The sun rose on a city at war with itself, but I felt nothing. The grief for Elias was a heavy, soundproof cloak, muffling the sounds of hammers and shouted orders that echoed from the walls. I moved through the pre-dawn chill, my body performing the tasks of logistics and command while my soul was still sitting in the infirmary, holding a dead man's hand. The weight of my losses—my father, my sister, my mentor—was a physical burden, a pressure behind my eyes and a hollowness in my chest. I returned to the scaffolding at the Dawn Gate not out of duty, but out of momentum. It was the only thing left to do.
I was checking the tension on a rope hoist, my mind a merciful blank, when the scaffolding shuddered below me. I looked down to see a young guard climbing with a desperate, reckless speed. It was Kaelen, one of the Captain's men, his face pale and slick with sweat in the torchlight. His loyalty to the Captain was clean and simple in a city of twisted allegiances. He reached my level, gasping for air, his eyes wide with terror.
"Steward," he choked out, clinging to the timber frame. "They're gone. Ermias went to the King." My blood ran cold. Kaelen shook his head, the words spilling out in a panicked rush. "The King has declared it treason. They've taken them all. The Captain, the Elders… the Princess Aliya. They're not in the prison. They've been taken to the palace, and… and they're building a scaffold in the grand plaza. All of them are going to be hung."
Scaffold. The word struck me like a physical blow, shattering the fragile shell of numbness I had built around myself. It wasn't just a political catastrophe; it was a death sentence. Every person who had put their trust in me was now marked for execution. Aliya's sharp intellect, the Captain's unwavering integrity, the Elders' hesitant courage—all of it was about to be extinguished because they had listened to me. The weight of Elias's death, of Dalia's grave, crashed down on me, multiplied by this new, spectacular failure. The air became too thin to breathe. I wasn't a builder. I was a plague.
Kaelen was still talking, urging me to run, to hide, but his voice was a distant buzz. The city was a hunting ground, and I was the prey. The alleys offered temporary cover, but every torch, every shouted order, was a net tightening around me. Hiding within the walls was a slow death sentence. I had to get out. One destination called to me, a place of finality and memory: the old barn, and the small patch of earth behind it. It was outside the city, on the far side away from the approaching Legion, and the King's madness had given me a gift. The scaffolding. My own work, intended to save the city, would now be my escape route.
I moved through the narrow passages of the sleeping city I had called home. Reaching the western wall, I began to climb the familiar timber and rope lattice, the very structure I had designed. The work was treacherous in the dark. Halfway up, a shout echoed from the street below. I froze, flattening myself against the cold stone, my fingers digging into the rough wood. A patrol of the Royal Guard passed directly beneath me, their torchlight painting dancing, monstrous shadows on the walls. One of them glanced up, his gaze sweeping the scaffolding. I held my breath, certain I was seen. A loose pebble, dislodged by my boot, skittered down the planks, striking a crossbeam with a sharp crack. The guard paused, squinting into the darkness, but after a moment that stretched into an eternity, he grunted and moved on, his attention drawn by a distant noise. I didn't breathe again until their footsteps faded. Shaking, I finished the climb. For a moment, I paused at the top, looking down at the city I had tried to save. Then, I swung over the parapet and began the perilous descent into the darkness outside.
The danger was different here. I was exposed, a lone figure moving through the pre-dawn fields and orchards. Every rustle of leaves was an assassin's footstep, every shadow a patrol. I crept from the shelter of an ancient olive grove to the low ditch of an irrigation channel, my heart drumming against my ribs. Finally, I saw it—the dark, slumped shape of the barn against the star-dusted sky. I slipped through the familiar, creaking door. My destination was not the loft, not yet. I went straight to the patch of disturbed earth behind the barn, marked by a small pile of stones. Dalia's grave.
I knelt beside it, the healing-gash on my arm a dull throb against the sharper, deeper agony in my soul. Every plan was in ruins. Aliya, the Captain, the Elders—they were all imprisoned, their lives forfeit because they had trusted me. The Legion was a tide of steel at the gates, and the city was in the hands of a madman. The old voice, the one I had fought so hard to silence, returned with force, screaming in the hollow space where my hope used to be. "Imposter. You did it again. You led them all to their doom, right here, at the site of your first and greatest failure. Everyone who puts their faith in you ends up in a grave."
The voice was a siren's call to oblivion. I could flee. I knew the path into the mountains, the one that led to my cave of treasures. The thought was a sudden, sharp relief. I would go there one last time, look upon the scrolls and lenses that had once promised a universe of knowledge. Then, I would walk the short distance to the cliff's edge that overlooked the vast, empty desert. One step, and the pain, the failure, the memory of every face I had condemned, would be over. It would be so easy. A final, quiet surrender.
I slumped forward in defeat, my hand pressed against my chest. I determined to do it. There was nothing to live for, but to see my city massacred and any survivors hauled off for the triumphal procession in Olympos to be butchered before the Imperial throne. It was that moment that my fingers brushed against the smooth perfection of the lens Elias had given me.
The sensation was a jolt, a physical connection to my mentor. I pulled it out, its clarity a stark contrast to the darkness in my soul. As I held it, his final moments replayed in my mind: his hand pressing this very lens into my palm, his last, ragged breath, and his final, whispered command. "Trust yourself." He hadn't said trust my plans or my strength. He had said to trust the very core of who I was. And in that moment, the grief and despair coalesced into a single, diamond-hard point of rage. A cold, clarifying anger burned away the suicidal fog. I had failed them, yes. But the King, Ermias, Kareem—_they_ were the ones who had passed the sentences. They were the architects of this ruin. My failure was one of circumstance; theirs was one of the heart. My despair was a luxury they had tried to force on me, but my anger—my anger was a weapon they would not expect.
That anger cleared my mind, turning it back into the sharp, analytical tool it had become. I could not save my friends if I was dead. I needed a new plan. I needed to communicate. I remembered Kaelen. The young guard, loyal to the Captain. We had needed a way for him to pass information about patrols and palace movements to us on the walls without being seen. We had established a dead-drop system, a simple code of carved symbols left in a handful of hidden, pre-arranged locations. A small circle meant all-clear. A cross meant danger. A triangle meant urgent message follows. I had designed the system. I could use it in reverse.
A profound shift occurred within me, a quiet recalibration in the heart of the storm. My worth wasn't defined by success or failure, but by the principles I fought for. But Elias's final lesson wasn't just about principles; it was about action. I finally understood. The key wasn't just believing in a just city; it was believing I could help build it. Aliya had seen it. The Captain had seen it. The men in the prison had seen it. I was the last one to trust myself. And with that trust, a plan—audacious, desperate, and dangerous—began to form. It was a plan built not on scaffolding and stone, but on the one resource the King could never command: the loyalty of his own people. I would not run. I would not seek the peace of the cliff's edge. I would see this through to the bitter end, not because I hoped I could win, but because I finally knew I could.