The Bowels of Pride

  The air beneath the palace was colder than at the surface. Moisture clung to the skin like a second layer, and the walls, crusted with salt, wept thin threads of water that trailed down the slanted floor. The smell shifted from stretch to stretch: in some places, ancient mold prevailed; in others, the heavy stench of sewage drifting slowly toward the outer channels.

  Amarantha moved forward beneath her hood, carrying a small lamp shielded by a perforated metal cover to keep the light from spilling too far. The tunnels were uneven in form. Some were narrow drainage shafts; others, vaulted passages wide enough for a man to walk through upright. Everything was interconnected: the water from the palace’s ornamental fountains ran down lateral conduits that merged with the drains from the kitchens, the private baths, and the inner courtyards.

  Iron grates were set into the walls, many of them reinforced with thick rivets. Others, older, showed corrosion along their hinges. In certain stretches she found wooden sluice gates sheathed in iron, regulating the flow toward the main collector. They were not permanently guarded; the system relied more on inaccessibility and contempt than on true oversight.

  She knew that, from time to time, underground laborers or maintenance hands descended to clear sediment and remove blockages after heavy rains. Even so, those visits were infrequent. Like the palace’s nighttime entryways, this sector was not subject to any truly rigorous control. Security down there was more illusion than watchfulness.

  She also understood that the palace’s real protection did not lie within the tunnels, but in the upper gardens, in courtyards patrolled by armed guards, and in the barracks stationed within and beyond the walls. That was where Rousth concentrated its strength, ready to contain any open threat before it could reach the gates of the compound.

  The sovereigns trusted in the visible force that surrounded them and in the belief that no one would dare infiltrate their domain. To all outward appearances, the palace was a fortress—yet in what remained unseen, it was a point of weakness.

  For days, Amarantha studied the slopes of the terrain and the course of the current. She discovered that the main collector descended to the Hucledes River, where the waters were discharged through vaulted outlets protected by semicircular grates anchored in stone. Many had been reinforced with newer bars. Others, however, bore cracks along the frame and rusted bolts that could be loosened from the inside.

  It was no simple passage. The water level fluctuated and, at times, rose to cover more than half the corridor. Some outlets were no longer in use, yet still remained, carelessly sealed. Several could be dismantled from within with the proper tools.

  And that was enough.

  Amarantha confirmed she could remove the grates and set them back in place without leaving any obvious trace. She needed nothing more than basic tools and time. For several nights, she maintained her usual routine as a servant, taking advantage of carriage deliveries or specific errands beyond the palace walls whenever her supervisor sent her out. At the same time, she continued mapping the underground system.

  With patience, she managed to exit through some of those routes. She determined which outlets connected to specific points in the Lower District and the Middle District. Some demanded greater discretion. Others allowed her to blend into the city’s nighttime movement without drawing notice.

  Now she could leave the palace without relying entirely on schedules or carriages. She could come and go on her own terms—and return whenever she chose.

  The Falcon and the Bear

  In one of the palace corridors, several lords were making their way to the conglomerate meeting. As they walked, one of them noticed that the door to a chamber stood slightly ajar. The wood tapped faintly against the frame, shifting in an uneven rhythm.

  The lord slowed his pace and stepped closer. He tilted his face toward the narrow opening.

  From inside came the muffled moans of a woman—subdued, yet persistent. Over them, a man’s voice murmured between labored breaths.

  “Oh… yes… yes…”

  The sound of wood striking wood grew harsher. Something was hitting the wall in a steady, repetitive sway.

  The lord pushed the door a few inches farther.

  There was no attempt at concealment within. The scene was unmistakable. The movement of bodies, the quickened breathing, the damp, rhythmic sounds filled the chamber.

  The other lords approached as they realized what was happening. They lined themselves along the frame, some leaning in for a better look. They exchanged restrained smiles, low chuckles, comments barely above a whisper.

  Then, from inside, came a clear voice:

  “Wait a moment.”

  Those gathered at the doorway instinctively stepped back. The door swung fully open.

  The door opened wide, and Ganza stepped into the corridor, adjusting his robe, tightening the sash at his waist with unhurried motions, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. At the sight of him, the lords who had crowded before the chamber immediately retreated. Their smiles vanished. Some lowered their gaze.

  Ganza, Sovereign of House Tudeth (50 years old)

  Ganza swept his gaze over them one by one, irritation plain on his face.

  “What the hell are you doing? Never heard other people fuck before?”

  The silence turned awkward.

  “Sorry… we were just passing through,” one muttered.

  Another, unable to contain his curiosity, glanced over Ganza’s shoulder into the room. Inside, a cloth servant stood without her mask. Her robe and skirt hung askew, the laces of her corset loosened. She adjusted her clothes with slow, mechanical movements. Her face was blank, dimmed, devoid of any trace of emotion.

  Ganza followed that look, and his expression hardened.

  “And what the fuck are you staring at?”

  The lord immediately dropped his eyes.

  Ganza took a step toward them.

  “Get out. Move. Before I beat the hell out of all of you, idiots.”

  One of them tried to justify himself.

  “It’s the Direcrim meeting…”

  Ganza made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

  “Fuck the meeting. I’ll get there when I get there.”

  Without further argument, the lords dispersed down the corridor.

  Ganza watched them go, then turned his gaze back toward the interior of the chamber. A faint, crooked smile tugged at his mouth.

  “Anyway… where were we?”

  He stepped back inside and closed the door behind him. The sound of wood settling into place marked the end of the incident.

  The meeting had already begun. Dozens of lords were seated in a semicircle, arranged according to hierarchy and alliances. Of the Magnos, only Furher was present.

  Furher, Sovereign of House Freide (51 years old))

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  At the front, a lord held a parchment agenda and read aloud. He listed the kingdom’s economic and administrative affairs—reports on revenue, trade routes, recent strategic movements, and matters tied to external threats. His tone was formal, almost monotonous, as though he were reciting obligations rather than decisions of consequence.

  The meeting moved forward without genuine interest from many of those present. Some listened with calculated attention. Others murmured quietly among themselves. In one corner, two lords exchanged a subdued laugh that fractured the room’s formality.

  Then Furher raised a hand.

  He did not raise his voice. He made no sound.

  The man speaking in the corner fell silent at once.

  Furher rose calmly and directed his gaze toward the group. He said nothing. He simply watched them.

  The effect was immediate. The lords straightened in their seats. The murmuring ceased. Those standing close to one another shifted apart slightly, as though distance alone might dissolve their fault.

  Furher held their gaze a moment longer, then sat back down. He gave a faint nod.

  The reader resumed as though nothing had occurred.

  Minutes later, the lord at the front concluded the final points and announced the date of the next meeting. With that, the session ended.

  The lords began to rise. They departed in small clusters of two or three, speaking in low tones according to alliances and convenience. Furher, by contrast, left alone.

  He was making his way toward the exit when Ganza appeared in the outer corridor.

  “And that was it? Already over? Did I miss it?”

  Ganza stepped into the hall with a crooked smile, his tone light, almost mocking. A short distance away, Furher was finishing a brief exchange with another lord. He concluded his sentence, and the man withdrew with a nod.

  Ganza approached without waiting to be invited.

  “Well, if it isn’t my dear and esteemed friend, Furher.”

  Furher turned his head just enough to look at him. He did not return the greeting. Instead, he resumed walking down the corridor. Ganza fell in beside him, matching his pace.

  “You skipped the meeting again,” Furher said without slowing.

  “I had a few minor setbacks along the way. You know how far it is to walk from the other end of the palace.”

  Ganza let out a low chuckle as they passed between marble columns and burning torches.

  “If you say so,” Furher replied indifferently, continuing forward without looking at him.

  “Besides, I have plenty to attend to in the palace. Lands, businesses, exports…”

  Furher interrupted, still without turning his head.

  “Women too, it seems.”

  Ganza glanced at him sideways, amused.

  “And you don’t indulge yourself, Furher? What’s the point of all that power if you don’t enjoy it?”

  “Everyone enjoys things in their own way,” Furher answered dryly, without emotion.

  “Then you have no idea what you’ve been missing,” Ganza pressed, his tone edged with provocation.

  Furher kept his eyes ahead.

  “I can imagine.”

  Ganza caught the sharpness in Furher’s voice, and his smile lost some of its ease. He quickened his pace so as not to fall behind.

  “Hey, hey… wait.”

  Furher stopped.

  Ganza stepped in front of him, blocking his path. The mockery was gone from his expression.

  “Don’t think that just because you’re one of the kingdom’s chief strategists you stand above the rest of us.”

  Furher looked at him without changing his expression.

  “I never said that.”

  “My word carries as much weight in this place as yours. Don’t forget that.”

  Ganza jerked his chin toward the lords drifting away in small clusters at the far end of the corridor.

  “Most of the men who were in there? They’re my bootlickers. If I want, I turn them into my eyes and ears. They do whatever I tell them.”

  Furher held his gaze.

  “You think so?”

  The question was calm, almost cold.

  Ganza’s jaw tightened.

  Furher stepped slightly to the side, as if to move around him.

  “Then you should. If that helps you pay closer attention—even within your own lands.”

  Ganza frowned.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Furher answered without raising his voice.

  “Commercial outposts were attacked in Drafta. They were economic junctions connected to the territories of Roterfudd.”

  Ganza went still.

  “What? Several of those sites belong to my trade partners. When did this happen?”

  Furher studied him for a moment longer.

  “Perhaps if you attended meetings more regularly and had fewer… setbacks inside the palace, you’d be aware of what’s happening around you.”

  Without adding another word, he continued down the corridor.

  Ganza remained there, frustration tightening his features as Furher walked away. He watched him turn down a side hall until he vanished from sight.

  “Damn it…”

  He stared at the passage where Furher had disappeared. His expression hardened. Then he turned and began walking in the opposite direction, his heavy steps echoing against the stone.

  As he passed a decorative porcelain vase set upon a marble pedestal, he struck it with his forearm without breaking stride. The piece toppled and shattered against the floor. The sharp crack of ceramic splitting rang through the empty corridor.

  Fragments scattered across the hall.

  The Bear did not look back. He continued through the palace, the restraint of his anger still carved into his face.

  Wounds That Endure

  The place was dark.

  An eight-year-old girl walked among the trees of the forest. Damp earth clung to her bare feet, and low branches scratched at her arms. She wasn’t running. She moved carefully, trying not to make a sound. She felt something was following her.

  She couldn’t see the creatures, but she could feel them.

  She slipped behind a thick tree trunk, pressing her back against the rough bark. Her breathing quickened. She tried to steady it, but the air rushed into her lungs in sharp, uneven pulls.

  Then she heard the roars.

  They weren’t normal. They were short and low, yet when they stretched outward they carried a strange echo, as if the sound warped as it passed through the forest. They vibrated in the air. They bent the space around them, as though reality itself twisted with each resonance.

  The girl squeezed her eyes shut.

  She couldn’t move.

  She brought a hand to her mouth and pressed hard, sealing it to keep any sound from escaping. Her teeth knocked together. She felt the tremor rising through her legs.

  Suddenly, in the distance, a man screamed.

  “No! No! Nooo! Ahhh!”

  The scream was tearing. Then it cut off abruptly.

  After that came the sounds.

  Flesh splitting. Something being torn free. Bones giving under pressure. The creatures were devouring him alive while the roars continued to vibrate, twisting the air around them.

  The girl did not open her eyes.

  She couldn’t.

  Her heart pounded harder and harder, slamming violently against her chest. She felt the sound of her own pulse was too loud, that the creatures could hear it. She tried to breathe more slowly, but fear drove her into shallow, frantic breaths.

  Don’t cry. Don’t make a sound. Don’t move.

  Only a few yards away, they were tearing him apart.

  Nausea rose up her throat. Tears gathered behind her closed eyes, but she did not allow herself to sob. If she made even a single sound, she would be next.

  She stayed there, rigid, frozen, enduring while the horror unfolded before her.

  Suddenly she jolted awake.

  Martha opened her eyes, her heart racing, and pushed herself upright in bed, struggling to catch her breath.

  Martha, Sapphire Division (36 years old)

  The movement woke Victor, who was sleeping beside her.

  “Martha, are you okay?”

  She took a moment before answering.

  “Yes… it was just a nightmare.”

  Victor sat up and wrapped his arms around her.

  “It’s okay. I’m here.”

  Martha leaned into him and held him tightly.

  “The same one?” he asked softly.

  “Yes.”

  Victor brushed his hand gently along her face.

  Victor, Sapphire Division (40 years old)

  “You’re not there anymore. Relax. You’re here with me now.”

  Martha stayed quiet for a few seconds before speaking.

  “All of this makes me worry about Amarantha.”

  Victor frowned slightly.

  “Why Amarantha?”

  “I don’t know…”

  She clung to him more tightly.

  “She’ll be fine,” Victor replied calmly. “You know she’s one of our best agents. I’ve been in contact with her. I’ll make sure she has everything she needs while she’s there.”

  Martha nodded, though the unease didn’t fully fade.

  “So try to relax… get some rest.”

  She turned onto her side.

  Victor shifted in behind her, pressing close, wrapping his arms around her. He kissed her shoulder.

  “Get some sleep, Martha.”

  But Martha didn’t manage to fall asleep.

  Even with Victor holding her, her face remained troubled. She stared into the darkness, eyes wide open.

  And the memory returned.

  The light had been warm that day.

  “What’s your name?” Martha asked.

  “Amarantha,” the girl replied softly.

  She was small. Far too serious for her age.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Amarantha. My name is Martha.”

  Martha had already been told what had happened.

  Her entire village had been wiped out by the affecios of Estorur. She was the only survivor.

  The girl didn’t cry. She only watched in silence.

  “I know what you went through,” Martha told her gently. “I understand how you feel.”

  Amarantha looked up.

  “I lost my village and my family too when I was a child.”

  The little girl lowered her head.

  “It’s not something you forget easily. Only time heals those wounds. But until then, we have to be strong.”

  Martha smiled and wrapped her in an embrace.

  “You’ll be my friend.”

  After a few seconds, Amarantha managed a faint smile.

  The memory faded.

  In the darkness of the room, Martha whispered in her mind:

  Amarantha.