Night fell over Verdejante like a shroud of black, icy, starless velvet. In the Pyrrho ghetto, the mud had dried beneath the biting wind blowing from the river, leaving the alleys wrapped in a thick gloom where even stray dogs feared to bark.
Alistair and Lucius waited in the shadows of the warehouse, stripped of their cuirasses and without the silver glint of Ferralian steel or the weight of the bastard sword, looking like two spectres in the dark. They wore dark linen tunics and black-dyed leather trousers, their faces smeared with soot to kill the pale reflection of their skin. At their belts, they carried only the short iron Kaelan had asked them to bring: mercy dagger, broad-bladed hunting knives, and fine-pointed daggers, ready for the quiet work of slitting throats.
Kaelan appeared out of nowhere, emerging from the dark with the lightness of a wild cat. Without uttering a single word, he made a sharp gesture and led them through the labyrinth that was the Pyrrho quarter. They walked single file, with short, measured steps over the packed dirt, skirting miserable hovels and sewage ditches until they reached the ruins of a house devoured by fire years before.
The place smelled of charred wood, ancient dust, and damp ash. Between splintered beams and collapsed stone blocks, Kaelan knelt and forcefully removed a heavy plank covered in rubble. Beneath it opened a pit of absolute darkness, from which rose a stale, freezing draft with the unmistakable stench of wet earth and forgotten stone.
– Duck your heads – the redhead chieftain murmured, slipping his legs through the opening. – And don't light torches till we're deep down. The walls have ears, and the high-town rats like to gossip.
They descended down a rusted iron ladder whose rungs creaked under Alistair's weight, until their feet touched the stone floor of a forgotten gallery. The tunnel stretched out before them, narrow and low, its walls covered in a crust of damp slime that glinted under the scarce light coming from the surface.
As they moved deeper into the bowels of the earth, the sound of the city above faded into a distant, almost imperceptible murmur. The only noise was the rhythmic dripping of water falling from the stone vaults and the soft squelch of their boots in the mud.
Alistair, keeping his right hand rested on the hilt of his dagger, looked at Kaelan's back, noting that the man's hair, even in the gloom, seemed to hold a lingering remnant of dying ember.
– There's something gnawing at my head, Kaelan – Alistair whispered, his voice sounding muffled against the dripping walls. – I've seen men hated for being from the neighbouring province, for being runaway serfs, or for worshipping the wrong gods... but where does all this rage against your people come from? Why is a red-headed man looked at in this land as if he carried the plague on his skin?
Kaelan didn't break stride, but in his answer came the bitterness of a hundred generations:
– The story is an ancient one, mercenary – replied the Pyrrho leader, his low tone echoing off the wet stones. – It comes from the mouths of the priests of Solarius, who spit it from the top of their golden altars to keep the bumpkins terrified. The official legend says that when Solarius shaped the first men of the earth, he made them all different, yet, at the same time, one could always see in every man a resemblance to Solarius himself. What isn't told, however, is that Almighty Solarius was the very first selfish bastard to exist, and he didn't want humans ever reaching his level of divinity.
He paused for a moment to catch a breeze, looking at Alistair and Lucius before resuming his story.
– According to the Cult, some men banded together aiming to escape Solarius' clutches and stop being his playthings. The scrolls say this union of men tried to usurp his divine light, or part of it, to rule the kingdoms of the world... they failed, for they were still mere men against the incalculable power of a god. Solarius, vengeful god that he is, punished them and their descendants for all eternity, marking them with fire-coloured hair, forever damned to be betrayed and mistrustful targets. To the Church and the nobility of Aurelia, being born with this colour on your head isn't just a random fluke of the flesh... it's the unmistakable mark of a soul defiled before taking its very first breath.
Kaelan let out a short, joyless laugh, a dry sound that sounded like the cracking of a wooden carcass beneath an axe.
– Bedtime stories for little lords and keeping the serfs in their place – the redhead growled, spitting onto the slime-covered stone. – My father had hair the colour of dry dirt, and my mother the colour of oak bark. Neither of them had a single streak of fire on their head, and yet here I am. They want me to believe that I, a newborn babe in the cradle with milk dripping down my chin, was plotting the fall of a god up in the heavens? It's such utter stupidity that only a priest stuffed with wine and roast meat could come up with it.
The man paused, his step slowing slightly as the gallery grew narrower and stuffier.
– I was eight years old when they dumped me in the mud of this district like a mangy dog – he continued, his voice carrying the deep-seated bitterness of someone who learned to survive by his teeth. – Since that night, I haven't prayed to Solarius, nor to any other god or entity sitting on golden thrones. My only faith is in the short iron at my side and in the lives of my people. I won't die for a legend, nor will I let them shove us into cages because of the colour nature gave us on our heads.
They reached the end of the tunnel, where stone gave way to an ancient masonry jamb and a heavy iron door, eaten away by the rust of water leaks. Kaelan knelt down and, from a greasy leather pouch at his belt, pulled out two thin metal rods. With the icy precision of a man who had picked more locks than he cared to remember, he worked the tools into the dirt-covered keyhole. Two sharp clicks echoed in the dark, and the door yielded with the icy whisper of iron sliding against iron.
For long moments they waited, motionless on the entrance, letting their eyes adjust to the total darkness of the space opening up on the other side. The air in there was different: thick, hot, and foul, heavy with the suffocating stench of excrement, rancid sweat, and the cold rust of fear. As the shadows took shape, Alistair made out the structure of a vast cellar, with raw stone pillars supporting the low ceiling. Lined up along the walls, hidden in the gloom, were large cages of iron and reinforced timber.
Inside, huddled like cattle in a slaughterhouse, were dozens of Pyrrhos: men, women, and hollow-faced children whose red hair, even caked in filth, looked like dying embers in the dark. Upon hearing the door open, some of the prisoners stirred, and the sound of chains dragging across the floor threatened to shatter the silence. A woman began to sob in terror, thinking her captors were returning.
Kaelan stepped forward and raised his hand in a sharp, commanding gesture, bringing a finger to his lips. Silence fell over the cellar like a heavy blade.
– Shut your mouths – whispered the redhead chieftain, his voice heavy with a fierce promise as his eyes locked onto his people. – Your captivity ends today, you have my word, but first... we must give these bastards the end they deserve.
The flickering glare of a single torch clamped to an iron ring marked the end of the stone corridor, casting long, grotesque shadows against the slime-covered walls. There, in a small, damp-drenched guard post, three men awaited the end of their shift: one leaning against a wooden pillar with heavy, sleepy eyes, and two others curled up in filthy blankets on the straw, snoring in a heavy, careless rhythm.
The Pyrrho chieftain slid through the gloom like spilled smoke. Before the standing guard could notice the shift in the air or the smell of damp earth the redhead brought with him, Kaelan's calloused hand clamped over his mouth, smothering any attempt at an alarm. In the same fraction of a second, his dull short dagger thrust vertically, driving it with surgical precision into the soft cavity under the man's chin, piercing through the roof of his mouth into the brain. The guard merely shuddered, his eyes wide with the surprise of instant death. Kaelan supported the dead weight of the corpse with his own body, lowering it to the ground without making a single sound of iron striking stone.
Without breaking stride, Kaelan knelt between the two sleeping men. The first didn't even get to wake; the redhead drove the blade into his throat with a clean strike from side to side, severing the windpipe and arteries before the man could draw breath. The sound that followed was a wet, muffled gurgle, hot blood spurting in gushes over the straw and coating the redhead's hands in a scarlet sheen under the torchlight.
The second sleeping man stirred, disturbed by the sudden smell of copper and the heat of life draining away beside him. He even opened his eyes, finding Kaelan's filthy face and fiery eyes mere inches from his own. Before his mind could process the terror and his mouth open in a scream, Kaelan dropped the dagger, seized the man's head with both hands, and with a violent, sharp twist of his wrists, snapped his neck. The crack of bones echoed through the tunnel like the snapping of a dry branch.
Three lives reaped in the space of four heartbeats. Death had been so cold, mechanical, and devoid of any passion that it felt more terrifying than any open-field battle.
Alistair stepped closer, his short iron firm in hand, but his gaze drifted from the bodies on the floor to the lad beside him. Lucius was petrified, the soot on his face unable to hide the deathly pallor that had taken over his skin. His eyes flickered between the bloody corpses and Kaelan's red hands. The boy was trembling from head to toe, his short, ragged breath caught in his throat, suffocated by the raw brutality of what he had just witnessed.
Sensing the young man's panic threatening to betray them, Alistair stepped forward and rested his heavy hand on Lucius's shoulder. The mercenary's grip was firm and steady – an anchor of sanity amidst that subterranean carnage. Lucius looked at him, blinking, and Alistair merely shook his head slowly, a silent signal for the lad to breathe and keep his mind on the mission at hand.
Beyond the guard post were stairs of eroded stone, the air heavy with the smell of sour wine, mould, and stale sweat. The door to the overseer's chamber was left ajar, letting through the heavy, rhythmic snoring of a man who believed himself safe.
Kaelan slid into the room like a shadow born of fire itself. Before the fellow could wake from his drunken stupor, the redhead's left hand clamped down over his mouth with the force of an iron press, while the cold, blood-smeared blade of his dagger pressed against the man's windpipe, marking the skin with a thread of ruby.
The overseer's eyes flew open, wide with pure white terror. The man tried to thrash about, but Kaelan's weight pinned him against the straw floor. The deathly silence coming from the staircase and the fresh smell of copper emanating from Kaelan's hands told him everything he needed to know: his guards no longer belonged to this world.
– If you draw a breath that isn't to answer me, your soul leaves through your neck before you can blink – Kaelan whispered, his voice low, calm, and terrifyingly icy. – Whose hand pulls the strings, dog? Who's kidnapping my people to shove them in cages?
The man was shaking so badly that the wooden frame of the bed creaked beneath his body. Feeling the tip of the steel nicking his skin with every ragged breath, what little bravery he had dissolved into a choked whimper of cowardice.
– It's... it's the castle... – he stammered, his voice a trembling thread as cold sweat ran down his forehead. – By the gods... don't kill me! It's Viscount Lorenzo Verdegrande himself!
Alistair, standing by the doorframe with Lucius at his side, narrowed his eyes. The revelation fell over the room like a stone down a well.
– The Viscount? – Kaelan growled, tightening his grip on the blade a fraction more. – The lord of the high town pays scum like you to hunt my people?
– He... he sells them to the Solterrans! – confessed the overseer, the words tumbling out in a frenzy of despair. – They pay outrageous prices for Pyrrho slaves for their mines and brothels... pure Solterran gold by the chestful! But it's not just for the gold... the Viscount needs you. As long as the folk of Verdejante hate redheads and blame you for every plague, every bad harvest, and every copper coin levied in taxes, no one looks at the castle and no one thinks of rebelling against him when they reckon the real monster lives in the ghetto! Hatred keeps the city blind and united... it's one of his tools!
Alistair let out a dry, bitter laugh from the back of the room, shaking his head.
– A masterclass in political wisdom – the swordsman muttered, watching the man tremble beneath the steel. – Selling your own people to line your coffers with foreign gold and using superstition to keep the common rabble entertained.
The man's final words of confession were still echoing in the stuffy room when Kaelan yanked the dagger. The tearing of flesh was sharp, followed by a wet, heavy gurgle as the overseer writhed on the straw mattress, his eyes fixed on the ceiling until the spark of life went out completely in a pool of dark blood.
– Killing the overseer was easy, Kaelan – said Alistair, watching the corpse with a stone face –, but when the Viscount finds out his underground gold mine has been blown, his retaliation won't be a whisper; it'll be a storm of iron and fire. Your folk will pay for every drop of blood you shed here today.
Kaelan stood up, wiping the blade of his dagger on the felt of the dead man's tunic without a single trace of remorse in his eyes.
– Lorenzo Verdegrande has been hunting us for some time – replied the redhead leader, his voice hard as winter ice. – Submission never saved a Pyrrho's life in this city. If we keep quiet, he'll capture us to fill his coffers; if we fight, at least we die on our feet with steel in our hands. He was going to attack either way, Alistair, the difference is that now we have struck first.
Kaelan stepped toward the swordsman, holding Alistair's gaze under the flickering torchlight.
– We need men who know how to kill proper soldiers, not just cowardly overseers. We need the Mad Dog Brigade by our side. Join your steel to ours, and we'll rip open the bowels of this city for you.
Alistair felt a pang in his chest. For years, his only golden rule had been his own survival – a simple life of running away, lying, and cheap booze. But the image of that overseer confessing how he sold people like cattle, keeping the city blind through hatred, sparked a cold, unfamiliar rage within him. Lorenzo Verdegrande wasn't just a greedy lord; he was a parasite devouring his own people.
– The Viscount will learn that some dogs don't take to a collar – Alistair muttered, clenching his fist tight. – The Brigade will stand with you, Kaelan. You'll have our steel.
They returned to the cellar. With a few well-aimed axe blows and the deft handling of Kaelan's lockpicks, the cage locks fell one by one with sharp thuds echoing through the stone vaults. Dozens of frightened Pyrrhos emerged into the gloom of the tunnel. Kaelan approached Alistair and young Lucius, and, before his freed people, the redhead chieftain bowed his head in a solemn, deep gesture – a rare sight for a man shaped by iron and mud.
– The night is dark, but you helped me bring the light to us – Kaelan said, his voice thick with respectful gravity. – The Pyrrhos do not forget who stands as their ally and promises to bleed for them.