The Warden's words lingered in the smoky air of the prison yard. "A debt has been incurred this night, Nadim. A significant one." He turned and walked back toward his office. "Follow me," he ordered.
Inside, he gestured for me to sit, a privilege I had never been afforded. "You saved my prison from ruin and my name from disgrace," he said, his voice a low rasp. "A debt has been incurred. Name your reward. Coin? A permanent position of authority in the workshops? Anything in my power is yours."
My mind raced. A reward from the Warden was a temporary shield. Coin would be stolen, and a promotion would only make me a more prominent target for the inmates' resentment. But Elias, in his wheezing lectures on the city's history, had given me something more valuable.
"There is a law," I said, my voice quiet. "An old one. From the founding codices."
The Warden's eyes narrowed. "A prison lawyer, now?"
"It speaks of a pardon," I continued, ignoring his skepticism. "For any subject who performs an act of extraordinary civil defense. It requires a hearing before the Council of Elders and the testimony of a ranking official."
He stared at me for a long moment, a flicker of something—annoyance, or perhaps grudging respect—in his gaze. "The Council is a den of merchants and sycophants who value the King's favor over ancient laws. You would place your fate in their hands?"
"I would place my fate in the law's hands," I corrected him. "All it requires is your testimony."
"Fine," he snapped, standing to signal the end of the audience. "I will pay my debt. I will give my testimony. But do not mistake this for friendship." The Warden turned toward a small, locked cabinet, retrieved a piece of hard, cured meat and a half-loaf of stale bread, and placed it on the table. "You'll need your wits about you, and an empty stomach is no use to anyone." He then thrust a bundle of clean, undyed linen at me. "At least look the part of a citizen."
When I was brought to the Council Chamber some weeks later, the great stone doors groaned open to reveal a cavern that seemed to drink all sound. The carvings on the walls that Elias had described—scenes from the founding of the Republic—were worn smooth by time, their heroic figures little more than outlines in the stone. This was not a room of power; it was a museum of it.
One Elder was old, his face lined with the faint, deep etches of long-held disapproval. The man who followed was his opposite: young, his robes impeccably tailored, his posture radiating a confidence that bordered on arrogance. The other three Elders—wealthy merchants, I guessed, by their soft hands and anxious eyes—scurried to their seats, their main ambition to hold a title that cost them nothing and gained them proximity to the palace.
The old Elder struck a heavy wooden staff on the stone floor. The sound was stark, chipping a piece from the silence.
"This special hearing is called to order under the provision of the Civic Safety Act, Section Four, Article Two," he began, his voice raspy but clear. He unrolled a scroll of heavy vellum, its script the precise hand of a royal scribe, a copy of a copy of a law from a time long past. "Be it decreed by the founding Council: Any subject, regardless of station or criminal record, who, during a declared state of civic emergency, performs an act of extraordinary skill and bravery, thereby saving civic property from catastrophic loss and preserving multiple lives, shall be granted a hearing before this Council. Upon the sworn testimony of a ranking official confirming said act, the Council may grant a full and immediate pardon."
Before the old Elder could roll the scroll, the young one rose smoothly to his feet, a faint, placating smile on his lips.
"A noble statute, Elder Theron," he said, his voice coated in a veneer of civility. "A charming piece of our history. But let us be clear: the authority this Council enjoys is by the grace of the King. Before the Warden gives his account, we must frame the context. We are not here to celebrate a hero. We are here because a convicted thief has shown a disturbing talent for organizing the dregs of our society. The question is not whether he put out a fire. The question is what sort of fire he intends to start next."
The Warden was called. He stood, his expression impassive, his testimony a recitation of facts delivered without inflection. He detailed the collapse of the command structure, the speed of the fire, the certainty of city-wide disaster. He never looked at me. He looked at the young Elder, Ermias.
"Elder Ermias speaks of context," the Warden said, his voice flat and dangerous. "Here is the context: my guards were panicked, the workshop was an inferno, and the city granaries were moments from ruin. Nadim did not organize 'dregs'; he forged a fire brigade from chaos. He did not seek power; he took responsibility when no one else could. He acted as a citizen, and the law I swore to uphold compels me to be here."
I was called to speak. I walked to the center of the floor, the silence pressing in. I felt the phantom ache in my empty eye socket. I remembered Kael's cold instruction: _Emotion is a liability._ I remembered Elias's gentle whisper: _Truth needs no shouting._
"The fire was a problem of chaos," I said, my voice steady. "The solution was order. The principles I applied were the same ones I used to make bricks that do not crumble and to ensure water is clean enough to drink. They are the principles of a functional system. Elder Ermias calls this manipulation. In the legions, they call it command. In the workshops, they call it management. On that night, we simply called it survival."
A heated debate erupted. Theron argued the law was absolute, a cornerstone of their history. Ermias argued that their history was irrelevant; their present reality was the King.
"This law is not a 'charming piece of history'!" Theron countered, his voice rising with the passion of a man defending his last possession. "It is the foundation upon which this city was built! To ignore it is to admit that we are nothing more than the King's servants!"
"We _are_ the King's servants, Theron," Ermias snapped back, his civility cracking to reveal the raw ambition beneath. "And fortunate to be so. Do not forget that." I saw the three merchants exchange panicked glances. Their status was a fragile thing, granted by the King, and Ermias had just reminded them how easily it could be revoked.
Theron held up a hand, silencing him. He looked at me. "The accused may make one final statement."
I stood and met the gaze of each man. I saw fear, I saw pride, I saw calculation.
"You speak of my crime," I began, my voice quiet but carrying in the heavy silence. "I stole a flower to save a life, and for that, I was justly punished according to the law. The King's shrine, built from vanity, nearly cost this city countless lives, and for that, there is no trial. The law you are debating was written to protect this city from disaster. I did that." I paused, letting the truth of it settle. "If you rule today that the letter of the law should be ignored for political favor, then you are not judging me. You are judging the law itself. And a city where the law is meaningless is a city that is already burning."
The air in the chamber grew thin as every man held his breath. Elder Theron, his face grim, called for the vote. I watched as one of the wavering elders, his hand trembling slightly, raised it in favor of the pardon. The other, his eyes darting toward a furious Ermias, kept his hands clenched on the table before him. The vote had carried.
Theron struck his staff once more. "The pardon is granted. You are a free citizen, Nadim. May you serve the city as well as you have served its laws."
As I turned to leave, my eyes met Ermias's. The muscles in his jaw were tight, and his gaze was narrowed with cold fury. He rose, his movements stiff with rage, and strode purposefully from the chamber. His direction was clear.
I walked out into the antechamber, the title of "free citizen" a hollow word. The Warden was waiting for me.
"You were clever in there," he stated, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Too clever. Ermias is a jackal. He will run to the King, and while the King may have forgotten the boy who stole a flower, Ermias will make sure he remembers the man who embarrassed his creature on the Council. On the streets, you're an ex-convict with no coin and one eye. You won't last a week."
He was right.
"My prison runs because of your systems," he continued, his tone shifting to one of pure pragmatism. "Without you, it reverts to chaos, and I lose the only thing the King values: profit." He paused, and for the first time, his gaze seemed to soften, losing its hard, assessing edge. "I have no use for a dead man. I have use for a man who can build things that last."
His offer that was more than just an offer. It was a lifeline, disguised as a ledger entry.
"The pardon makes you a free man," he said, his voice returning to its usual brusque tone. "It does not say where you must live or work. I am offering you a position. Warden's Steward. You will have quarters, a wage, and my protection. You will continue to manage the workshops, the supplies… the entire system you built."
It was another kind of prison. A cage with a salary. But on the outside, freedom was a death sentence. Here, there was a chance. A chance to find Dalia. A chance to endure.
"I accept," I said.
The Warden gave a curt nod, the closest he could come to approval. For a moment, the hard lines of his face seemed to soften, just a fraction, before resetting back to usual. "Good," he said, turning away as if the matter was already forgotten. "Your first task as a free man is to report to my prison for work at dawn."
I had walked into the chamber a prisoner. I walked out his employee. The chains were lighter now, but they were still there.