CHAPTER 57: LYRIA CITY IV

Sylens remained where he stood long after the body had been covered.

The cold had settled in his bones, not from the night air, but from the hollow space his brother’s absence left behind.

By dawn, the inn was empty—save for him, the corpse, and the jagged blood-script that mocked him from the floorboards. He didn’t clean it. He wanted it there. A reminder. A wound that would not close.

When the sun finally rose over Lyra City, the Mortal Fang moved in silence. No drunken swagger. No careless laughter. The city’s underworld knew when its wolves were mourning.

The funeral was swift, brutal in its simplicity. A pyre was raised in the Fang’s courtyard, and his brother’s body—wrapped in black cloth—was placed upon it. No priest, no incense, no blessings from the gods. The Fang prayed only to vengeance.

Sylens stood at the head of the gathering, the fire’s glow painting his scarred face in shifting shades of gold and blood-red. He said nothing until the flames began to take hold, the first crackle of burning cloth breaking the silence.

"When the fire dies," he said at last, his voice rough and low, "the game begins."

His men didn’t shout. They didn’t cheer. They simply bowed their heads—each one understanding that the true mourning would not be done in tears... but in blood.

The flames devoured the body, and when only blackened bone and curling ash remained, Sylens turned on his heel and walked away. The pyre smoldered behind him like the eye of some ancient god, watching, waiting.

Somewhere in the streets beyond, a soft breeze carried the faintest trace of a woman’s perfume—Aria’s, though he didn’t yet know it.

And in the shadows, unseen, Fenric was already counting the moves ahead.

Next Day

Sylens didn’t bother with formalities when he entered the lord’s chamber.He kicked the door shut behind him, the echo snapping through the marble hall like a whip.

Fenric looked up from the map he’d been studying, a faint smile touching his lips. "What’s the matter, Sylens? You look like the city just spat in your drink."

"My bed," Sylens growled, jabbing a finger at the floor as if the entire city were beneath it, "just bled last night. My brother’s ashes are still warm. And you—" he leaned forward over the desk, "—you take the seat as city lord and let this happen? You...When will you arrest the bastard who killed my innocent brother?"

Fenric didn’t flinch. If anything, his expression softened—dangerously."You mean the man who raped a twelve-year-old girl before killing her?" His words were calm, but the weight behind them pressed like a blade to the throat.

Sylens froze for a fraction of a second. "...You knew?"

"I did," Fenric said. "And I had him dealt with." He leaned back in his chair, voice dropping to something almost conversational. "Three hours of work. Every scream earned. By the end, he begged for death."

Sylens’ jaw tightened. "Who gave the order?"

"I did," Fenric replied, unblinking. "And I even specifically ordered for him to get tortured before he dies."

A tense silence hung between them. Sylens’ hands curled into fists at his sides, torn between grudging caution and simmering fury.

Fenric leaned forward, folding his hands, his voice as cold as the steel on his desk.

"If not for your reputation in this city, I would have wiped you out long ago."

Sylens’ eyes narrowed.

"Last night, your dogs came running and used my name."

"I am not some street gang lord," Fenric said flatly. "Nor am I one of those punks your mercenaries deal with. If you want to work in my city, act like an asset... or be erased like a problem."

He let the words hang before adding, "I am not like the last city lord—the one you killed—and called it an accident. And the Vice City Lord? The rat you planted in my office? Vorn, wasn’t it? Now he’s lying in a ditch outside the walls. And before you ask—yes, I killed him too."

Sylens’ jaw clenched.

"And keep it mind from now on," Fenric continued, his voice calm but cutting, "keep up the good work. Because if I so much as smell a hint of your hand in any crime against me or the City... I will kill you myself." He smiled faintly, almost casually, as Sylens stared at him in silence.

The earlier image Sylens had of Fenric—a gullible, easy-to-manipulate prince—was gone. Before him now stood a cold-hearted predator, one who killed as casually as buying spices from the market.

"Why didn’t you act earlier?" Sylens asked.

Fenric’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

"The best way to show someone’s true face," he said evenly, "is to first act like an ignorant one."

He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make Sylens strain to catch the words.

"Sooner or later, they will reveal themselves. And when they do... you simply ensure that you are the one holding the knife—never the one ignorant enough to stand in front of it."

Fenric reclined back in his chair as though the conversation had been about nothing more consequential than the weather. At that moment, the door opened and Aria stepped in, her presence slicing into the tension like a drawn blade.

"Aria," Fenric said, his voice calm but edged, "you’re here. Did you deliver the message I gave you?"

She glanced at Sylens briefly, then nodded. "Yes... I did exactly as you asked."

Aria’s storage ring flashed, and in a burst of light nine severed heads tumbled into the air between them. The sight was so sudden and grotesque that Sylens froze for half a heartbeat—just long enough to register the faces.

Before she could stow them back, he was already in motion. His long sword gleamed crimson under the lamplight as it swept toward her neck. His mercenary squad was nowhere to be seen; in this moment, it was just him and her.

But the blade never reached its mark.

A second edge, faster and sharper, intercepted his strike in midair. The cut traveled with fluid precision—too clean, too quick—and Sylens only realized what had happened when warmth blossomed across his throat.

Aria stood behind him now, her own sword drawn, the steel still humming from the strike.

"I told you," Fenric said softly, "any more scent of crime, and I will kill you."

It was the last thing Sylens heard before the world tilted and his body crumpled to the floor.

Aria exhaled, letting the illusion fade. The severed heads vanished—nothing but phantom bait, a conjured trick to draw him out. She stepped over his body, murmuring to herself.

"Now I wonder how he managed to dispose of the last city lord when he fell for a cheap stunt like that."

Aria sheathed her sword, her movements unnervingly composed, even as crimson spread in a slow pool beneath her boots. The severed heads she had shown were never real—mere illusions, crafted to provoke him into striking first. He had taken the bait, and she had simply returned the blow.

"The last city lord was a greedy fool—nothing more," Fenric said as he rang the bell on his desk. His voice was calm, almost detached.

Two maids entered moments later, their steps quiet but purposeful.

"Dispose of the body," Fenric instructed, leaning back in his chair. "Mount his head above the gate. Let it be known this is the fate of anyone who dares to raise a blade against the city lord in his own office."

The maids’ expressions didn’t so much as twitch. They bowed, seized the corpse with practiced efficiency, and dragged it away to fulfill his order without a word.

By midday, the gates of Lyria City bore a new and grisly adornment.

The mercenary captain’s head sat high upon an iron spike, its fresh blood still dripping down the weathered stone.

The moment it appeared, foot traffic slowed to a crawl. People lingered in uneasy clusters, casting furtive glances toward the gate before whispering behind cupped hands.

"They say it’s Sylens," a fruit seller murmured to a passing guard.

"It is," the guard said flatly. "His Highness ordered it himself."

"What did Sylens do?" a boy asked, craning his neck to see.

"Challenged the city lord... in his own office," the guard replied, spitting to the side. "Didn’t end well."

"That can’t be it," another voice cut in from the crowd. "Sylens has been running half the underground for years. He must’ve crossed a bigger line."

A washerwoman leaned in, speaking low. "I heard he threatened to take the city for himself."

"And now his head’s at the gate," a baker said grimly. "This new city lord... he doesn’t hesitate, does he?"

A man in a tattered cloak gave a humorless chuckle. "Hesitate? He’s more brutal than the last three combined. I thought the Vareldis princes were pampered silk-robed types, but this one—" He pointed at the spike. "—he sends messages in blood."

Merchants tightened their grips on coin purses. Drunks kept their voices low. Thieves who once mocked the new lord now kept their eyes on the cobblestones, speaking his name only in hushed tones.