Clashing metal rang from every street feeding into Anticourt's administrative square.
The town had no walls, but it had wide streets, better stone, more lanterns, and heavy gemlamps mounted above the hall doors. The light reached farther than torchlight. Shadow Walkers avoided gemlamps because it ate more mana than they liked when they used their magic.
The party changed formation, Evan and Galwell in the middle. Galwell could still walk, so they only tightened flank coverage.
Ezra slept heavy with mana depletion. Evan kept one forearm across the boy's legs while the other stayed free for his weapon, trusting the leather wrap at Ezra's waist to hold.
Anticourt knights formed a ragged line in front of the hall, Anticourt's crest—horse and carriage—on tabards over plate. Some held torches. Others carried spears or halberds. Several had blood on their gauntlets.
To either side, men in ragged clothes pressed in—faces half-covered with cloth, daggers and short swords at their hips. They pushed with numbers and smoke.
Above them, arrows hissed from tiled roofs. A patch of darkness blotted out the direction they came from. In that cover they could shoot, but couldn't be shot back.
"Shields up! On the roofs!" Oswyn called.
The Blackfyre Guard raised their shields over their heads.
A Shadow Walker crept in unseen. Evered yanked Evan back as shadow reached for Evan's ankles.
Deimos's whip cracked through the gloom and hit something solid. The shadow recoiled. In the next moment, Phobos's second whip lashed the same patch of darkness, tearing it open long enough for a torch-bearer to see.
"Keep the light up!" Deimos shouted. "Torches and fire. Don't let the dark touch your boots!"
The Anticourt knights looked at his armor and tagged him as a Demon Hunter. Some followed his call. Others were too focused to hear.
As the party moved they discussed their next move.
"Let's go on with our plan, either we use the Blackfyre name or we use the Demon Hunter order."
"It's too risky right now. While Anticourt will definitely cede command to Blackfyre, Terros is an enemy. If they identify us as Knights directly serving Bren, it could risk Lord Ezra's life. It's easy enough to blame Arcanists and bandits on this." Rycharde replied.
"Aye, Order it is," Deimos nodded.
Screams rose again. An Anticourt soldier stumbled back as shadow climbed him like a cloak. It swallowed him from the waist down, then his chest vanished into the black for a moment, as if to chew and spit him out. When the darkness left, his head rolled into a curb.
Mutters ran down the line. A young knight's voice cut through.
"What are these things?" he yelled. Anticourt's crest was on his tabard. His helm was dented; fear shook his voice. "We keep seeing men swallowed by shadows and then—then they come out stabbed. How do we fight that?"
Deimos picked out the captain and moved toward their formation.
Eyes snapped to him. He didn't match their knights—Demon Hunter garb, black leather coat, two daggers at his side. His whip hung loose in his hand.
"Men!" Deimos barked. "I am Sir Deimos—Hellspawn Slayer of the Order of the Demon Hunter. The Order has killed these brutes before."
He pointed his whip at the nearest pooled shadow.
"I ask command of Anticourt Security so you stop bleeding blind."
A man in plate stepped out from behind the Anticourt line. A badge of authority sat on his gorget—Anticourt's crest stamped in brass and edged dark to catch torchlight. Older than the shouting knight. Crow's feet at tired eyes that flicked over Deimos—black coat, Order gear, whip.
"Proof of identity," the captain commanded.
Deimos dipped a hand into his coat and produced a medal. He shoved it close enough for the captain to read without stepping out of light. The metal was black and white. The Order's crest—shield, twin horns, sword above—was stamped into it. Beneath, name and rank.
"Identity is confirmed," the captain said.
He'd just watched men get taken by Shadow Walkers. He was used to tavern brawls and bandit raids. This was Imperial scale, and he didn't have the standing—or the tools—to run it.
He turned to his line.
"This is Sir Deimos of the Order. He assumes command for countering the shadows. Follow his instructions. Pass them forward."
Some Anticourt knights traded apprehensive looks, but most looked relieved.
Deimos pivoted back.
"What's the situation?" he asked.
The captain's mouth twisted.
"Bandit attack," he said. "At first they burned houses. When patrols responded, they fled and focused on Flameheart Tavern. The shadows started appearing when they hit the tavern. We don't know how to fight them."
"Plenty of light and fire," Deimos replied. "Their magic weakens near strong light. Flood an area and you see their bodies. Don't let the shadows swallow you. Once you're inside, getting out is… rare."
Phobos stepped up beside Deimos, whip in hand, eyes bloodshot.
"Aye," he said. "Open streets. Lanterns. No alleys. If you fight in dark lanes, you die in dark lanes."
The captain took it in and glanced past Deimos.
His gaze caught the Blackfyre knights, then dipped to Evan. Then to Ezra—slumbering child, hood low, carried like a treasure. He held his tongue.
Deimos followed the look and made the choice for him.
"Captain," Deimos said, chin tipping toward Ezra, "we need a place inside for the child. Secure. Bright."
The captain stared for a second, then nodded.
"Guest quarters," he said. "Inside the hall. Lanterns on cores. Two rooms down the left corridor."
He hesitated, then asked.
"Who is the boy?"
"Son of a high-ranked noble," Deimos answered. "You'll know more after the battle. Stay alive long enough to hear it."
He nodded and shouted for two lieutenants.
"Escort Sir Evan and Sir Galwell to the guest wing. No one enters without their leave. No one."
"Yes, Captain!"
Deimos clapped Evan once on the shoulder.
"Keep him safe," he said quietly, then his eyes flicked to Galwell. "We'll end this fast if we can."
"Understood!" Evan replied.
He would have preferred the street—whip or spear, anything with reach—but he'd sworn in the alley in Bren, before the Riverrunners' plaque. He stood in front of this child first, last, always.
Galwell gave Evered a crooked grin, palm pressed to his middle.
"Leave me somethin' to do, aye? I hate comin' late to a steal. Yeh?"
"You'll complain about boredom later," Evered said. "Rest. We'll take care of it."
The Anticourt knights led Evan and Galwell into the council hall. Heavy oak doors shut behind them with a solid thud, muting the screams and steel outside into a dull, constant roar.
Outside, the administrative district held light, but smoke stole distance, and the attackers used it. Ragged men pushed in from side streets, striking at torch-hands, then retreating into shadow.
A patch of darkness slid along the cobbles and climbed an Anticourt knight's leg. He hacked down. Steel met air.
Deimos had taken command, but he fought in the thick. His whip snapped into the void.
Phobos followed with a second lash, barbs tearing into whatever lay beneath and breaking the shadow.
The darkness ebbed, revealing a face cut open. The nearest knight drove a spear into the body's chest.
"See?" Deimos shouted to the line. "Light strips it. Hit what's underneath."
He turned and pointed at the dead Arcanist.
Rycharde and Evered had already slid into the fight along the square's edge.
Rycharde's warhammer made space. Evered's mace ended bodies.
Oswyn held lanes, polearm denying anything trying to slip around.
Dynham worked where the line went ugly, sword flashing in tight arcs.
Above them, arrows hissed from the roofline—precise shots that found torch-hands, knees, and throats the moment a bandit got pressed.
"Roof line," Deimos called. "They want you looking high while the dark eats your feet."
Phobos's gaze flicked up anyway.
"Then we kill the roof," he said.
He barked a command. Anticourt men surged, dragged bales of hay from a side alley, and heaved them into the street where smoke pooled thickest.
"Light it!" Phobos snapped.
Torches plunged into the dry bundles.
The square brightened—hard light that shoved the shadows back and made the roofline flinch.
A sheet of water slammed into the burning hay and burst into steam. The flames guttered, fought, then died in patches as more water followed—quick throws meant to smother light before it could bite.
"Hydromancers," Deimos said, jaw tightening.
Phobos's whip cracked at a crawling smear of darkness near the hay. It recoiled, but roof-shots came again, punishing any man who stepped into the open to relight the fire.
Phobos snapped his hand out.
A torch flew from an Anticourt guard's grip—tossed on instinct—and landed on the shingles of a low tiled building. Fire caught.
The next arrow from that roof went wide, then stopped entirely.
"Good," Phobos said. "Burn their perches."
The Anticourt captain pushed up beside Deimos.
His plate was smeared with soot. Earlier fear had burned down into tight calm.
"Sir Deimos," he said. "My men report the shadows keep forming in clusters."
Deimos kept his eyes forward.
"Leave the shadows to pyromancers and us. Kill the brigands and you solve half the problem," he said. "For the rest—keep the lights bright and the streets open. If you let them drag you into corners, you'll bleed out in silence."
A crash cut him off as a house at the district's edge collapsed inward, beams snapping. Smoke surged into the street and stole what distance the lanterns had bought. Under that cover, shadows thickened into a dense pool near the fallen timbers—then lunged.
Deimos and Phobos met it together. They stepped to the edge of the gloom and worked their whips in alternating arcs, stripping black off ankles and walls.
Human silhouettes congealed as light found them. Each time, Anticourt soldiers stabbed them down.
Deimos lifted his voice.
"Rotate torches!" he shouted. "Fresh hands. If a torch goes out, you replace it. If you drop it, you die. You hold light like you hold your shield."
"Captain," he said to the Anticourt leader, "push your men back to the lamp posts. Anchor the line on light. We move from lantern to lantern."
The captain nodded and shouted orders.
Knights shifted in controlled steps, falling back a few paces at a time into stronger light pools instead of breaking.
Behind them, Phobos and Deimos kept stripping shadows before the black could climb.
The same young Anticourt knight stared at Deimos, wide-eyed.
"How do you even see them?"
"You don't," Deimos said. "You light them. Or you die guessing."
The guest room was plain but solid: a broad bed with clean linen, a sturdy table, a core-crystal lamp set into the wall. White light filled the space and held the corners clean.
Evan eased Ezra out of the harness and laid him on the bed. The boy didn't wake. He turned his head into the pillow, small fingers curling into the linen.
Galwell lowered himself into a chair like it cost him coin. His breath hissed as the wound pulled. The bandage around his middle had started to darken at the edge. They'd pulled the arrow as soon as they had room to themselves. Now it was on Galwell to seal what he could with mana.
"I can stand watch," the Anticourt knight at the door offered. "You should rest. You look like you've ridden through hell and back."
"We have," Evan said, a weary smile on his face. "Keep your eyes on that corridor. If darkness creeps along the floor, shout before you swing."
The man nodded.
Galwell shifted, found a position that didn't tear, and let his head rest back for a heartbeat.
"Aye," he muttered, rough. "Corridor first. If it comes in, it's a bad trade for all of us."
Evan knelt beside the bed. Ezra's hair was mussed, smelling faintly of smoke and sweat. Smudges sat under his eyes—the price of pushing a body this small past anything sane.
"Sleep while you can, Milord," Evan murmured.
Outside, a shout rose and broke. Somewhere, stone cracked under a spell. The lamp hummed, steady.
Ezra's face twitched as his brows drew together.
Even in sleep, he carried weight, he was still dreaming.
"Uncle," Ezra said after a while, ignoring Evan's wince on purpose, "how do commoners live outside Fulmen?"
Evan sighed.
"Lord Ezra, please—"
"Answer first," Ezra said, folding his arms. "Complain later."
Evan gave in with a tired shake of his head.
"I've lived outside Fulmen most of my life," he said. "In Aquiis, under House Riverrun's vassals. Some places are better than others. Fulmen is… better than most."
"That still doesn't answer."
Evan rested his forearms on the cold stone and looked out over the city.
"They live under the ladder," he said. "And the ladder does not notice feet."
Ezra waited.
"Under the Aufsteigfrieden," Evan continued, "a lord is never only a lord. He's a man with a season in his future when names go on a Roll and steel decides what paper cannot. Even when no one challenges, the possibility sits there. It makes men do ugly things."
"So they prepare," Ezra said.
"Aye." Evan nodded. "They hoard coin. Hoard cores. Pay trainers. Pay healers. Buy notaries. Whisper into clerks' ears so the right papers move quickly and the wrong ones go missing."
His mouth twisted.
"And when their coffers come up short," he said, "they squeeze the only people who cannot answer them in law."
"Commoners," Ezra said, voice tightening.
"Commoners," Evan agreed. "They have no standing in Ascent. A village can beg. It can petition. It can flee. It can riot."
Ezra's eyes narrowed. "So they riot."
Evan's gaze flicked to him, sharp.
"A riot cannot kill a highborn," he said flatly. "At best they can wound. What it does is it burns a storehouse. It drags a steward into the mud. It kills a guard if luck favors it. Then knights ride in and the village learns what it means to swing at a man it cannot reach."
Evan let the silence sit, then went on, quieter.
"And some lords respond to that hazard the opposite way," he said. "Instead of hoarding, they spend. They feast. They take. They live like tomorrow is uncertain, because for them it might be."
Ezra frowned. "Feasts don't sound like the worst outcome."
"They aren't kindness," Evan said. "They're appetite. The feast still has a bill. When coin runs low, the bill goes down the chain until it hits the people who can't refuse."
He hesitated.
"And there are men—and women—who treat people the same way they treat goblets," he added. "Something to pick up and break to prove they can."
Ezra's fingers curled into his sleeves.
Evan's voice dropped.
"A comrade told me a story," he said. "A freeman woman. Merchant-blood, not a serf. She wore a necklace—glass bead and silver wire. Her grandmother's keepsake. Nothing that would buy a horse."
Ezra listened without blinking.
"A visiting lady fancied it," Evan continued. "Offered coin. The girl refused. Said it was all she had left of her kin."
Evan's jaw clenched.
"The next day she vanished on her way home," he said. "That evening, the necklace reappeared at court—on another throat."
Ezra's stomach turned.
"The girl's father went to the chancery," Evan said. "He begged for a petition to be filed. The clerk told him his complaint lacked a recognized witness. When he found a Notarius willing to put a seal to it, the price was more coin than the man could scrape together in years."
Evan's eyes stayed on the rooftops, but his hands tightened on the stone.
"They found the girl at dawn behind a stable wall," he said. "She didn't live long enough to see whether paper would have helped her."
Ezra's voice came out small.
"And no one—?"
"Everyone knew," Evan said. Hard, not loud. "And the Earl did nothing. Not because he thought it right—because punishing a viscount's household invites feud, and under the Aufsteigfrieden feud has a lawful shape. It becomes a challenge, a duel, and a record in the Rolls. An Earl can should win that fight but he can also die in it if any unfortunate accidents arise. Most Houses don't gamble their future for a commoner's justice."
Ezra stared at him, eyes bright with fury.
"So they can do whatever they want."
Evan breathed out through his nose.
"They can do a great deal," he said. "And they tell themselves it's natural. 'Our blood is rare.' 'Our mana is strength.' 'We are made for rule.'"
Disgust crossed his face.
"When a House repeats that long enough," he went on, "they stop seeing law as restraint. They see it as proof the world agrees with them."
Ezra's hands tightened on the parapet until his knuckles hurt.
"This world runs on strength," he said quietly. "And the law turns strength into permission."
"Strength is real," Evan said. "Bloodlines are real. But what a man does with strength is still a choice."
Ezra swallowed.
"Maybe someday I'll change it," he said, voice low.
Evan looked at him for a long moment.
"You might," he said at last. "But remember this first: when you pull on a lord, he doesn't bleed first. His steward will 'balance' the loss on the backs beneath him. If you move too fast, the people you want to protect will pay for your pride."