Chapter Text
Rennice was slow to stir that morning. The city, so abuzz with activity in the daylight hours, seemed almost calm, as if it bore witness to what was about to occur.
As the capital of the Republic of Carcino, Rennice was one of the few cities not devastated by the War of the Stones. Five years on, and still many places in Magvel remained in a state of long-term rebuilding. From a certain point of view, Carcino was lucky.
Of course, not everyone who lived there would see it that way. The council had fragmented in the War of the Stones, with a certain contingent of council elders supporting the tyranny of the Grado Empire. Those councilmen, while certainly diminished in presence, still held some degree of authority. Wealth. Status. Power.
At least, they had.
It was only moments after sunrise when Pablo felt himself ripped from his fine bed. He only saw his room for a brief few seconds before a bag slipped over his head - but in that time, he saw enough. Blood, and bodies…those of the mercenaries he paid to guard him. They were Jehannan mercenaries, and purported to be worth their high price tag. Before this day, Pablo had thought them to be worth it. Had he seen the efficiency with which they were dispatched, he might not have been so sure of their value.
Two pairs of strong hands kept him suppressed as a third bound his hands together quickly. Pablo swore under his breath. Whether or not they knew who he was, his magic wouldn’t work without freedom of movement. The Carcinoan council elder swore a second time, only to meet a strike from the hilt of a weapon.
“Silence.” A voice, deep and commanding, finally broke the silence.
Pablo growled. “Who the hell do you think you are-”
Another strike, this time decidedly a fist. Pablo wheezed in pain, doubling over as the two people holding him shoved him forward. He felt the rush of wind as the door was opened, the breeze fluttering his receding hair. It was as he was shoved out, and he heard the door close behind him, that the grip of fear first began to grasp his heart - whoever these people were weren’t after his wealth, but him.
Another shove, and Pablo began to walk. He kept his posture high, but thoughts radiated through him like waves. Why him, why now? If it was wealth, surely they wouldn’t have escorted him to…wherever they were going. If it was power, he wasn’t exactly the ideal councilman to kidnap for it. Klimt, or another of the high-ranking councilmen, surely they were more suited for such a play. After all, it wasn’t like he had much power anymore. Still a councilman, of course, but after the War of the Stones it took most of what he had just to retain his status. His luxuries were markedly less fine these days - the only reason anyone would want him is if-
“We’re here.”
Pablo’s thoughts were interrupted by the sudden removal of the bag, his face toward the sun, still a bit low in its rise. His heart grew cold as he felt the stronger winds rush past him, and he looked down.
They were on top of the roof of the Grand Debate Hall. It was built as a central spire of the city, a rising monolith from which several bridges and ducts were built to keep traffic flowing in and out. The pale yellow facade of the building still seemed new, at least compared to other buildings of its ilk in Magvel. Of course, debate halls like this didn’t exist anywhere else in Magvel, but as the de facto castle, it stood unique. To the sides of the central spire stood several smaller towers - libraries and dormitories, for when councilmen met to discuss Carcino and her worries.
He knew well the buttresses and spires of the ornate building, but never from this angle. Below, he recognized the shops and roads despite the new point of view. What’s more, he was on the precipice, looking down eighty feet to the stone steps below. The fountain out front caught his eye - he’d spent much of his life pondering and scheming while beside it, and yet seeing it now did little to calm him.
Pablo was turned around, finally seeing one of his captors face to face. The man before him was dressed in faded green armor, with a torn cloak hanging almost as an afterthought from his pauldron. Scratches and gouges covered the breastplate. From what remained of the cloak, Pablo could spot a pair of wings atop what used to be a horse…the symbol of Frelia. But even the lowest of Frelia’s knights didn’t look this haggard. The skyknights especially took great pride in keeping themselves of a more refined appearance.
His eyes flickered upward, meeting with the man’s gaze. He looked a bit older than the standard knights of Frelia, perhaps early 30s, with faint worry lines beginning to streak across his face. A scar trailed from the left corner of his mouth, dragging roughly down across his neck and collarbone before disappearing under the emerald breastplate. His hair was long, but messy, combed enough to be out of his eyes and somewhat tamped down. Just what was needed. He looked a touch gaunt - not the skeletal form of a man facing starvation, but the harrowed visage of a man who felt it more important to act than eat.
But what most struck Pablo were the man’s eyes. They weren’t sunken in at all, despite the man’s otherwise slightly wild form. No, his eyes - a dull blue, like the winter ocean - seemed to drill straight into Pablo. This man stared as if he gazed into the abyss, daring it to blink first.
“Pablo, of the Council of Elders.” His voice wasn’t quite gentle. It sounded like it may have been at one time, but no longer.
Pablo scowled at the raven-haired man. “Quite the trouble you went through. Why? Trying to force gold out of the Council?”
“Gold isn’t what I want from you.”
“Power, then? A seat at the table, perhaps? Quite rough for someone who wants-”
“I don’t want anything from you, Pablo.”
The man slowly drew his sword from a scabbard on his left hip. A beautiful blade, it was. Unlike his armor, and really the man himself, the blade looked as if it had been polished that morning. Something about it caught Pablo’s eye - the red crossguard, the runes within the lower section of the blade, the way the man held it as if he could strike Pablo, even from far away. He’d seen blades of its ilk only twice before.
“For a man who looks like a kingless knight, you take good care of that weapon,” Pablo said. “How exactly did you procure a Light Brand?”
The man held the sword aloft, his eyes still staring straight at Pablo - almost through him entirely. “It was left in a tower. One consumed by hell.”
Pablo’s scowl deepened. “Enough with the theatrics. If you desire nothing from me, then what exactly are we doing atop the Debate Hall?”
“Simple.” The man took a step forward, leveling the Light Brand at Pablo’s chest.
Pablo’s eyes widened, and the fear that had grazed him before now took hold with a vice grip. “H-Hang on a moment! Why?! What have I ever done to you?”
“You haven’t,” he said with a weary sigh. “They did. The monsters you submitted to, you allied with. Were things only a little different, our country would be held in the clutches of Grado’s cruel tyranny.”
Pablo struggled in vain against the men holding him. His voice was desperate, almost raving. “The War of the Stones? That was five years ago! Grado’s military is a ghost! The Quake of 806 broke whatever remnants of the old Empire existed! Do you honestly think I’d side with them now?”
The man paused for a moment. “...No. I don’t think you would.”
Pablo sighed in relief. “I knew you’d see reason. Let’s leave this roof and talk this out-”
The Light Brand plunged into Pablo’s chest.
“You are a poison,” said the man. “A corruption as much as Grado is. The other councilmembers that sided with you, they lost their positions of power. Many of them are already dead. But you, you managed to worm your way out of accountability. I am merely seeing to it that you face exactly what is owed to you.”
Pablo’s eyes bulged as he fell to his knees, gasping for breath. He spoke gruffly, feeling the blood pour from his mouth. “Why..? Why do…all of this..? Who the…hell are you..?”
The man slowly sheathed the Light Brand before speaking. “I am Corain. Leader of the Carcino Revolutionary Army. And as long as Grado exists, I will not rest until those makers of tyranny are purged from Magvel, and the world is set right again.”
Pablo’s vision began to fade as one of the two men holding him stepped away. The other yanked Pablo backward, and the councilman felt himself plummeting from the roof of the Debate Hall, all eighty feet to the stone below. Before his head struck the stone fountain, Pablo’s final thoughts were of nothing but regrets.