The Inner Rim bled away behind me, its clean stone streets and copper spires fading into the smog-stained horizon. Normally, I’d take the train line that rattled down from the Noble District into the city’s working heart. But now, the lines had been purely regulated towards the transportation of either goods or soldiers after the mansion incident. So I was out of luck.

  I muttered to myself as my boots scuffed down the long slope toward the checkpoint gate, which was lit with lanterns and the retreating daylight.

  “Guess I get to walk today.”

  The gate separating Inner and Outer Rim loomed tall and unwelcoming, a fortress wall reeking of oil and soot. Normally the flow of bodies through here would be endless - factory shifts, traders, carriages carrying goods to and from the docks. Now, only a trickle remained. Soldiers lined the walls above, rifles gleaming in the flood-lamps. The crowd shuffled nervously under their eyes, no one daring to push too close.

  Two guards blocked the entry lane for people. Their uniforms weren’t ceremonial like those in the Noble District nor were they the usual city watch; they wore trench coats, bayonets fixed. Their eyes followed every step, as if expecting someone to explode on the spot.

  Their uniform was distinct, a deep black and blue adoring their coats. An insignia of a crow and dove intertwined on their shoulders.

  They've even sent imperial soldiers… it seems those in the capital are taking this incident seriously.

  They weren't local garrison forces, but official Imperial soldiers. They took orders from the capital, and in this case, probably the Regent.

  I adjusted my cap lower over my brow. Blending in was the point.

  When my turn came, one of them raised a hand. “Papers.”

  I slid Arthur’s seal across discreetly. He looked at it, then at me. His jaw clenched just slightly before he handed it back.

  “You’re cleared. Keep your head down. No gatherings after sundown, as directed by his Lordship the Regent.”

  I nodded once. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  His partner didn’t smile. “See that you don’t.”

  The gate clanged open, steel groaning against rust. I stepped through, and the Outer Rim swallowed me whole.

  The change was immediate. Streets here were narrower, packed with leaning brick tenements and flickering lamps. Posters flapped in the wind - old proclamations of Imperial glory layered with fresh warnings: Curfew Enforced. Gatherings after dark banned. Reward for Information on suspicious activity.

  Children darted barefoot through the alleys, their laughter hollow. The smell of coal and cheap liquor clung to every breath. This was the Empire’s underbelly, the furnace that kept its gleaming towers alive.

  I passed knots of workers huddled in conversation. Their voices dropped when patrols marched by. But when the soldiers turned corners, the whispers returned louder than before - anger sharpened with every word.

  I had remembered a pub Adrian had taken me to previously - one that workers from the industrial district had frequented. I guessed it was my best bet, since drunk laborers gossiped as much as old ladies.

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  By the time I reached the pub I’d marked in my head, I didn’t even need to push the door open to know it would reek of stale beer and desperation.

  Inside, the air was thick with pipe smoke and sweat. Gas lamps swung from chains overhead, casting the tables in a yellow haze. The place was packed - men with rolled-up sleeves and coal-black hands, women with tired faces and threadbare dresses.

  I found a corner table, ordered something cheap, lit a cigarette and let the voices do the work.

  It didn’t take long.

  “…Hours stretchin’ longer every damn week,” one young man spat, pounding his mug against the table. He looked maybe eighteen at most, his cheeks flushed crimson from drink. “Sixteen-hour shifts now, pay cut in half. An’ they call it loyal service to the Empire.”

  Across from him, another shook his head, one of similar age, but more sober. “Best keep your voice down, Tarrow. You shout too loud and the watch’ll have you in irons by dawn. That’s how they deal with troublemakers these days. We're not even supposed to be gathering after dark, y'know?”

  Tarrow sneered, foam dripping down his sparse beard. “Let ‘em try. Halrigg’s got a plan. He’ll speak for us. He’ll-”

  “Halrigg’ll get us all killed,” a third cut in, this one older, eyes darting suspiciously to the door. “The man’s too radical. Wants to throw stones at the lions an’ act surprised when we get eaten. I’m not followin’ him off a cliff, and neither should any of you.”

  That set them off. Voices rose, mugs slammed, chairs scraped. Half the room leaned forward in defense of Halrigg - calling him the only one with guts to stand against the nobles. The rest argued he was a madman stirring up bloodshed, that rebellion was suicide.

  I stayed silent. Drank. Listened.

  And when the first punch flew - I wasn’t surprised.

  The fight was clumsy but loud. Fists swung wide, mugs shattered, someone hit the floor with a grunt. No knives, no killing blows - just a drunken storm of frustration with no real target. The female barkeep tried to shout them down, but it only drowned in the fire of the men.

  I didn’t move. Just leaned back, watching. Sometimes chaos loosened tongues better than liquor ever could.

  And sure enough, in the din, I caught what I needed.

  “…Tonight, docks by Valga!” a young man bellowed, bursting through the door as his voice broke through. “Shipyard, east end, by the rusted cranes. Halrigg’ll speak at sundown!”

  That was enough.

  The fight eventually burned itself out - men too tired to throw more than curses, women dragging their husbands away by the ears. The pub settled back into its usual groan of voices, though the tension never really faded.

  I finished my drink, left a coin on the table, and stepped forward towards the man Tarrow, who seemed to be gathering his things after the fight.

  I approached him, smoking my cigarette and putting my best blue-collar worker voice on that I could muster.

  “Are you chaps going to Halriggs' meeting? What do you say about an extra hand at your side?”

  Tarrow looked up, scanning me in his drunken state lazily, before flicking his hand towards me.

  “Yeah, whatever. Ain't nuthin’ wrong with some new blood. As long as you're one of us, you're always welcome.”

  I only nodded, shaking the man's hand.

  “Appreciate it. I'll wait outside.”

  Turning around, I exited the tavern that seemed to quiet down now.

  The air outside was colder. The Valga River’s fog rolled in from the west, blanketing the streets in damp mist. I pulled my coat tighter and lit a cigarette, the ember glowing faint against the dark.

  So. The docks, huh.

  The Valga cut like a vein through the Empire’s eastern flank - wide, deep, and feeding Morren city's western side with both lifeblood and poison. If Halrigg was speaking there, it meant he was bold enough to rally where patrols rarely dared linger. Or arrogant enough to think the water would hide him.

  Either way, I’d be there.

  I exhaled smoke toward the lamplight, watching it curl.

  Let’s see what kind of man you really are, Halrigg.