"Get down from there! Make haste!"
One of the law-keepers shouted, his baton already drawn—a strange, ridged weapon pulsing with a violet light. The cracks in it flickered like veins of lightning, and it buzzed with the sound of something electrically charged.
Remy hesitated. His eyes darted around the cart for an escape—but there was none. The windows of the Zigord, usually left open, were caged shut tonight. No way out.
With stiff limbs and a growing dread, he slowly stepped off the cart. An old saying, something he'd once overheard from a passing traveler, looped in his mind:
"Nothing is more dangerous than a silver-tongued fox.
But what happens when the fox sees a golden goose?"
Neither of Sethfar's twin moons offered light tonight. The air was bitterly cold. Every breath Remy took fogged up in front of him, freezing on his lips.
Five enforcers waited in the dark, clad in heavy black coats. The twin sword emblem—two blades crossed like a twisted oath—gleamed on their berets as the flashlights danced across them. Scarlet belts around their waists carried their Sigs, enchanted instruments of enforcement and submission.
As soon as Remy stepped onto the frost-covered road, one of them moved behind him and kicked the back of his knees.
"Kneel."
Remy dropped to the ground.
"Pat him down," ordered a tall man with an eye patch and a long scar slashing from brow to jaw.
They searched him roughly, hands digging into every seam. But as their search turned up nothing, their brows furrowed. Confused. Angry.
"Where is it?" one of the enforcers hissed. "They said he'd have it."
"Where is what?" Remy asked calmly—at least, that's how it sounded. Under the mask, he was shaking like a leaf.
"Don't play smart with me!" the eye-patched commander roared. Then he slammed a boot across Remy's face.
Remy's head hit the frozen ground with a dull thud.
The commander turned and walked toward the cart again, his one eye gleaming with a sick mix of greed and rage. A twisted smile crept onto his lips like he'd just remembered the punchline to a cruel joke.
"I'll give you all one chance," he said, slow and deliberate. "The Saint's manor has been robbed. The intruder wore a mask—like many of you do."
He paused, then fake-coughed into his sleeve.
"If you help identify the thief, you'll be rewarded. Now, think carefully. Most of you are good people. With good families."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Wouldn't it be a shame if you never saw them again?"
A heavy silence fell.
The commander's patience wore thin.
"You there. Come."
He pointed to a boy near the back of the cart—one trying to hide his earnings behind a support beam. A single jingle had betrayed him.
"Got you, you filthy little rat," the commander snarled.
He yanked the boy forward with unnatural strength and slammed him to the ground. Blood splattered as the boy coughed, staining the captain's boots.
"Who were your accomplices, huh?"
Silence.
"Who helped you?"
Still nothing.
"I see how it is…"
The commander pulled the boy up again, whispered something in his ear. Whatever he said, the boy's eyes widened with terror. His lips trembled. Then, shakily, he raised a hand—and pointed.
"Him… him… and… him…"
He named five.
Louis. Remy. And three others.
The enforcers moved like wolves. They swarmed the named men, dragging them down before they could speak or resist.
"Now, that wasn't so hard," the commander smirked. He placed the boy down gently this time, as if to mock the kindness he hadn't shown moments before.
He lined the five accused men up. All of them were young—none over thirty. The elderly were left sitting in silence.
"Tune them."
The enforcers moved forward, grabbing each man's arm and turning the inner forearm up.
There it was—each bore the mark of their regional lord: a Thorne rose tattooed into their skin, beside a glowing number representing their family debt.
The enforcers each pulled out a Seal Stamp—an enchanted device shaped like a branding clamp—and pressed it to the rose mark.
They murmured in unison:
"By the power of the Realm and its Ruler,
You are hereby arrested and bound to obey the commands issued to you."
The moment the words were spoken, the rose on each arm pulsed and bloomed.
Remy's body moved on its own.
He tried to resist—screamed at his muscles, begged his limbs to stop—but it was no use. His arms folded behind his back. His legs began to march forward. He had become a stranger in his own skin.
He couldn't even look away as they dragged him into the dark.
His eyes caught the boy—the one who named him falsely—sitting safely behind, untouched. Untouched… and watching.
Mittens, you f*cking traitor.*
He wanted to scream it. To spit the words into the night and burn the name behind them.
But his body wouldn't listen. His mouth wouldn't open. He remained trapped in silence, every breath borrowed from a will not his own.
They marched through the darkness, each step heavier than the last. The cold of night gnawed at their bones, but they didn't freeze — not thanks to mercy, but because of the same cursed work clothes stitched to trap heat, to shield them from the opium mines' searing winds. Clothes designed to keep a man alive just long enough to be broken.
They walked. And walked. Even beasts were allowed rest, but not them. They had no freedom — only motion. No destination — only a path they didn't choose.
And then, at last, a building emerged from the horizon. Something grand.
To men born in the filth and fumes of Sethfar's slums, it was like gazing upon a castle in a dream — too clean to be real. Too whole. Streetlamps flanked a paved path that led toward a sprawling mansion. Flowers bloomed unnaturally in perfect rows. A gate of blackened steel, elegant and cold, parted without command as the enforcers on horseback approached.
Beyond it, a fountain shimmered with glowing vines — fruits of light pulsing faintly in the night air. Silver-winged moths fluttered over its basin, drawn to the gleam like ghosts to warmth.
"Saint of Rose!" the commander called. "We've brought the thieves."
The mansion's massive oak doors creaked open, revealing a grotesque silhouette: Saint Rosaline. No longer seated on his wheeled throne, he waddled forward on swollen legs, Saint Rosaline stepped forward — a man so corpulent it seemed unnatural, his bloated form quivering beneath silken robes dyed the color of crushed orchids. Despite the delicate name, there was nothing gentle about him.
Each step was a labor, and the weight of his flesh wheezed and thudded with effort. His perfumed sleeves fluttered like wilted petals, but his eyes gleamed with disdain and unchecked power."
"Why meet them at the door, my lord?" the commander hissed. "We could've brought them in."
"What? Bring these vermin into my abode?" the Saint scoffed. "True, this isn't my main estate, but still… Disgusting."
He stepped closer. His jaundiced eyes scanned the prisoners until they landed on Remy — and for a moment, his own smugness cracked. Though Remy's body remained bound by the seal, his gaze burned with raw, unfiltered hatred.
Rosaline twitched. Flinched.
"Such vile creatures," he spat, recovering. "I gave them a chance, and they steal from me?"
It was a lie. Everyone knew it — even the enforcers. But lies in Sethfar didn't need to be believed. They only needed to be spoken by someone with power.
Remy's fists trembled—internally. His thoughts screamed for vengeance. Kill him. Kill the bastard. Tear out his tongue and feed it to the crows.
But his body refused to obey. The seal kept him chained, silent, still.
"I am merciful," the Saint continued with mock generosity. "The punishment for theft is the loss of hands. But…" He paused, then gave the commander a knowing look. "But I offer you a choice. Work for me — as slaves — for one month, and your crimes will be forgiven. I won't even increase your debts. Isn't that… generous?"
His gaze lingered on Louis in a way that made Remy's stomach turn. Drool clung to the corners of his mouth.
"Yes… Smile, you homeless thieves. Isn't the Lord merciful?"
As if on command, the prisoners began clapping. Smiling. Their bodies moved against their will. The seal made puppets of them all.
"So," Saint Rosaline declared, licking his lips, "what will it be? Hands off… or one measly month of servitude?"