City Hall had been built to intimidate. Not with height, though its central dome still rose above the surrounding civic blocks, but with age. The structure predated most of Port Landa's modern districts, its stone walls thick enough to swallow sound, its corridors deliberately indirect. Every step inward felt like an argument with history that no one had ever won.
Erik walked beneath the dome alone. He had changed his coat twice before arriving. The first had been too formal. The second too martial. What he wore now was neutral by design, dark fabric, unadorned, no sigils or rank marks. Only the cut betrayed him. Only the way guards straightened as he passed.
Prince.
He hated how quickly the room learned him, even when he tried to make himself small.
The council chamber waited beyond a set of reinforced doors, old oak banded in steel, restored so many times that no original surface remained. When they opened, the noise hit him first.
Voices. Overlapping. Sharp. The argument was already in progress. Six council members occupied the curved table at the center of the room, each seated beneath a carved arch bearing the seal of Port Landa. dragonkin, all of them. Scales polished, clothes expensive but conservative. This was what governance looked like when it wanted to appear reasonable.
Chief Fedor Talion stood apart, near the projection console, arms folded behind his back. He looked like a soldier forced into a debate hall, too solid, too real for the space.
Erik stepped in. The room quieted, not out of respect, but calculation.
Councilor Maelis Rourke spoke first, as expected. She was tall for a dragonkin, her emerald scales dulled by age but meticulously cared for, each one catching the light of the dome above. She wore slate-gray robes tailored to imply restraint rather than wealth.
"Prince Erik," she said, voice smooth and cool. "We were beginning to wonder if you intended to join us."
Erik inclined his head. "I was informed there was urgency and I made way here as quickly as I could."
"There was," said Councilor Vethryn Kael, leaning forward. His scales were a deep cobalt, his expression perpetually pinched as if the world were an inconvenience he endured. He wore thin spectacles perched uselessly on his nose, affectation, not necessity.
"And now there is damage," Vethryn continued. "A Republic building partially destroyed. A public monument fractured. And still no arrests."
Erik felt the words settle like weight.
"I'll explain what we know," he said.
"Please do," said Councilor Iselle Marr, her tone deceptively gentle. Her scales were pale gold, almost creamy, and her clothing was the most expensive in the room, soft whites, subtle embroidery. She looked like benevolence made flesh. Erik knew better.
Erik crossed to the table but did not sit. He stood where all of them could see him without effort.
"The explosion was deliberate," he began. "Timed. Isolated. Cameras in the surrounding district had nothing to show on the day of the bombing. When the police went further back. They found looped footage for exactly ten minutes ten days ago. The attack was planned with much more care than we anticipated. We found no one suspicious on further review of the tapes."
Vethryn scoffed. "You expect us to be impressed by competence?"
"No," Erik replied evenly. "I expect you to understand intent."
Councilor Hadrien Vos snorted. His scales were iron-gray, thick, with visible scarring along his jaw, an old military man turned politician. His clothing was stiff, uncomfortable, like he hadn't bothered learning how to dress for office.
"Intent doesn't rebuild stone," Hadrien said. "Nor does it reassure the Republic."
At the mention of the Republic, several councilors shifted. Erik noticed.
"The building was empty," Erik continued. "No casualties. Whoever planned this wanted attention without blood."
"And you believe that makes it better?" Iselle asked.
"It makes it clear," Erik said. "This wasn't chaos. It was a message."
Maelis folded her hands. "A message from whom, Prince Erik?"
Erik held her gaze. "From someone who wanted us to know they could strike without consequence."
Silence followed.
Then Dumner Mathes spoke.
He sat two seats down from Maelis, younger than the others, his ash-gray scales well groomed. His clothing was immaculate, too immaculate. Dumner looked like a man who had never been caught unprepared.
"That aligns with what we've seen elsewhere in Kalindor," Dumner said mildly. "Controlled disruption. Symbolic targets."
Maelis glanced at him, displeasure flickering briefly. "And yet," she said, "we have no proof that this was the Church of Saints."
Erik felt the familiar tightening in his chest.
"They are the only group operating near all three sites of interest," he said. "They have the access, the mobility, and the ideological motivation."
"And still," Vethryn cut in, "you have nothing actionable."
Fedor Talion shifted at last. "We have circumstantial convergence," he said carefully. "Enough to justify surveillance expansion."
"Surveillance," Iselle repeated. "Not raids. Not arrests."
Erik turned to her. "I am requesting authorization to search Church properties connected to underground access points."
The room reacted instantly. Maelis' jaw tightened. Vethryn laughed outright. Hadrien slapped a clawed hand against the table.
"You will not turn Port Landa into a religious purge," Hadrien growled. "We are asking for results, to make us not look incompetent. This is a stain on Port Landa, and Kalindor."
"Your father has been asking for more money and aid," Iselle said. "With this attack happening, the Senate will not feel good about their recent approval of more funding for the Wall."
Erik forced himself to remain still.
"This isn't about faith," he said. "It's about infrastructure sabotage."
"And if you're wrong?" Iselle asked softly. "If you inflame the city? If Kalindor is seen suppressing belief under Republic eyes?"
Vethryn leaned back. "You are already under scrutiny, Prince Erik. This operation has produced nothing."
That stung more than Erik expected.
He had known this assignment was political. A gesture. Something to show the Senate that Kalindor was "taking concerns seriously." But hearing it framed like failure—
"Perhaps," Maelis said, "Your father was correct not to involve a full state agency."
The words landed cleanly. Surgical. Erik felt heat rise behind his eyes and crushed it down.
"I was sent because discretion was required," he said.
"You were sent," Hadrien snapped, "because the Crown didn't want to commit."
Silence followed.
Dumner cleared his throat. "To be fair," he said, careful, "Prince Erik has identified meaningful irregularities. And Chief Talion's department has corroborated the technical aspects of the attack."
Maelis looked at him coolly. "And what would you propose, Councilor Mathes?"
Dumner hesitated, just long enough for Erik to recognize the calculation.
"I would propose limited authority," Dumner said. "Quiet inspections. No public action."
Vethryn laughed again. "And when nothing is found?"
Dumner met Erik's gaze briefly.
"Then we reassess," Dumner said.
Erik understood then. Dumner wasn't supporting him because he believed.
He was supporting him because it cost nothing.
Maelis rose slowly, robes settling around her like closing doors.
"The council will not authorize church searches," she said. "Nor will we sanction actions that risk Republic scrutiny."
She looked directly at Erik.
"You are a prince, not an enforcer. Do not mistake symbolic authority for operational command."
Fedor Talion's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Erik bowed his head slightly, not in submission, but acknowledgment.
"I understand," he said.
It was a lie. As the meeting dissolved into quiet, frustrated conversation, Erik stood alone beneath the dome, feeling smaller than he had in years. His father hadn't believed this threat warranted real attention. And now, neither did the city. Maybe they were right. Maybe he was only here to fail quietly. And if that was true, then whatever came next would not be stopped by councils, crowns, or restraint.
Only by those willing to act without permission.
The meeting ended without ceremony. No ruling. No resolution. Just the slow, deliberate dispersal of responsibility.
Erik exited City Hall through a side corridor reserved for officials who did not wish to be seen lingering. The domed hall behind him still echoed faintly with restrained voices and the scrape of chairs against stone. The council would issue a statement by nightfall, measured, blameless, reassuring. It would say nothing of failure. It would say nothing of fear.
Outside, the air felt colder than it should have. A temporary operations tent had been erected along the plaza's eastern edge, its fabric reinforced with internal struts and sound-dampening panels. Police moved in controlled patterns around it, efficient, practiced, deliberately calm. Port Landa knew how to absorb shock without appearing wounded.
Erik adjusted his disguise before entering. The coat was unremarkable, dark and cut wide enough to break his silhouette. A scarf hid the lower half of his face, and tinted lenses dulled the reflective sheen of his eyes. Even his scales, normally catching light along his jaw and neck, had been treated with a matte salve used by undercover agents. It dulled their color, blurred the texture just enough to pass as human skin at a distance.
Inside the tent, the air smelled of heat and metal. Displays flickered along one wall, still images of the blast site, aerial overlays, thermal scans already cooling into uselessness. Fedor Talion stood near the central table, his posture rigid, uniform jacket discarded in favor of a rolled-sleeve shirt that revealed dark scales scored by old scars.
"Council didn't bend," Fedor said quietly, without preamble.
"No," Erik replied. "They never intended to."
Fedor nodded once. "My officers are stretched thin. We're permitted to process detainees already taken, but no expansion of authority. No church raids. No sublevel warrants."
Erik exhaled slowly. "They're afraid of precedent."
"They're afraid of blame."
"Same thing," Erik said.
A comm unit chirped softly at his hip. Fliss. Erik tapped it open. "Report."
Her voice came through immediately, fast, high, clipped by motion and breath.
"Okay—okay—so—I stayed with the human like you said. Tall one. Broad shoulders. Moves like he knows where not to be seen. He's careful, but not nervous."
Erik closed his eyes briefly and focused.
"Start at the beginning. This is your report."
"Right, sorry, so after the explosion, everyone redirected like you saw, but he didn't. He went the wrong way. Followed a flatbed. Unknown who dorve. Crates. Heavy ones."
Erik's eyes snapped open. "Crates?"
"Yes. Reinforced. Carried by someone but not clergy. Different posture. Militants, I think. They used people to block sightlines, volunteers, water, talking. Soft barriers."
Erik glanced at Fedor, who had gone very still.
"Continue," Erik said.
"They took the crates underground. Side access at the main plaza church. Not the public stair. Decorative stone panel, slides back. Clean. Practiced."
"And the human?"
"He followed. Didn't go inside. Watched from across the street."
Fliss paused, breath hitching slightly.
"And then… he almost lost control."
Erik's voice sharpened. "Explain."
"He surged Vigor. Not a lot, but enough. I saw it. Heat bloom. Steam off his shoulders. His sword ignited."
The tent seemed to contract around them. Fedor swore under his breath.
"A sword?" Erik asked.
"Yes. Wrapped before. Crystal blade." Fliss spoke faster now, excitement threading the words despite her discipline. "He didn't swing. Didn't advance. Someone with him restrained him, older human. Calm. The fire went out once the other human said something."
Silence followed.
Erik stared at the map display without seeing it.
A human. Using Vigor. Not unusual, but it was quite rare for their people.
"How visible was this?" he asked.
"Not very. He chose the angle well. Crowd masked the flare. If you weren't looking for it, you'd miss it."
Erik felt a cold knot tighten in his chest.
"And after?"
"The crates went inside. Doors closed. The man with the red sash, he was there too. Watching. Smiling."
Erik's jaw clenched. "Did the human recognize him?"
"Yes."
"Did they exchange words?"
"No. Just looks."
"The two went back to the inn they are staying at. Haven't left yet," Fliss replied. "He's… interesting."
"I'm sure," Erik said flatly. "Stay with them. I will get the team over there soon. Give Margo the location."
"Copy."
The comm went silent.
Fedor broke the quiet. "A human operative with a crystal blade. That's not common."
"No," Erik said. "It's not."
"Human burning Vigor too, also not common."
"Yeah, something is happening at that church building."
He turned back to the display, paused footage of the blast site. The bombing wasn't simply a threat. It had been physical, loud, designed to be seen. A distraction.
"The explosion wasn't the point," Erik murmured.
Fedor followed his gaze. "The Church?"
Erik didn't answer immediately. Because the answer was already forming, and he didn't like it. The Church wasn't escalating randomly. They were moving pieces into place. The bomb at the civic monument had tested response time, police coordination, and political appetite for action. And now they were moving something underground. Something that required a human to stand watch and unidentified men to move.
What was in those crates? The weapons? But what sort of weapons, and why?
"I am going to go meet them," Erik said at last.
Fedor raised an eyebrow. "Who?"
"The humans," Erik replied. "The one Fliss is following."
"You think they will help you?"
"No, but I need everything I can get. Write out Fliss's report and give it to the council. Maybe they will be willing to let us act now."
Fedor studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "I'll see what I can do."
As Fedor turned away, Erik leaned back against the table, the weight of the day finally pressing in. The council thought he was chasing ghosts. His father had given him this assignment because it was safe. Because it would look like action without requiring commitment. And now Erik was standing at the edge of something that felt anything but safe, armed with fragments, denials, and a single clear truth.
Someone was acting with knowledge the state did not have. And for the first time since arriving in Port Landa, Erik wondered if his siblings would have seen this sooner. Or if they would have ignored it entirely. Outside the tent, Port Landa continued to breathe, redirected, controlled, unaware.
And somewhere beneath its streets, something was being prepared. And Erik was starting to get a feeling that whatever was down in the ruins was not what the government wanted found.
Erik remained where he was after Fedor left, one hand resting against the edge of the table, fingers splayed as if grounding himself. A human with a sword that burned. Not a firearm. Not a crude device. A blade, crystal, Vigor reactive, controlled. His mind reached backward, unbidden.
Old texts. Half-censored records. The kind of history taught only in footnotes and ceremonial disclaimers. Before the Republic. Before Kalindor's consolidation. Before Zao became an empire.
There had been human warriors capable of unleashing great destruction on the battlefield. It was what scholars believed made them equals on the world stage. Weapons of such great power that none of the other races could withstand it. And it was claimed the ruling families of the empire still had these weapons hidden away.
It was theorized that they were swords imbued with Anima in a way that only humans could use, because during that era swords were the dominant weapon. Firearms were still hundreds of years later.
Most historians dismissed them as symbolic exaggerations. Propaganda retrofitted into myth. No surviving examples. No verified schematics. Nothing replicable. Nothing that any elemental race found at least. Nearly a thousand years old. Too old to matter. Erik had always believed that. But the report from Fliss refused to settle.
Demons. They seemed to start this. The church wanted something to do with that ancient race. And now weapon myths are coming to his mind. What in the world was happening?
If even part of those records were accurate…
Erik exhaled slowly. A human carrying a blade like that did not wander into Port Landa by accident. And he did not believe in coincidences layered this thick. Erik straightened, decision crystallizing.
Margo will know where to dig.
Not just surface records. Not travel logs or permits. He wanted lineage, education, military exposure, anything that could explain why a human in a foreign city potentially carried a relic that shouldn't exist anymore.
Not because Erik intended to accuse him. But because knowledge was leverage. And if this human truly carried something out of Zao's buried past, then Erik needed to understand whether he was facing a hunter…
…or a reminder that some myths survived because they were never myths at all.
The inn squatted between two half-abandoned storefronts, its stonework older than the Republic itself and patched so many times that no original line remained intact. Human places in Old Port Landa always looked like this, built to last, repaired to survive, never improved enough to draw attention.
Erik slowed as he approached. Two men loitered near the entrance, both human, both watching him openly now. Not curious. Appraising. One spat onto the street as Erik passed.
"Wrong side of town," one muttered, not bothering to lower his voice.
Erik did not look at them. He felt it anyway, the tension that followed a dragonkin into spaces where humans had carved out something like safety. This district tolerated Kalindor because it had to. It resented it because it could not forget who held the balance of power.
Erik walked past the inn once before taking position just outside it. His team was already in place, spread through the surrounding streets, armed and quiet, there if things went wrong, invisible if they didn't.
"We are in position," Margo's familiar voice said in his ear. "You can enter when you're ready."
Erik cataloged everything she had been able to uncover in the narrow window he'd given her.
Entry from the southwest. A rented vehicle from further west. Arrival seven days ago, one day after Erik himself had reached the city. Their papers were from Zao. Clean. Too clean.
After digging deeper, Margo had confirmed what her instincts already told her, forged documents. False names. False residence. Human, unquestionably Zao-born, but entering the Republic under identities that did not exist.
She cross-referenced public Zao records, work permits, travel registries, civic databases. Nothing. No trace of either man prior to a month ago, when they crossed the border.
That left two possibilities. Criminals, scrubbed from record. Or individuals with enough influence inside Zao to never appear in the first place.
The permits they carried were technically legal. Border agents had stamped them with assurances, binding within the Republic, even if the Zao paperwork itself wouldn't survive scrutiny.
And that was all. No images. No prior sightings. No organizational trail Margo could follow. It was as if they had stepped into existence fully formed.
Eerily clean, she'd said.
In her opinion, they were tied deeply to Zao's inner workings. Erik considered the possibilities. A deserter. An internal hunter. A cleanup assignment gone quiet. Whatever they were, they had information he needed.
"I'm entering the building now," Erik said. "Keep eyes hot."
Inside, the inn smelled of damp stone, old smoke, and boiled grain.
A few patrons glanced up as he entered, then looked away too quickly. One woman drew her coat closer, her eyes flicking to the faint gleam of scales at Erik's throat before she turned her back entirely.
Erik adjusted his scarf, obscuring more of his face. It wouldn't matter. He doubted they knew his face anyway.
He climbed the stairs. At the door, he stopped. Knocked once. Footsteps. A pause—deliberate enough to signal readiness. The door opened a crack.
"Wrong room."
"I'm afraid not," Erik replied calmly. "I'm here to see a young man with a sword."
An older human appeared in the opening, hair streaked with gray but thick, eyes sharp despite the years. He exhaled softly as he opened the door wider, like someone who had expected this moment to arrive eventually.
"Who are you with?" the man asked.
"I'm an Inspector of Kalindor," Erik said. "We've noticed your interest in the Church of Saints and would like to discuss it."
The man studied him for a beat, then stepped aside. "Very well. No reason to talk in the hall."
"Thank you," Erik said, dipping his head.
He stepped inside—
—and was slammed into the floor.
A hand closed around his throat, twisting him hard onto his back as a crystal blade hovered a finger's width from his neck.
"No burning," the younger man said calmly. "Unless you want me to pierce something important."
Erik froze, not from fear, but calculation.
The pressure pinning him was precise. Balanced. Not the grip of someone improvising.
"What do you want?" Erik asked.
"Call off your men."
Erik hesitated just long enough to make the hesitation visible. Then he raised his free hand toward his ear.
"Remove eyes from the room," he said evenly. "Wait for me to finish."
Protests flared across the channel.
"No," Erik said.
Silence.
"By the window," the younger man ordered. "Slow."
Erik complied. The blade withdrew, but the threat remained. He straightened and turned to face them fully.
This was his first clear look. The younger man stood with his back to the wall, weight evenly distributed, sword angled down but ready. No wasted motion. No nerves. His eyes were sharp, guarded, burning with something tightly contained.
Beside him, the older man stood loose and relaxed, hands idle, gaze roaming the room with unsettling awareness. The kind of calm that only came from experience.
"Well," Erik said lightly, adjusting his coat. "That was an interesting introduction."
"What do you want?" the younger man snapped.
"Names would be polite," Erik replied. "If this is meant to be a conversation."
A pause.
"I'm Matthew," the older man said at last. "And I'm guessing you're the prince we've been hearing about."
Erik didn't react.
"That's not relevant," he said. "But since you offered. Erik."
The younger man's jaw tightened. "Shane."
Erik nodded once, committing both names to memory.
"What are you doing here?" Matthew asked. "Inspectors don't usually knock on doors with a sniper net around the building."
"You noticed," Erik said.
Shane's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.
"I'm curious," Erik continued. "How?"
"I met one of your people," Matthew said. "At one of the churches. She was careful. Not careful enough."
A brief crackle in Erik's ear.
"Sorry, sir," Margo said quietly. "I spoke with him before we flagged them."
Erik exhaled through his nose. "Noted."
Shane shifted, impatience bleeding through control. "You didn't come here to admire our awareness."
"No," Erik agreed. "I came for information."
"What kind?" Shane asked.
"I want to know why someone trained like you is tracking the Church of Saints," Erik said. "Why you're doing it quietly. And why you're carrying a weapon that doesn't belong on the street."
The room tightened.
For a moment, Shane said nothing. Then,
"My brother."
Matthew glanced at him but didn't interrupt.
"He's with the Church," Shane continued. "Or what passes for it now." A pause. "He murdered people. Then he disappeared."
No justification. No appeal.
"Revenge," Erik said. Not a question.
A curt nod. "Justice."
Silence settled.
"Did you see what was in the crates?" Erik asked.
"No," Matthew said. "But we know where they came from."
Erik's focus sharpened. "Tell me."
Matthew explained their trail, from Zao, through Zuriac, into Port Landa.
"You get that, Margo?"
"I'm running it now," she replied. "It'll take time, but I'll find the supplier."
Erik nodded.
"You have military training," he said. "You move like it. You observe like it. And despite your anger, you didn't strike when you had the chance."
Shane bristled.
"That tells me you can follow orders," Erik finished. "Even when you hate them."
Matthew studied him. "And when we stop being useful?"
"Then you leave the city," Erik said evenly.
Not a threat. Not reassurance. An outcome.
Erik adjusted his coat. "Tomorrow night, I'm entering the church you observed. The one that took the crates."
Shane's attention snapped fully onto him. "You're going underground."
"Yes."
"With how many?"
"Enough," Erik said. "And not enough to waste."
He turned toward the door, then paused.
"You can stay out of this," he added. "Or you can be exactly where you already plan to be, just coordinated."
"You're not our ally," Shane said tightly.
"No," Erik agreed. "I'm your opportunity."
He left before they could respond. Downstairs, the inn had gone quiet. Patrons avoided his eyes. Someone muttered about dragons bringing trouble. Erik ignored it. Outside, the city pressed in again—old stone, old resentment, old mistakes layered high enough to feel permanent. He keyed his radio.
"Meet me at the safe house in one hour."
A chorus answered,
"Yes, sir."
"Fliss stays on them until infiltration. No engagement unless they move first. I want you to lead them to us when they look for us tomorrow."
"Understood."
The connection cut.
He glanced once more at the inn's upper windows. Using them carried risk. Not using them carried more. And Erik was done pretending this was a quiet assignment meant to appease a council. It was already a breach. Now he intended to control it.