The Mayor's Mask
The storm rolled in like a warning.
Thunder cracked above the county seat as Jacob tightened the clasp of his cloak. He and David stood outside the gates of Mayor Galvain Mortas's manor, wind howling through the trees. The iron gates were open—too open.
"Trap," David muttered, hand resting near the hilt beneath his coat.
"Doesn't matter," Jacob replied. "He's the center of the web. We end it here."
---
A House of Lies
They stepped into the great hall, boots echoing off marble as tall stained-glass windows rattled in their frames. The chandelier swayed gently above. On the dais, Mayor Mortas stood in pristine black robes, a goblet of red wine in hand.
"You come without summons," he said, voice as smooth as silk and as cold as a knife. "Do you seek justice, or fame?"
Jacob didn't blink. "Truth."
The mayor smirked. "Then die in the dark."
The torches blew out.
The floor beneath them groaned—and then from the walls, behind tapestries, even from beneath the marble tiles, they emerged.
Figures cloaked in crimson, faces painted with runes.
Cultists. Dozens.
They hissed prayers in a lost tongue and charged.
---
Steel in the Storm
David was the first to move.
With a shout, he swept his coat aside and drew a short silver saber, its surface etched with Imperial Guard script. His first slash took two cultists across the chest in a single motion.
Jacob stepped in beside him, drawing a straight-edged blade—simple, but deadly precise. His movements were tighter, focused. No flourish, just brutal economy.
A cultist lunged with a serrated dagger. Jacob pivoted, grabbed the wrist, and drove his blade under the man's ribs. One motion. Clean.
David flipped over a falling table, kicking it into two attackers before vaulting over the wreckage.
"You never said you trained in the Guard!" Jacob called, parrying two strikes at once.
David grinned, blood spattered across his cheek. "You never said you trained like a monk possessed!"
They moved together.
Jacob ducked and swept a leg. David slashed above him in a perfect arc.
One cultist managed to slash Jacob across the arm—but Jacob didn't flinch. He drove his elbow into the attacker's throat, knocking him unconscious before turning his blade on another.
The manor's grand hall became a blaze of violence.
Smashed wood.
Shattered bone.
Screams swallowed by thunder.
By the time it was over, two dozen cultists lay broken across the stone floor.
Only Mayor Mortas remained, standing behind the altar at the far end of the hall. Blood soaked his robes—but not his own.
His eyes glowed faint red.
He raised both hands—and the walls shook.
"You fools," he growled. "You think this ends with me? You think you've stopped anything?"
"Stopped?" David said, stepping forward. "We haven't even started."
The mayor lunged—surprisingly fast, drawing a ceremonial blade etched with old Veil script.
But Jacob met him head-on.
Their blades clashed, sparks flying, and Jacob was stronger. He pushed Mortas back, strike by strike.
The mayor tried to cast a sigil with his free hand—but David hurled a dagger, nailing the hand to the wooden altar.
The mayor screamed—and Jacob's blade knocked the sword from his grip.
Jacob stepped forward, sword at Mortas's throat.
"Your cult dies here," he said.
Mayor Mortas grinned through bloodied teeth. "They'll come for you next."
Jacob didn't reply. He simply said: "We'll be ready."
---
The Roar of Order
Before Mortas could speak again, horns echoed through the city.
The Imperial Army had arrived.
From every direction, soldiers poured in—banners raised, armor gleaming red and silver under the lightning sky. The people of the city stared in awe.
At their head, Joseline Ace rode forward on a black steed, flanked by her elite officers. She dismounted at the gates of the manor, brushing rain from her cloak.
She stepped inside the hall, gaze sweeping over the ruined cultists and the battered young men still standing.
"You did it," she said softly.
Then louder: "Let it be known the Empire hears the cries of its people."
---
Titles and Thunder
That night, as the flames of justice consumed the cult's relics and evidence was sealed for the capital, a herald read aloud before the gathered townsfolk:
> "By the command of Empress Regina and the will of the Lords of War and Justice—Jacob, once of parchment and ink, is hereby named Marquis of Law, entrusted with the authority to bring order and justice to all southern counties in the Empire's name."
Jacob bowed his head but remained still. His eyes were on the people—faces stunned, hopeful, afraid.
Then the herald turned to David.
> "And to David, loyal sword and unwavering shield, you are named Marquis of Bravery, protector of the realm and defender of the innocent."
David gave a half-bow, then smirked. "Does this mean I outrank tavern owners now?"
The crowd laughed, but the tone had shifted.
Where once the Empire was seen as distant, even dead—tonight, it stood reborn in two men who bled for truth.
---
Later That Night
In the magistrate's ruined office, Jacob stared at the map of noble lines and cult connections.
David placed a drink beside him. "You know this isn't over."
Jacob nodded. "I know. The Empire's waking up."
David raised his glass. "To the next shadow."
Jacob clinked his own against it.
"To the light we carry."