In Dark Lantern Street, where the shadows of ancient houses intertwine, the three-story house stood like a slumbering monument under the crimson moonlight. On the wooden stairs that groaned underfoot, a middle-aged man descended. His clear, piercing blue eyes scanned the darkness with caution, like those of a deer in a forest inhabited by wolves. A light brown, meticulously trimmed beard covered his square jaw. In his arms, he held a large, worn black leather bag, gripping it like a soldier would his last weapon.
He descended step by step, silent as a shadow. His heavy black coat wrapped around his slender frame, and he raised the collar to conceal half his face. He wasn't fleeing from rain or cold, but hiding himself from eyes that might be behind the windows of the houses opposite. At the iron door of the house, he paused for a moment, as if entrusting the place with a final memory, then slipped into the deserted street.
He gestured with his hand, and a horse-drawn carriage emerged from the darkness of the alley. "Monarako Street," he said in a muffled, hoarse voice. Without waiting for the driver's reply, he opened the carriage door and entered, seating himself in its darkest corner.
The carriage moved. Alone inside, he placed the bag on his knees. His hands trembled slightly as they pressed down on it. Beneath his thin cotton shirt, on the left side of his chest, was a deep tattoo: a simple circle, inside it an inverted crimson crescent, and below it, in a clear, bold script: "Long Live the Supreme Ruler!" The tattoo scratched against his shirt with every heartbeat.
The carriage stopped at the entrance to the narrow Monarako Street. He got out, paid the fare of three bronze liras without a word, turned his back, and hugged the bag to his chest. His steps were now faster, more determined, yet still light. He avoided the pools of light beneath the streetlamps, slipping through the narrow passages between houses until he reached a low back door. He inserted a key into the rusty lock and disappeared inside.
He didn't light a lamp. In the pitch darkness, he removed his expensive coat and formal suit. In their place, he put on a simple laborer's jacket and cap, then took a brown artificial beard from his pocket and meticulously fixed it to his chin. Thick-lensed glasses completed the disguise. He looked at himself for a moment in a cracked mirror, then turned his face away. He couldn't bear to look into his own blue eyes in the dark.
But the bag didn't change. It remained as it was: black, silent, heavy.
He exited through the back door once more, this time carrying the bag on his shoulder. His destination was the train station on the western side of the city. The night was now at its deepest, and the air carried the first hints of frost.
---
The Western Train Station was like a cold dream.
Its high iron roof swallowed sounds, turning them into dead whispers. On the long walls, a sparse number of gas lamps hung, casting their faint yellow light onto the damp stone floors. Everywhere hung a heavy smell: a mix of coal smoke, train oil, and the dampness of crumbling plaster. Here and there stood late travelers: an old man leaning on his cane, a woman wrapped in a shawl holding a small bag, a young man checking his watch every minute. They were all waiting. They were all silent.
But they were not alone.
At every entrance, at every iron column supporting the roof, at the ends of the two long platforms, stood the Guards.
They were a long, immobile line, like statues cast in gold. Their golden armor did not shine; it absorbed the weak light and gave it back heavily and slowly. Their helmets were completely closed, nothing but darkness visible behind them. Their long swords hung at their sides, and their gloved hands rested on the hilts. They did not speak. They did not move. They were part of the architecture of the place itself, but their presence turned the station's silence into something suffocating, eerie, as if the air had stopped flowing for fear of touching them.
The man stood at the edge of the light, where the shadows of the columns began. His feet stopped suddenly. His breath caught in his chest. His heart hammered once, twice, then faster and deeper.
"No... impossible!" his cold lips whispered as he looked at the reality before him.
His hands gripped the bag's strap so tightly the veins in his hands turned white. His vision narrowed; he could now only see those golden armors, spreading out like an inescapable trap.
'The station is surrounded... every exit... How did they know? Who told them?' His thoughts rushed like shards of broken glass in his head. 'This is bad! If I don't leave the city now, I'll be caught soon!'
At that moment, an image flashed in his mind: an admiral of majestic appearance, his powerful aura swirling around him, saying: "Antonius! Make sure to bring the manuscripts as quickly as possible!"
After that, he felt as if the bag on his shoulder grew heavier with every second. It became like a mountain he carried on his fragile back.
"I can't cross... they'll see me... they'll ask questions... they'll search the bag..." His blue eyes darted around desperately, searching for a gap, a moment of inattention, any hope at all. There was nothing. The Guards were like an impenetrable dam.
He let out a long sigh and said to himself: 'I have to retreat now! I must find a suitable place to hide until I find the right opportunity!'
He turned to leave, when a cold wind swept a newspaper into his face... He took it and opened it, which caused an unexpected smile. He read in the Mengle Down newspaper, which carried news of the imperial party at the end of the coming month coinciding with the eclipse, that the train station would not cease operations on the King's orders.
'Yes... this is what I needed!' he said to himself. After tossing the newspaper into a trash heap, he walked from behind the crowd back to his rented house to hide.
But at that moment, his shoulder collided with a tall, muscular man... His hair was ashen like fire ash and his eyes like strange liquid silver.
"My apologies, sir!" the man apologized to Antonius politely.
"It's fine!" Antonius said calmly, but to himself, he said: 'Scum!'
After that, each went his own way, but that man showed a strange smile when he bumped into Antonius, as if he had intended the action.
"Hehehe... You are not my target, but... that doesn't mean I haven't taken note of you! Antonius Miros, the fugitive!" the man said coldly, then took out a picture of two young men who looked extremely familiar. He said: "My targets are undoubtedly in this city!"
In one final motion, before dissolving into the dark shadows behind the columns, he raised his right hand and placed it on his chest, directly over the tattoo. He pressed down, as if sealing an oath or drawing strength from the letters carved into his skin.
"Long live the Supreme Ruler," he said it in a low, strained, but clear voice. Like a final farewell in a funeral prayer.
Then he took one step back, then two, then turned on his heel and vanished.
He was gone. No sound of his footsteps was heard. He melted into the darkness of the back alleys like black ink in stagnant water.
And the black bag went with him.
And the Golden Guards did not move.
And at the far end of the station, a small train blew its sad, long whistle, as if mourning something that never happened.
...
End of Chapter ~ To be continued