Bethany stood upon a wooden stage hastily raised atop the withered grass and pebbled ground of the courtyard. Before her stretched a crowd, spanning the width and length like an ocean of narrowed eyes and flaring nostrils. Grumbles and gripes ebbed and flowed from the mass, they crested as one with brandishing fists that pounded the air in seething dissent.

The throng was divided. Seated nearest the platform was the noble enclave. They had insisted on it. Like the rest, they had been displaced. Like everyone else, they had sought refuge in the slums. But though their fates entwined, their esteem would not.

For the hyborn, the day-sun's sweat-coaxing rays was little excuse for poor form. The men wore three-piece suits, neck-cloths tucked into linen shirts, waistcoats fastened shut with ornate studs. The women must have sweltered beneath the daylight, faces plastered with powders and paint, their bodies crushed into corsets—figures squeezed into forms better suited to sculpted stone than living flesh.

Behind them sat the Retainers. Bethany's dealings with their kind were biting, but bearable. Though they clamoured for finer fare—the fattier meats, the freshest breads, and quarters apart from the dormitories crammed with the ignoble unwashed—they had long grown accustomed to denial. The present crisis would not last forever. When it ended, it was wise to keep the nobles onside. The Retainers were another matter. They might sway some scales of some power—enough for seats and small concessions, but not much more. Upon the stage of higher influence, their voices scarcely carried.

As for the rest of the crowd, they stood. Shoulder to shoulder, they packed together beneath the searing heat like oily sprats in a tin. Their garments were threadbare. Their sweat soaked through the cloth.

From the least of the commoners to the highest-born noble, these were the people Bethany was sworn to protect. As an Enforcer, this was her solemn duty—one she was soon to betray.

'Attention,' she called into the crowd.

Not a lip stilled its murmurs. Not a fist ceased its sway. Pointed glares snapped toward the stage, and whispers cut sharp from mouth to ear. Though hushed, Bethany caught the tone of the crowd's incriminations: denouncing her as incompetent, unfit—a maladroit mooncalf, better suited to childbirth and silence than to any mantle of leadership.

She balled her fist tight, yet held herself straight. She was decided—resolute—set free of doubt. Her mistakes would not define her, and whisper-sheltered ignorance was not enough to dissuade. For the good of all, her path was set. And the people? They would follow.

'Attention,' she called again, unleashing a wave of dense Harmony that rode upon her words.

Mouths snapped shut like cowering clams. Arms dropped, and weary glares fixed on her. Satisfied the crowd was ready to listen, Bethany began to speak:

'If there were another way, I would not ask this of you,' she said, fists clenched white, veins pressed blue along her hands. 'If I could save us alone, that is what I would do.'

Her voice faltered, her gaze falling—yet she raised her head again, eyes burning with dogged perseverance, heart aflame with unyielding resolve.

'But I cannot,' she said at last. 'I need you—we need one another. The danger that looms overhead, threatening to collapse all we know… it cannot be ignored. It must be overcome.'

'Together,' Sedrick added, standing a step behind with Anton and Naereah—Bethany's newly forged allies arrayed along the stage rear.

Across the crowd, eyes flashed toward one another. Whispers passed with jaded, knowing glances. In the surrounding stone buildings, commoners leaned from open windows to listen, suspicion etched across their faces. Some pulled back inside, their words unheard yet clear all the same—rumours coiling with unfolding events, lent certainty by Bethany's own present admissions.

She had known for some time the secret was out. But until now, she had withheld a public confession. The people had heard what they would face. They had whispered she would call them to arms. Yet her silence had kept the peace while she prepared—for the line between what people believed and what they knew was the thin, fraying line between order and revolt.

Its utility spent, the line would vanish completely. By the end of her address, all would be known. Those who could fight would be conscripted—marched through the city's bowels, bound for bone-breaking battle, blood, and bane. Those who could not would be left behind. A number would remain to defend them, yet without her there to maintain the wards, they would likely fade before her return. With luck, they might endure. She hoped they would, though hope was not a guarantee.

No lie had been voiced when she longed for another way. But against the madness of the city, against the cult lurking below, against the Spawn and Abominations sealed underground, and the Beast that rested in their keeping, she needed an army.

'By now, you have no doubt heard the rumours,' she carried on, and the masses stilled. 'You have heard a Beast sleeps beneath this city, and that the cult has found the means to wake it.'

Unease rippled through the crowd, faces paling before Bethany's eyes. Some turned green, as though warring with dread-sick guts. Others shook where they stood, their knees quivering like leaves about to fall.

She bore the horror her words had stirred, her heart grieving as though she had birthed a stillborn babe. Yet she could not turn aside—her course was set. The fruit of omission was too bitter to swallow. Even this—knowing the suffering she would bring—was better. It did not go easy; it churned within her gut. But taking action, moving forward, whatever the result—that she could stomach.

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'You have heard I mean to call you to peril, to endanger your lives against the threat,' she went on, her tone etched with solemnity. 'You have heard rightly,' she confirmed.

For a moment, silence lingered. Then it broke—first with indignant scoffs, then with shrill denials from the nobles. At last the panic surged, unchecked, ravaging the masses like a wild invader. Accusations, once whispered, now tore through the air with scorn and baleful intent.

Among the nobility, Atticus smirked. Hands gripped his shoulders, lips brushed his ear, whispers urging him on. He nodded with easy assurance, fingers drifting in a pacifying rhythm. Then he rose and strode toward the stage, each step measured, claimed as though the ground belonged to him.

'This is not the time,' Bethany sneered as he came before her.

'I rather think it is,' he replied—his face begging for the blow his lips would never voice. 'Do not furrow those peach-soft cheeks. I am only here to aid your cause.'

He turned from Bethany to the crowd, arms raised in theatrical command. At once the clamour stilled, and every eye fixed on him.

'Esteemed nobles, steadfast retainers, and worthy folk of the commons—I beg your ear,' he declared, palms sweeping wide in soothing motion. 'For all her faults, her failings, her mournful blunders—this once, the Enforcer speaks true.'

He gestured toward Bethany—her mouth parted, her thoughts reeling, struggling to seize a line of reply. The crowd, once frenzied, now hushed beneath his cadence. And though every phrase was barbed to undercut her, he was, all the same, lending strength to her cause.

'To endure—as we must—we shall need to stand together. There is no evading that truth,' he pressed, the crowd leaning closer, seeming to breathe his words into their lungs. 'Yet just as true, there are those who would rightly call the Enforcer into question—'

'Pray, stay your words,' Sedrick cut in.

Atticus turned, offered the lieutenant a thin smile, and pressed on—his voice louder now, as if emboldened by the attempted rebuke.

'—Many of us will not be found beneath her banner. And who could blame them? We have endured the arch-fatalities of her follies already. Only a fool would believe she will not lead us to worse.'

He paused, striding the stage like a seasoned performer, clapping his hands as the crowd cried his name.

'I offer another way,' he intoned—his words falling like a heavy shroud, settling over the crowd with the weight of comfort itself. 'The descent cannot be evaded—we must lay siege beneath the city. But if you would march with true leadership, look not to the Enforcer who has failed you, but to the man who has never once forsaken your cause.'

'Not a chance in the abyss,' Naereah snapped, Bethany's heart swelling as the healer came to her side. 'Even were I deaf, dumb, blind, and bound with cord at cliff's edge, I would sooner fall than have you lead me.'

'Hear, hear,' Sedrick barked, Anton nodding his silent assent.

Atticus raised his hands in mock surrender, a laugh escaping—thin and lonely. His smile stretched, taut as a blade's edge.

'I would not take the unwilling,' he purred, before turning back to the crowd. 'And to those loyal to the Enforcer—I commend your courage. Follow her, by every means. I do not stand to replace her authority, but to strengthen it—through a parallel force.'

He strode to the stage's edge, thrusting two fingers skyward.

'Two armies. Two leaders. Aligned in purpose, distinct in command. Those who march with me will heed my orders. Those who follow her will take hers.'

Bethany had heard enough. She strode forward, seizing Atticus by the shoulder and wrenching him around. His smile held fast, unbroken, as he lifted both arms in a show of cringing defence.

'Go on,' he sneered. 'Strike me. Prove to them all that you rule by force—most not your own, but borrowed—and that you lack the gift to inspire.'

She released him, and the serpent slithered free. With a quick brush to his coat, he straightened himself and turned back to the crowd.

'What say the good people here?' Atticus cried, sweeping his arms overhead as though conducting a chorus.

The people roared their assent.

'Who do you choose to follow?'

They chanted his name.

Then a retainer rose from her seat and strode toward the stage. At the steps she craned her neck, eyes locking with the Lord-Mayor's.

'I do not know this man. I do not trust this man. What I know is war, and what it takes to prevail. Unity and power are both required. If we are to be thrown into strife, it must be under a single strong command!' she shouted, her voice breaking across the chants of dismissal.

Atticus crouched at the stage's edge, gaze fixed on Bethany's defender—whose name she could not bring to mind.

'And you imagine that mighty commander we all need to be her?' Atticus mocked, stabbing a finger toward Bethany. 'The one who—at her command—brought death within these walls?'

The woman shook her head, then answered:

'No. It should be Havoc Gray—the man we saw strike down a Champion. But he follows her lead. And for that reason, so do I.'

She turned her back on the stage and marched to her seat. No further word was needed; her stand alone had swayed the throng. The chants for the Lord-Mayor still beat in many throats, but their vigour faltered—their confidence waned.

Atticus straightened and scoffed. His confidence seemed unshaken, yet his clenched jaw and balled fist betrayed the act. Still he paced, shoulders squared, chest thrust forward.

'I admit, the boy is formidable,' he cooed. 'But one thing he is not—he is not here. The Enforcer hides him from you. For all we know, he has fled. Perhaps he lies dead. Or something worse? In the end, it matters little. The fact remains—we cannot rely upon his aid.'

This time it was Naereah who stepped forward. Frail as glass she seemed, yet her dark eyes brimmed with a will that could not be denied.

'It's true—Havoc was wounded, and his wounds have been slow to heal,' she confessed, shrinking at first beneath the weight of every eye, her cheeks flushing deep blue. But then her shoulders squared, her voice steadied. 'Yet he heals. And when he rises, as I do, he will stand behind our captain.'

Bethany stepped toward Naereah, her face stern, her heart alight with the trust she had been given. Then she said:

'You have your choices. So choose—choose to follow me.'

For a heartbeat, no one moved. The courtyard held its breath.

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