Chapter 2: Where the Souls of Men Harden
[I. The Belly of the Beast] Alexander left the "Al-Marbad District" behind, heading south toward a horizon where the sky wasn't just dark because of the night, but because of a soot that never lifted. This was the "Furnace Ward," the pulsating, diseased heart of industrial Azmareel.
As he walked, the ancient stone architecture began to mutate, giving way to colossal metallic silhouettes. Towering chimneys belched thick, obsidian clouds that choked the moon until it was a mere ghost in the smog. The rhythm of the city changed here. The sound of steam hammers created a heavy, relentless tempo—Thud... Thud... Thud...—like the drums of an ancient, subterranean war beating inside the skulls of the workers.
The air here had a distinct taste: the metallic tang of rusted iron and the dry, salt-crusted scent of dried blood.
To Alexander, walking through this ward was like wading through a storm of silent screams. The auras of the people here were drained of life—pallid, necrotic shades. Murky Grey (Despair). Deep Umber(Exhaustion). And occasionally, a flicker of Pale Yellow (Sickness). These people were no longer living; they were merely fleshy cogs in the gargantuan machines of the Kruger Family.
[II. The Broken Anvil] Alexander reached his destination: a dilapidated tavern named The Broken Anvil. It was a sanctuary for the ghosts of the mines and factories—men whose sixteen-hour shifts had hollowed them out until only the shell remained.
He pushed open the heavy iron door. The heat inside hit him like a physical blow—suffocating, thick with the stench of human sweat that overpowered even the smell of coal. Alexander's ash-colored eyes swept the room. He wasn't looking for the strongest physique; he was looking for the right "Color."
In a dimly lit corner, he found him.
A man sat alone, staring into an empty glass. His hair was the color of oxidized copper, his face permanently stained with coal dust that no soap could ever reach. On his left arm, old scars from molten metal told a story of survival. But it was his aura that anchored Alexander's gaze.
While the others drowned in grey, this man was enveloped in a Vibrant Orange, laced with sharp, black streaks. Orangemeant a broken ambition... and the Black was the jagged line of a simmering desire for vengeance. This man was a coal that had not yet turned to ash. He was a spark waiting for a breath of oxygen.
Alexander sat across from him without an invitation. The man raised his head slowly, his eyes narrowed and weary, but burning with a sharp, dangerous intelligence.
"This chair is reserved for the ghosts of my friends who died in the pits," the man said, his voice a gravelly rasp. "Move along, clean-coat."
Alexander smiled, placing a pack of premium cigarettes on the scarred table. "Ghosts don't smoke, do they... Silas?"
[III. The Machiavellian Proposition] Silas froze, his eyes darting to the cigarettes and then to the stranger. "And what does a nobleman want in the depths of hell?"
"I am no nobleman, and I am not lost," Alexander said, lighting a cigarette and sliding one toward Silas. "I am looking for a man who was once a Sergeant in the Royal Guard before he was discharged for refusing to fire on protesters. A man who ended up shoveling coal to heat the palaces of the very people who threw him away."
The silence between them was heavy. Alexander didn't need to know Silas's file; the Colors told the story. The aura of shame mixed with pride was unmistakable.
"I know you hate the Krugers," Alexander whispered, leaning in until the amber glow of the cigarette reflected in his eyes. "And I know the men in this factory listen to you more than they listen to the foremen. The question is: do you want to die shoveling coal? Or do you want to use that coal to burn the palaces down?"
A prince must have no other objective and no other thought but war, Alexander thought, echoing the words of the Master. The ends will always justify the means.
[IV. The Sticky Green of Corruption] Before Silas could answer, the door was kicked open with a violence that made the glasses rattle. Three men in navy-blue coats with silver buttons and tall caps entered. The Police.
But these were not men of the law. Their auras were a Nauseating, Sticky Green—the color of pure greed and systemic rot. Their leader, Sergeant Ratko, a man with a walrus mustache and eyes like dull marbles, strutted in, slapping a nail-studded wooden club against his palm.
"Collection time, you filth!" Ratko roared, spitting on the floor. "The New Union requires its protection tax."
The workers lowered their heads, hiding their auras of grey fear. In Azmareel, the police were merely a state-sponsored gang. Ratko approached the bar, emptying the till, before his greedy gaze landed on Alexander and Silas.
"And you..." Ratko pointed his club at Alexander's face. "I haven't seen you here. New guests pay an entry tax. That coat looks expensive. Give it to me."
Silas watched Alexander, expecting to see terror. Instead, he saw a void. Alexander remained seated, smoking calmly, his eyes fixed on the nails in Ratko's club.
"I think you've mistaken the address, Sergeant," Alexander said, his voice soft but carrying a terrifying weight. "This place is for men who work. Not for dogs who bark for scraps."
A collective gasp filled the room. Ratko's face turned a violent shade of crimson. "I'll teach you respect, boy—"
[V. The Surgical Strike] Alexander didn't stand up; he exploded into motion. He kicked the heavy table leg, launching the solid wood into Ratko's stomach. As the Sergeant doubled over, Alexander grabbed his head and slammed it into the table with a sickening thud.
The other two officers reached for their steam-pistols, but Silas was faster. The copper-haired giant leaped across the floor, shattering a wooden chair over one officer's back. He then grabbed the third officer by the throat and hurled him through the glass window into the muddy street.
Alexander gripped Ratko by the collar, pulling his face inches from his own. He whispered words that turned the Sergeant's aura a Deathly White.
"I know about the girls you followed in the Harbor District, Ratko. I know where you hide the money you steal from your own superiors. If I see your face in my ward again, I'll send your name and your home address to the Valero Family. You know what they do to thieves."
It was a bluff born of reading the Black Shards of guilt in Ratko's aura, but it worked perfectly. Every corrupt man has a secret he fears will bury him.
[VI. The Covenant of Blood] Ratko and his men scrambled away like beaten curs. Silas sat back down, wiping sweat from his brow, looking at Alexander with a mixture of respect and genuine dread.
"You just insulted the law," Silas said. "They'll turn this ward upside down tomorrow."
"Tomorrow..." Alexander said, pouring a fresh drink for Silas. "You will be the one ruling this ward, Silas. I need men who aren't afraid of the fire. And you know every soul in this pit."
Silas leaned forward, his orange aura glowing with a newfound heat. "What's the plan?"
Alexander's eyes flashed with a cold, Machiavellian light. "The plan is to steal a shipment of Kruger weapons tonight. We aren't going to be workers anymore, Silas. We are going to be the storm."