She gasped, momentarily stunned, as Varin hauled her to her feet.


    "Move!" he ordered, dragging her toward the shelter of the city streets.


    Every step sent daggers through her joints, but adrenaline kept her moving. Behind them, the guards clustered at the shattered window, shouting orders but making no move to follow. Their hesitation spoke volumes¡ªwhatever this book was, they feared it more than they wanted to catch its thieves.


    When they finally ducked into a narrow alley, Myrt yanked her arm free and rounded on Varin.


    "What the hell was that?" she demanded, voice low but trembling with fury.


    "We got out, didn''t we?" He flashed that infuriating grin, but something darker lurked behind it.


    Myrt wanted to scream, to hit him, but the sound of distant bells cut through her rage. The alarm was spreading through the city like wildfire.


    They wound their way through the labyrinth of streets, taking the long route to throw off any pursuit. The city''s shadows wrapped around them like a cloak, but offered little comfort. Every step reminded Myrt of their violent exit, and every corner held the threat of discovery.


    The Bull and Baron appeared ahead like a lighthouse in a storm, though its welcome was questionable. The tavern''s weathered sign hung askew, its paint so faded that only the vaguest outline of a nobleman astride a bull remained visible. Perfect for their purposes.


    Varin entered first, shouldering through the door. The sour reek of cheap beer and unwashed bodies assaulted Myrt''s senses as she followed. She nodded to the barkeep, a wizened man whose rheumy eyes had seen too much to care about what transpired in his establishment. Her abused muscles screamed as she sank onto a rough-hewn bench, but at least here, she could breathe.


    Three rounds of watered ale and countless anxious glances later, their contact arrived. He wore a merchant''s coat gone threadbare at the elbows, but three days'' worth of stubble couldn''t disguise the aristocratic cut of his jaw. Myrt''s palms grew slick against her mug as he approached.


    "Fine night for a stroll," he said, his affected common accent slipping around the edges. The precise consonants of a university education leaked through like water through a damaged dam.


    "Fair enough," she replied, letting her natural Lower City drawl thicken slightly.


    The exchange happened with practiced casualness. The book vanished beneath his coat while a cloth purse materialized in her lap. Silver clinked softly against her leg, the weight of it substantial but somehow hollow after the night''s violence.


    "A pleasure," she said, the lie bitter on her tongue.


    "Indeed." His smile was pleasant and empty as a porcelain mask. "Let us hope our paths need not cross again."


    He melted away into the tavern''s shadows, leaving behind only the lingering scent of expensive soap and too many questions. Myrt turned to Varin, who''d been uncharacteristically silent throughout the exchange, his usual bravado conspicuously absent.


    "Well," she said, studying his face, "at least we won''t go hungry." She raised her hand to catch the barkeep''s attention. "Another round."


    Varin''s answering grunt might have been agreement. She didn''t press him. Some jobs were better left unexamined, especially when they involved men who played at being common while wearing boots worth three months'' rent.

 II. The Wayward Son

    Olgard sprawled along the shores of its namesake bay, a city blessed by merchants'' fortunes and nobles'' ambitions. Its deep harbor and navigable river had made it a natural hub of commerce, with wealth flowing through its gates as steadily as the tides. Merchant ships from distant shores crowded the harbor, their holds laden with spices, silks, and exotic goods, while river barges brought grain, timber, and ore from the inland provinces. The city grew fat on tariffs, its coffers swelling with each vessel that dropped anchor in its waters.


    A line of hereditary counts ruled from their hilltop palace, their authority woven from centuries of marriage contracts and vassal oaths. Though blood had stained the city''s stones during succession disputes in generations past¡ªnoble house turning against noble house in brief but bitter struggles¡ªthose days were long buried. Now, not even Olgard''s eldest citizens could recall enemy armies beneath its walls or trampling its renowned orchards. This rare peace had allowed artisans, traders, and craftsmen to build their fortunes, each generation adding another layer to the city''s prosperity.


    As Olgard flourished, it burst free of its old town walls like an overfed merchant from last year''s doublet. The overflow created the bustling Outer City, a maze of wooden houses and crowded streets where ambition rubbed shoulders with necessity. Beyond these newer districts stretched endless farmlands and grand estates, their boundaries marked by ancient hedgerows and stone walls that faded into the horizon like a painted backdrop.


    On the city''s outskirts stood The Last League, an inn where merchants gathered before entering Olgard proper. Its common room buzzed with traders hunched over tables, calculating tomorrow''s tariffs and debating which city guards might be amenable to discretion. But in a private chamber above, lit by a single tallow candle, a different sort of calculation was taking place.


    Edmer sat alone, his rough appearance and weathered clothes at odds with the fine Dervenish wine he sipped. With scholarly reverence, he turned another page of the decaying manuscript before him, absorbing its knowledge like parched soil drinks rain. His icy blue eyes gleamed in the candlelight. This was the final piece of his puzzle. Setting aside his empty glass, he began updating a sprawling family tree diagram with a quill pen.


    His pen traced a line from himself¡ªthe last of a wealthy smith guild lineage¡ªthrough his late father Aemin, and back through generations of craftsmen and occasional minor nobility. With each correction and annotation, a story emerged. The life of a guild member could provide comfort, even wealth to pass on to one''s sons, but Edmer found it suffocating. It was a life bounded by invisible walls; no matter how wealthy a merchant became; aristocracy would always look down upon them. Edmer had drops of noble blood where impoverished aristocracy had met upstart merchantry, but not enough to break free of his social stratum.


    Unless, of course, he ceased to be a merchant at all.


    So Edmer did what he always did¡ªhe gambled. His late father would have been horrified to know that his son had sold all the inherited smithies, converting his birthright into a hefty sum of gold florins. He''d spent a year gathering every scrap of information about his heritage, collecting facts where he could and drawing conclusions where he couldn''t. Now, finally, it was time to act.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    Donning worn merchant garments, he joined the crowd hurrying to reach the city before the guards closed the gates for the night. The Trade Gates rose before them, twin whitewashed towers topped with the Ravenod dynasty''s banner¡ªa red ship on a white shield. Edmer kept his head low as he passed beneath them, but the guards were more interested in extracting "fees" from peasants with produce-laden carts than scrutinizing a lone merchant.


    Once inside the city proper, he wandered the cobbled streets in seemingly random patterns to shake any watching eyes. His first stop was a shop displaying silk gowns and fur-trimmed doublets that cost more than most burghers earned in a year. When the shop guard moved to throw him out, Edmer''s response was a purse heavy with silver landing on the counter.


    "I have an order," he said quietly. "A discreet one."


    The shopkeeper and guard exchanged wary glances. For a moment, Edmer considered bolting. Then, with a subtle adjustment of the offered price, greed won out, and from there, everything proceeded smoothly.


    It was the first door of many that would open to the clink of coin that evening. He swept through the Upper City''s finest shops making bulk purchases, placed bets in the Lower City''s fighting pits, and loosened tongues in the Outer City''s taverns. By nightfall, his inheritance was significantly lighter, but he was transformed. Fresh-shaved and elegantly attired in a hooded doublet of Flemish wool, he cut a different figure entirely. A dueling sword hung at his belt¡ªas fashion demanded¡ªand hired bodyguards flanked him. Even more was agreed upon and waited for the right moment.


    All that remained now was an opportunity and a presentation.


    Myrt couldn''t make sense of what was happening on the streets lately. The regulars at The Bull and Baron had split into two camps: those in the loop and those out of it. She belonged to the latter, watching as the insiders grew increasingly tight-lipped while somehow having enough coin to drink through endless nights.


    Even Varin, who usually got along better with the "rob-you-on-the-street" crowd, couldn''t get them to talk. Now here he was, joining their revelry, his rich voice carrying a profane song across the tavern. He loved to sing¡ªhad a gift for it. Everyone knew how his mother had warned him against joining the Bard College, claiming it beneath a god-fearing honest worker.


    When he finally returned to their table, Myrt nearly leapt on him.


    "What did you get from them?" she demanded, her voice edged with impatience.


    "Still nothing." He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Same old ''you''ll see'' nonsense. But whatever''s happening, it''s big. Biggest job of our lives, and we''re not in on it."


    At least they had the coin from the University job to comfort them. Both thieves had indulged in the time-honored tradition of the newly wealthy¡ªspending their gains before the heat of acquisition could cool. Varin now boasted a new long dagger, its blade kissing the boundary between weapon and short sword, nearly half a meter of gleaming Toledo steel. It was more showpiece than practical tool for their trade¡ªmurder created complications that mere theft did not, and even the most corrupt guard couldn''t ignore a corpse as easily as a missing purse. Still, it was a beautiful thing, a slice of pride for a Lower City commoner to carry at his hip. And when faced with the more unsavory elements of their world, such displays of steel often prevented the need for its use.


    Myrt had chosen a different path for her windfall. Her new leather belt was a masterwork of utility, festooned with an array of satchels, purses, and pouches that would make a merchant envious. Each pocket was a possibility, a home for her various tools of the craft or their future spoils. The weight of it around her waist was comforting, like armor against uncertainty.

 III. The Flower of the Bay

    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¡ªKarel and Ryn, hired for their silence and steel¡ªflanked 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¡ªthe 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¡ªa 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¡ªthey 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¡ªthe 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¡ªnot 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 ¨C 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.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    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¡ªand he looked like the kind who wouldn¡¯t stay silent under interrogation¡ªit 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¡ªone of the ¡°insiders.¡±


    ¡°Hey¡ª¡± 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¡ªor 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¡ªit¡¯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¡ªhold 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¡ªformer street thugs turned soldiers¡ªsat around a battered table littered with weapons. Swords, daggers, clubs¡ªall 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¡ªa 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¡ªwe''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.

 IV. Flames of Battle

    The rumors spread through the Lower City of Olgard like wildfire, fanned by paid whisperers and those who thrived on chaos. What began as an uneasy murmur about the guards¡¯ actions in Butchers¡¯ Square soon swelled into a roaring tide of outrage¡ªa tempest fueled by generations of oppression. To the poor crammed within Olgard¡¯s shadowed alleys, it was no longer mere brutality¡ªit was massacre, a crime etched not just in blood but in the marrow-deep memory of their suffering. The seeds of resentment found fertile ground here, where hatred for the wealthy elite and their enforcers had long been cultivated, watered by neglect and despair.


    Even in calmer times, patrols moved through these streets with wary eyes and clenched fists, knowing they were tolerated at best. Now, after the events in the square, their presence felt less like protection and more like oppression¡ªa mailed gauntlet squeezing tighter around throats already raw from hunger and desperation. A week of distrust sown among the people had ripened into something darker, angrier. It was time to escalate.


    The night air hung heavy with dampness as Edmer led his men toward the district guardhouse, its silhouette looming against the faint glow of distant lanterns like a monolith of authority waiting to be toppled. Once a militia warehouse, the building had served as a storehouse for weapons and supplies meant to arm local levies in times of war. But peace had stretched on year after unbroken year, and the cost of maintaining such structures grew burdensome. So, the rulers of Olgard devised a solution: transform the old network of warehouses into barracks and guardhouses, birthing a professional Guards¡¯ Corps tasked with defending both against external threats and internal unrest¡ªall under one efficient budget.


    Now, the guardhouse stood as a symbol of that authority, its stone walls cold and unyielding beneath the moonlight. Converted from storage depots to barracks and prisons, it housed criminals, stored arms, and quartered soldiers¡ªall roles intertwined like threads in a tapestry of control. For Edmer, this place represented not only power but vulnerability¡ªthe kind that could be exploited. His boots scuffed softly against the cobblestones as he approached, each step deliberate, measured. Around him, his companions moved like shadows, their faces obscured by hoods, their breaths shallow clouds vanishing into the chill.


    With a swing of the war hammer, door joints splintered, sending shards of wood flying into the night like shrapnel. The guards inside barely had time to reach for their weapons before crossbow bolts followed, striking unprepared defenders with merciless precision. A few were lucky enough to survive the first volley unscathed, retreating into the depths of the guardhouse, covering their backs with hastily strapped shields. Edmer¡¯s men pursued, drawn swords glistening in the flickering torchlight that danced across the walls. Edmer himself stepped into the carnage behind them, his expression unreadable, his heart pounding with a mixture of exhilaration and dread.


    It was a massacre. Corpses littered the room¡ªfallen from chairs, sprawled on beds, slumped over tables still bearing remnants of interrupted meals. Blood pooled on wooden surfaces, mingling with spilled ale and the scattered dice of an unfinished game. Cries of the wounded filled the cold night air, desperate pleas for mercy that went unanswered.


    In the corridors of the guardhouse, the gang encountered their first organized resistance. Two guardsmen, armed with shields and swords, blocked the passage, using the narrowness of the space to negate the numerical advantage of Edmer¡¯s men.


    ¡°Stay close,¡± Ryn muttered to Mattias, his voice low but steady. ¡°We take them together.¡±


    Mattias nodded, though his grin betrayed a reckless confidence. He lunged at the right guard, forcing him to retreat behind his shield. The confined space limited the defender¡¯s movements; his sword scraped uselessly against the wall. Mattias seized the opportunity, closing the distance and driving a knife deep into the guard¡¯s unarmored leg. The man screamed, his weapon faltering in his grip, and a quick strike to the neck silenced him forever.Stolen story; please report.


    The remaining guard, now outflanked and outnumbered, tried to hold his ground but succumbed to the relentless barrage from both Mattias and Ryn. Ryn¡¯s blade plunged into his chest, pinning him against the wall. The path was clear.


    In the next room, they lost Mattias. Drunk on triumph, his bloodlust unchecked, he charged recklessly through an ajar door, only to be met with two crossbow bolts fired point-blank into his chest. He collapsed like a sack of grain, his body trampled by his brothers-in-arms rushing forward to engage the defenders. More bolts flew, grazing flesh in hurried aim, but failing to stem the tide.


    This was the weapons¡¯ storage¡ªthe best place to mount a defense in the entire building. The defenders wielded whatever they could grab¡ªswords, halberds, truncheons¡ªwith grim determination. They fought valiantly but were doomed from the start. Their numbers were too few to form a cohesive line, and every man was forced to watch his own flanks. In contrast, Edmer¡¯s men controlled the battlefield freely, attacking in pairs, shielding each other while isolating their prey. Every mistake made by the defenders was fatal, and they began to fall, one by one, freeing their attackers to press the assault further.


    Ryn dispatched the man who had killed Mattias with a brutal thrust, then turned immediately to flank another guard, his movements fluid and predatory. His sword flashed in his hands, claiming life after life.


    An eerie silence fell as the last of the guards lost his life. Thugs never had any respect for the dead, and coordinated looting began almost immediately. Weapons, armor, uniforms, supplies¡ªthey stripped the room bare, leaving behind nothing but scattered ash and broken dreams. Yet even as they worked, the metallic tang of blood clung to the air, thick and oppressive, a constant reminder of the cost of their victory. Each item taken felt less like spoils of war and more like fragments of lives now extinguished, echoes of men who once believed themselves safe within these walls.


    Edmer moved toward the detention cells, his boots crunching over shattered wood and discarded tools of oppression. The prisoners huddled in their cages like animals cornered by hunters, their eyes wide with fear and uncertainty. Some shrank back as he approached, while others watched him with wary curiosity. From the keyring of a fallen guard, he selected the iron key, its surface slick with drying blood. Unlocking the first cell, he stepped aside, allowing the occupants to make their choice: flee or fight.


    ¡°Fear not,¡± he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil within him. ¡°We share the same enemy¡ªthe same masters who cage you here and rule with iron fists. You can leave now, disappear into the night, or you can join us. Fight alongside us, and let them know that the streets belong not to the Guards'' Corps, but to the people.¡±


    His words hung in the air, heavy with promise and peril. A few hesitated no longer, bolting past him without a second glance. Others lingered, weighing the risks, until finally, a handful stepped forward, their faces set with resolve. Not all chose to stay, but those who did brought with them a quiet strength¡ªa shared understanding of what it meant to lose everything and still rise again.


    As the group prepared to exit, Edmer paused near the banner of the Guards'' Corps, its emblem of authority mocking him from the wall. With deliberate intent, he tore it down, the fabric ripping with a sound that seemed to reverberate through the room like a challenge thrown at unseen ears. Tossing it onto a pile of kindling scavenged from the storeroom, he struck a spark with a flint. Flames leapt upward, consuming the symbol of tyranny with voracious hunger. The firelight danced across the faces of his followers, casting shadows that wavered between hope and despair.


    The blaze grew, spreading quickly through the dry timber and oiled leather of the guardhouse. Within moments, the structure groaned under the weight of its own destruction, beams cracking and collapsing as the inferno consumed it whole. Smoke billowed into the night sky, a dark cloud marking the beginning of something new¡ªor perhaps the continuation of an ancient struggle. Standing outside amidst the chaos, Edmer gazed upon the flames, feeling their heat sear his skin and ignite something deeper within him.

 V. Back In Business

    Laying low gnawed at Myrt¡¯s nerves, setting her teeth on edge with the restless need to move, to act, to feel the weight of stolen coin in her palm. Days spent idle left her twitchy, her fingers drumming against the worn wood of the tavern table, her thoughts circling like a caged beast. Their purses were thinning, and the silence of inaction pressed down on her like a slow suffocation. Varin, infuriatingly, didn¡¯t seem to mind. He stretched out his long limbs, drank lazily, and watched her agitation with the smug patience of a man content to wait out a storm. But even he couldn¡¯t deny the truth¡ªOlgard¡¯s streets weren¡¯t kind to thieves who let their skills rust.


    So, he found them a job.


    One of his drinking companions, loose-lipped after too much ale, had let slip a promising tidbit: Master Alberto, a tailor of considerable renown, was departing on a sudden trade venture. An unexpected commission had emptied his stock of cloth, leaving his coffers brimming with coin.


    The shop, a stately two-story structure of white brick, stood proud among the more modest buildings of the Lower City. Wide windows displayed embroidered gowns and velvet doublets, their richness a stark contrast to the grimy streets outside. The layout was simple¡ªstorefront in the front, workshop in the back. A narrow wooden balcony jutted from the second floor, likely leading to the tailor¡¯s office. What complicated matters was its placement. The building backed against the ancient city wall, leaving no room for carts to unload goods at the rear. Both entrances, one for customers, the other for servants and deliveries, were at the front, well-guarded.


    They observed in daylight, feigning casual interest as they lingered across the street. But entry was impossible without risking recognition. There was no time to study guard rotations, and a single misstep could tie their faces to the crime. Instead, they waited for nightfall.


    Under darkness, they returned. The guards clustered in the store, their presence a steady murmur through shuttered windows, but the workshop was dark, silent. A promising weakness, yet no easy way in¡ªexcept from above.


    Myrt hated heights with the passion of one who''d seen too many colleagues fall.


    Balanced precariously atop a slanted tile roof, she moved with the slow, deliberate caution of someone well aware that one misstep could send her crashing to the cobblestones below. The clay tiles beneath her boots felt brittle, too prone to shifting, and she sent a silent prayer to whatever fickle gods watched over thieves. The crumbling stone wall beside her, a remnant of Olgard¡¯s distant past, offered some support, but little comfort.


    Varin followed a step behind, his bulk moving with surprising grace. His truncheon was strapped to his belt, but tonight, a dagger rested in a new leather sheath at his hip. These were violent times, and even men like Varin ¡ª who preferred his trusty old truncheon ¡ª knew the value of steel.


    The angled roof and the battlements above shrouded them in shadow, concealing them from any watchful eyes below. They crept along the spine of the roof, slipping between the darkness, their breath barely a whisper in the cool night air. At the end of the adjoining house, they paused, measuring the drop to the tailor¡¯s balcony. Myrt felt her pulse quicken. It wasn¡¯t the first time she¡¯d done this, nor the highest drop she¡¯d faced, but it never got easier.


    With a silent nod, they moved.


    Myrt landed first, rolling to soften the impact, her body pressing flat against the wooden planks. The balcony creaked beneath her weight, but only slightly. Varin followed, his landing heavier, but controlled. They lay still, listening. The rhythmic chatter of guards drifted faintly from below, their voices casual, unaware.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    They were safe, for now. Myrt moved to the lock, lockpick already in hand. The lock surrendered to burglar¡¯s picks with embarrassing ease. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wool and dye, the lingering traces of beeswax polish clinging to the wooden floorboards. Moonlight painted the room in silver and shadow, revealing shelves laden with silks and velvets. Frescoes depicting the tailor''s craft crowned the walls, while a sheet-covered pile occupied one corner. An oak table dominated the space, its surface scattered with papers and crowned by an iron-bound chest.


    They separated, each taking their task. Myrt knelt before the chest, working her tools again. This lock was more stubborn than the first, resisting her efforts with every turn. She guessed that operational funds were stored here¡ªworkers¡¯ wages, material purchases, bribes for guards¡ªbut usually, shop owners kept a rainy-day stash hidden somewhere nearby. That¡¯s where Varin came in.


    He moved methodically, checking the obvious places: behind frescoes, lower shelves stacked with fabric, ill-fitted wall planks. ¡°How¡¯s it going?¡± Myrt whispered, her gaze fixed on the lock.


    "Found something interesting," Varin whispered, lifting the sheet in the corner. "Explains the where the money came from."


    Myrt glanced over. She expected another chest or stash but instead saw stacks of neatly folded uniforms stacked beneath¡ªall black, each bearing a silver flower.


    "Less admiring, more searching," Myrt hissed back. ¡°Where the money is matters more, don¡¯t you think?¡±


    Varin ignored her, stuffing two uniforms into his satchel after a moment of thinking. ¡°Yeah, yeah¡± he muttered, turning his attention to the floorboards. Traders often hid wealth beneath them, and Varin¡¯s keen eye rarely missed such details.


    Finally, the chest clicked open. To her dismay, it contained only a handful of copper coins. Alberto, it seemed, was either farsighted or greedy¡ªperhaps both¡ªleaving them without a payday.


    Clank, clank.


    The sudden sound of metal boots ascending the stairs froze them in place. Without a word, they scrambled behind the oak table, the only cover in the room. Daring not to breathe, Myrt peered around the edge. Light flickered through the keyhole of the corridor door. A guard tested the handle, then, apparently satisfied with the lock¡¯s security, clanked away.


    The light dimmed. Myrt exhaled silently.


    But then she heard a weak creak. Turning sharply, blackjack in hand, she found Varin pulling up a loose plank beneath the table. Beneath it lay a cache containing three purses, all heavy with coin, and a few papers, words unreadable without a proper light source.


    ¡°Found it,¡± he whispered, grinning.


    He stuffed the purses into his satchel, tucking them beneath the stolen uniforms. After a quick hesitation, he took the papers too¡ªmaybe they would find an interested buyer. Myrt rolled her eyes but said nothing. For now, they had what they came for.


    They moved back to the balcony, covering their tracks, maintaining an illusion of security for as long as possible. For the moment, Varin froze, looking onto a column of smoke, rising from the Lower City slums. But he had no time to guess what was happening. Now was the time to get away.


    Varin slid from the balcony onto a cart in the backyard, careful not to alert the guards. Myrt followed, her legs still aching from the fall she took in the University. They landed in the backyard, where sacks were piled near a shed, and a heap of coal lay nearby. This was undoubtedly within a guard¡¯s patrol route. They had to move quickly.


    The backyard gate was barred with a heavy wooden plank. So much for leaving without a trace. They lifted the plank carefully, laying it on the trampled ground. The hinges betrayed them with a subtle creak, and Varin immediately turned back, alert and looking for signs of trouble, but fortune favored them ¨C the guards'' voices remained steady, unalarmed.  They slipped through like shadows escaping dawn, closing the gate behind them with gentle precision, hoping to fool guards at least until sunrise.


    The backstreets welcomed them like old friends, their darkness a comforting shroud against discovery. Yet something felt wrong¡ªthe usual patrols were absent, the streets unnaturally empty save for the distant glow of fires painting the sky in orange hues. The Bull and Baron, when they reached it, echoed this strange emptiness, its usual crowds reduced to a handful of souls drowning their fears in cheap alcohol.


    ¡°Xandro, ale!¡± she called, sliding onto a bench. Varin joined her, setting the satchel down with a satisfying thud. For the first time in days, Myrt allowed herself a small smile. Whatever storms gathered beyond these walls, tonight, they were victorious.

 VI. Blood on the Streets

    The self-proclaimed "Flower Soldiers" were growing bolder. Their ranks swelled with freed criminals from raided guardhouses, mercenaries seeking coin and comfort, and young men eager to prove themselves in the chaos of rebellion. Numbers brought confidence. Confidence bred recklessness.


    Jeoffrey traced his finger along the notched edge of his barbed axe, an alien weight in hands better suited to quills and ledgers. His fingers, long and ink-stained, still remembered the smooth grip of a pen, the careful dance of letters across parchment. As the youngest son of a guild scribe, he had been groomed for a life of ledgers and correspondence, a future as predictable as the tide.


    But that future died the night he hurled his father''s precious inkwell against the wall, watching black streams spider down the whitewashed stone like veins in dying flesh. "I won''t spend my life recording other men''s deeds," he had shouted, his voice cracking with the raw fury of youth. His father''s response was swift and final¡ªdisinheritance, with all that remained passing to his dutiful older brothers. Jeoffrey stormed out into the night with nothing but his pride and a handful of copper pennies that gleamed like dead men''s eyes.


    Those pennies bought him several hours of forgetfulness in a Lower City tavern, until the surly keeper grabbed him by the collar. But before he could be thrown into the gutter, a man with a coal-black beard caught his arm. The stranger''s eyes held something Jeoffrey desperately needed¡ªpurpose, yes, but something darker too.


    Now, he was a fresh recruit in the Flower Soldiers, gripping a notched barbed axe and wearing a dented kettle hat¡ªwhatever meager equipment his new brothers-in-arms could spare. If today''s ambush paid off, perhaps he¡¯d earn himself proper armor. Maybe even a few coins to call his own.


    The back alley reeked of damp wood and unwashed bodies, the familiar stench of poverty that permeated the Lower City. A market bustled just beyond their hiding place, the shouts of vendors and clatter of carts masking the tension coiling in Jeoffrey''s gut like a serpent preparing to strike. He scanned the slums uneasily¡ªnarrow streets crammed with people living shoulder to shoulder, hardened by a lifetime of scraping by. He didn''t belong here. Alone, he''d have been robbed, maybe worse. But he wasn''t alone. A dozen armed men crouched alongside him, waiting with the patience of vultures.


    Then their target arrived.


    A patrol of city guards¡ªtwelve men, copper helmets gleaming in the morning sun. They moved with wary confidence, hands resting on their weapons, eyes flicking over the streets for threats. They still believed the daylight belonged to them.


    Not for long.


    A sharp whistle cut through the market noise. ¡®Black¡¯ Karel, their leader, had given the signal.


    The alley exploded into motion. Flower Soldiers poured from both sides, catching the patrol in a steel vice. The narrow street dissolved into chaos¡ªscreams of terror and rage, the ring of blade on blade, the wet sound of steel parting flesh. Market-goers fled in panic, some still clutching half-filled baskets, others abandoning everything in their desperate flight.


    Jeoffrey saw Karel¡ªexpressionless gray eyes, thick black beard¡ªlock blades with the guard captain. The captain fought like a man who had seen real war, his relentless strikes forcing Karel back, step by step. Blood spattered the cobblestones in abstract patterns, like some macabre artist''s vision.Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    His own hands trembled violently, the iron stench of blood filling his nose, threatening to empty his stomach. He had thrown punches in tavern brawls, but this¡ªthis was different. This was death, distilled to its purest form, stripped of poetry and pretense.


    A sudden opening¡ªKarel''s shoulder armor tore beneath the captain''s blade, crimson gushing down his arm like spilled wine. Something snapped in Jeoffrey''s mind. The world narrowed to a single point of focus, everything else falling away like dead leaves in autumn. His father''s dismissive sneer, his brothers'' mockery, all the accumulated rage of a lifetime spent in others'' shadows¡ªit crystallized into purpose, hard and sharp as obsidian.


    The axe felt lighter now, almost eager in his hands.


    Breathe. Move.


    Jeoffrey forced himself forward, gripping his axe with both hands, wet with sweat and something darker. He needed to do something, prove himself, needed to show he belonged here. He thought of his father, of the night he walked away from that life forever, invoking the simmering rage that had brought him here.


    He raised the axe and swung.


    The barbed head struck just below the captain''s shoulder blade, tearing through cloth, iron, and flesh alike with a sound like wet parchment tearing. The man jolted forward with a strangled gasp, staggering. Karel finished the job with a clean thrust to the throat, opening a second crimson smile beneath the captain''s chin.


    The body crumpled at their feet. Silence rang in Jeoffrey¡¯s ears, louder than any battle cry.


    In the sudden silence, Jeoffrey could hear his own ragged breathing, impossibly loud.


    Karel wrenched the bloodied axe free and shoved it back into Jeoffrey''s trembling hands. "Snap out of it, lad. Time for that later," he barked, already scanning for his next target with the dispassionate eyes of a butcher choosing his next cut. "Fight''s not over yet."


    It was the only kill Jeoffrey made that day. Without their commander, the guards lost their cohesion and started to fall one by one, like autumn leaves in a storm. They were surrounded, unable to run. The more experienced fighters finished the rest with brutal efficiency, their blades rising and falling with mechanical precision. The battle was short, savage. The dead were stripped of weapons and valuables, their bodies left sprawled in the filth for the slum dwellers to deal with, fresh offerings to the city''s endless hunger.


    Jeoffrey stared at the blood on his hands, his mind blank. Somewhere in the distance, the market carried on.


    That night, the victors gathered in a smoke-filled tavern. Greasy platters of roasted goose and watered-down ale filled the tables, laughter and boasts ringing loud beneath the low wooden beams. But in a shadowed corner, a different conversation unfolded.


    Karel sat with a well-dressed man, his ice-blue eyes glinting with cold fury. The murmurs of their conversation drifted across the room: "Boundaries overstepped... Behave like a soldier..." But Karel merely listened, nodding once before draining his tankard.


    Jeoffrey ignored it. He slouched over his ale, staring into its murky depths, hoping to drown the sound of his own thoughts. The sickening crunch of his axe still echoed in his mind, the moment playing over and over, impossible to silence. He clenched his jaw, fingers tightening around the mug as he tried to shake the memory, but it clung to him, a shadow he couldn¡¯t escape.


    Karel returned to his troop. The commander¡¯s plain gray shirt was torn, his shoulder heavily bandaged. Pain shadowed his expression, though he masked it with a smile. He waved off questions with a turn of his head and clapped Jeoffrey on the back with his good hand.


    "Well done, lad. First fight¡¯s always the hardest¡±


    Jeoffrey barely nodded. The noise of the tavern pressed in around him, too loud, too full of laughter that made his skin crawl. Around them, men laughed, swapping tales of their kills, dividing the spoils of the day like children trading marbles. A set of gleaming bracers changed hands, a heavy purse passed from one fighter to another.


    The young man barely noticed when his own reward was pushed toward him¡ªa mail byrnie, heavier than it looked, and a black waffenrock embroidered with a silver flower.


    He traced the embroidered emblem with a trembling finger. The blood on his hands had been scrubbed away, but he could still feel it, phantom warmth clinging to his skin. He had killed a man today. He had chosen this path.


    No longer a scribe. No longer a runaway.


    Tonight, he was a Flower Soldier.