Chapter 218

By the end of the meeting, two more people had joined us.

The first was Enda Millward, captain of the city watch. She was in her late forties, though her brown hair had surrendered more to silver than brown. Light hazel eyes regarded me with equal parts caution and curiosity. She stood barely five-foot-two, but broad shoulders and sturdy hips hinted at a lifetime spent wearing armor rather than merely giving orders. She had the face of a stern orphanage matron, though her Faith told a gentler story - a braid of green and blue, growth and compassion woven tightly together.

The second was the chief clerk, Hadryan Portwell.

He was a husky man in his late forties. Not fat, just softened by decades behind a desk. His sandy blond hair had only recently begun admitting threads of silver. Hazel eyes studied everything they landed on - faces, maps, reports - lingering just a heartbeat longer than most, as though committing each detail to memory before moving on. His Faith was gray and yellow, perspective and curiosity intertwined with the texture of fine paper fibers.

The colors in the room stood out to me.

No white. No black. No red.

No idealists convinced they alone were right. No iron-willed zealots. No simmering anger waiting for an excuse to erupt. Instead, it was full of duty, perspective, compassion, and curiosity.

That didn't prove they were innocent, but it did suggest they weren't the ones lighting the fires.

The discussion centered on the districts most at risk, which bridges could be controlled, and where reinforcements would do the most good. Cartwyn and Captain Millward debated patrol routes, response times, and how best to reinforce the city watch without making Halemarch feel occupied. Quartering fifteen hundred soldiers became its own logistical nightmare.

In the end, the marshal and governor agreed that the bulk of the army would remain outside the walls unless circumstances demanded otherwise. There was no sense provoking the very violence they hoped to prevent.

I didn't have much to contribute.

Urban security wasn't my field.

Still, I studied every map they unfolded, memorizing canals, dead ends, broad thoroughfares, and the narrow choke points where crowds might bottleneck - or soldiers might find themselves trapped.

I wasn't thrilled by the idea of troops patrolling the streets. A frightened crowd and nervous soldiers were a dangerous combination. But I couldn't ignore what I'd already seen.

Halemarch was stretched tight enough to snap.

Eventually the larger meeting dissolved into several smaller conversations.

I excused myself and stepped back to the inn.

Iolite stood exactly where I'd left her, gazing out the window. She looked as though she hadn't moved so much as an inch.

“Anything interesting?” I asked.

“The offices closed,” she replied. “Things quieted down. A courier arrived a while ago, delivered a message, and left.”

Outside, a nearby bell rang as a ferry eased against the dock. Workers unloaded crates and rolled them toward a warehouse.

Nothing connected to Lord Vey.

Shortly after midnight, a cold drizzle settled over the city.

An hour later, a drunken man attempted to climb the estate wall. The guards hauled him down without ceremony and deposited him back in the street.

Later still, a small work crew arrived carrying lanterns. They spoke briefly with the guards before entering through the main gate. They emerged a short time later with a loaded wagon and disappeared into the night.

Routine. Orderly. Boring.

“Someone just entered,” Iolite said quietly.

I frowned. “I didn't see anyone.”

She shook her head. “They came through the sewer.”

I let out a slow sigh. “Well... now we have to watch that too.”

Her smile was small but amused. “I already am.”

In the hours before dawn, messenger birds began arriving.

Then the sun crested the horizon. Within half an hour, Halemarch roared back to life. Wagons crowded the streets. Petitioners formed orderly lines. Birds filled the sky. Couriers mounted fresh horses while engineers and survey crews streamed from the estate toward every corner of Arvellia.

Aside from whoever had slipped through the sewers, I learned only one thing that night.

Lord Vey's operation never really slept - it simply changed shifts.

* * *

“So what do you think?” I asked Iolite over breakfast. “Do we actually have a chance of figuring out what's going on now?”

She considered the question while nudging a forkful of scrambled eggs around her plate.

Though she didn't eat, she usually ordered something small whenever we did. She'd move it around with her fork while the rest of us ate, and when we were finished I'd polish off whatever she'd ordered so it didn't go to waste.

“I'm not sure,” she admitted. “They may wait until things settle down. Operations will be more difficult with the additional security.”

She lifted a bite of egg, sniffed it thoughtfully, then set it back on her plate.

“Or,” she continued, “they may decide the military presence is exactly the chaos they need.”

I nodded. “Then I guess we stay and see what we can find.”

The common room wasn't nearly as busy as it had been yesterday. It certainly wasn't empty, but enough tables sat vacant to catch my attention. Whether that was because of the soldiers, the day of the week, or simply the normal rhythm of the city, I couldn't say.

After breakfast I renewed our room for another night.

The innkeeper seemed mildly surprised, though he accepted my coin without comment.

As I turned to leave, his eyes flicked toward the large picture window overlooking the causeway before returning to me. He cleared his throat. “Enjoy your day, my lord.”

I filed the reaction away.

Outside, the causeway - I’d learned last night it’s official name was the Founder’s Causeway - was still busy, though nowhere near yesterday's frenzy. If I had to guess, nearly half the storefronts remained shuttered.

The watchers I'd noticed the previous day were gone. No men lingering on street corners pretending not to watch passersby. No clusters of armed civilians. No obvious tension.

And yet… Something felt wrong. The city had become quieter. Not calmer. The silence felt deliberate, as though everyone were waiting for someone else to make the first move.

I caught Iolite's eye.

She'd noticed it too.

We crossed to Lord Vey's estate but walked past the front gate, turning into a narrow alley several buildings farther down.

Halfway along, Iolite stopped. Without a word, she slipped out of her dress, handed it to me, and slowly sank into the cobblestones until nothing remained but solid stone.

I tucked the dress into my satchel and stepped back onto the causeway alone.

The approach I’d been using seemed to work well enough.

I'd speak with Vey directly. Ask questions. See if I could catch him in a contradiction. If not, I'd simply ask him to show me how his offices operated. With any luck, something would reveal itself over the next few days.

As I emerged from the alley, something brushed against the edge of my awareness.

Faith.

I turned. Down the street moved a beacon unlike any I'd ever seen.

White. Silver. Gray. Muted gold. Blue. Five colors. One person.

I stopped.

Mortals almost always bore two colors. Occasionally one. I'd only met three people like that, and each possessed an uncommon intensity that seemed to consume everything else.

Gods bore three. Granted, my sample size wasn't exactly extensive, but so far it held true every time.

Pregnant women sometimes carried faint traces of their unborn children.

That could explain it. Maybe. But after meeting a man with no Faith at all, I wasn't willing to dismiss anything.

Instead of heading toward Vey's estate, I turned and followed the strange beacon.

It rounded a corner before I could get a clear look at its owner.

I quickened my pace.

The side street beyond was still busy, but nothing like the Causeway. I could finally see more than the backs of the people immediately in front of me.

Up ahead, a squad of Arvellian soldiers walked down the street. At their center strode the man with the five-colored Faith.

As they reached the next intersection, he glanced over his shoulder. Our eyes met. He smiled. Then he disappeared around the corner.

I broke into a jog.

Someone burst from a side street to my left.

I lurched to a stop to avoid colliding with him.

He darted across the road without so much as an apology.

My stomach tightened. He had no Faith. The same man from yesterday. Muted clothes. Early sixties. White hair.

He threaded effortlessly through the crowd before vanishing into a narrow alley.

I stood there for the briefest moment as I considered my options.

Left to the man with too much Faith.

Or right to the man with none.

* * *

I hesitated for only a heartbeat before changing direction and chasing the man without Faith.

I stepped - vanishing briefly before appearing across the street - bypassing wagons, horses, and pedestrians.

Farther ahead, the man rounded a corner, still running.

I stepped again - appearing at the corner and closing the distance between us. One more brought me several dozen feet in front of him.

He skidded to a stop. “Shit!” His eyes widened. “What are you doing here, man?”

“Who are you?” I demanded.

“You're not supposed to be here.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You're supposed to be with Vey. They're going to kill him.”

“Who? The Covenant?”

“The Renewed.” His voice cracked with urgency. “They're marching there now.”

“Who are the Renewed?”

“I don't have time for this.” He practically pleaded now. “If you're not there, they're gonna kill him. You have to protect him.”

He took a step backward. “I'll find you after this is over.” Before I could stop him, he leapt to the rooftop two stories above, scrambled over the edge, and vanished.

I stared after him.

Every instinct screamed at me to follow.

He had no Faith. Somehow he was connected to Grams. I'd finally cornered him.

But if Lord Vey was about to be murdered...

I stepped, appearing inside Vey's estate.

Clerks, messengers, and servants crowded against the unnamed building, as far from the front gate as they could manage. Faces peeked through windows. Others clung to one another. No one dared approach the entrance.

Beyond the walls came a roar.

Not shouting. The sound of hundreds of frightened, angry voices blending into something primal.

Iolite's Faith glowed beneath me.

I stepped again.

The Founder's Causeway had become a wall of humanity. Hundreds of people packed the broad avenue shoulder to shoulder. Clubs, axes, cudgels, farm tools, and loose stones protruded from the sea of bodies like the quills of an angry animal. Every face was turned toward the estate.

Between them and the gates stood perhaps fifty soldiers.

They'd formed a shield wall, though it looked more symbolic than practical. A line drawn in wet sand before the tide.

The crowd outnumbered them several times over. If the mob surged, those soldiers wouldn't stop it - they'd disappear beneath it.

I'd seen protests before. This wasn't one.

I'd seen battles. This wasn't one of those either.

It was something in between.

Somehow worse. The moment before violence. The instant when hundreds of frightened people convinced themselves someone else would throw the first punch.

The air felt tight.

Every muscle in my body wanted to move. Every instinct whispered the same thing.

One mistake. One spark. One terrified decision. And none of this would ever be put back together.

A lone officer stood several yards ahead of his men. His helmet rested beneath one arm. Both hands were raised, palms open toward the crowd.

“Please!” he shouted, his voice already hoarse. “Go home!”

Another stone struck his breastplate.

He flinched but didn't retreat. “We don't want to fight you!”

A rotten cabbage exploded against a nearby shield. Someone hurled a bottle. Another rock.

“We're not your enemy!” His voice cracked. “I have children!” he shouted. “Just like you!”

The crowd answered with curses. Another volley of stones.

A woman screamed that they were murderers. Someone shouted that the Queen had abandoned them. Another voice demanded Vey's head.

The shouting fed on itself.

Reason vanished beneath volume.

Behind the officer, the soldiers shifted uneasily. Some tightened white-knuckled grips on their shields. Others glanced sideways at one another.

No one wanted to be the first to move. No one wanted to be the first to die.

Faith stirred.

It wasn't the sharp flare that accompanied someone stepping. This was gentler. Subtler. Like invisible fingers plucking at the strands of reality. A whisper against the soul.

My stomach dropped.

A crossbow snapped. A bolt slammed into a man near the front of the crowd.

For one impossible heartbeat everything froze.

The man looked down at the shaft protruding from his chest. Then he collapsed.

Three more crossbows discharged almost instantly.

Another man. A woman. A teenage boy.

The silence shattered.

“Hold your fire!” the officer screamed. He whirled toward his own soldiers. “STOP SHOOTING!”

He ripped a crossbow from one soldier's hands.

The soldier looked as horrified as everyone else. “I didn't-”

A club crashed into the officer's back.

He pitched forward into the street.

The mob broke. Not because they chose to. Because once blood had been spilled, choice disappeared.

Hundreds surged forward as one. Fear became fury. Fury became momentum.

The shield wall buckled. Soldiers stumbled backward beneath the weight of bodies crashing into them.

People screamed. Steel rang against clubs. Someone fell. Then another. The ground itself began to shake beneath a thousand pounding feet.

The mob wasn't angry anymore. It was hungry.

My mana erupted. Around me, a bell rang. Guitars split the cacophony of combat. The first heavy notes of For Whom the Bell Tolls rolled through the air.

I flicked both hands to the white stone below me. The Causeway rippled like water. The wave rolled beneath soldiers and rioters alike, throwing people from their feet before they could build momentum.

A low wall surged from the stone. Barely two feet high. Not enough to stop them. Just enough to break the charge.

I walked toward the tide of humanity. Another wall rose. Then another.

Never trapping. Never crushing. Only slowing. Forcing the mob to separate into smaller knots instead of one unstoppable wave.

Behind me, Iolite moved.

The wounded sank gently into the stone before boots could trample them.

She carried them beneath the Causeway itself, emerging behind me with soldiers and civilians alike.

People tried climbing the walls.

The stone climbed with them. Never striking. Never throwing them. Only denying them purchase.

The officer who had begged the crowd to go home staggered to his feet, blood streaming from one temple. “Fall back!” he bellowed. “Inside the estate! Protect the civilians!”

The soldiers disengaged as best they could, dragging their wounded while I bought them seconds. Only seconds.

Smoke curled into the gray morning sky. Farther down the Causeway, windows shattered. Someone hurled a torch. Then another.

A shop erupted into flames.

If Cartwyn had been right - and I feared he was - this wasn't the only riot. It was merely the first one I'd reached.

I hauled the wounded behind the walls alongside Iolite, caring little whether they wore armor or clothing.

Pain didn't care whose side you were on.

The crowd shifted. Everything froze. Just for an instant. As if the world paused for dramatic effect.

Across the Causeway, beyond the smoke and chaos, stood the man with the impossible Faith.

Five colors.

One smile.

He met my eyes. As though he'd known exactly where I'd be.

Then the sea of bodies swallowed him whole.