Ashes and Allegiances
The city smelled of smoke long after the flames were extinguished.
Ash clung to cobblestones. It settled in the seams of doors and the hems of dresses. It lingered in the lungs of those who had breathed too deeply while carrying buckets through the night.
The grain district did not forgive easily.
Cassian Valehart rode through it at midmorning without escort.
Another deviation.
In the novel, he would have remained distant—issuing compensation through officials, maintaining noble detachment. That distance had made it easier for Rowan Ardent to paint him as callous.
Today, Cassian dismounted in the soot.
A warehouse lay collapsed inward like a ribcage crushed from within. Charred beams still smoked faintly. A widow sat on an overturned crate nearby, staring at nothing.
Cassian approached her without ceremony.
"Your loss?" he asked quietly.
"My brother's," she said without looking at him. "He was inside."
Cassian studied the ruin.
Arson.
Deliberate.
The placement of the fire had been strategic—two warehouses owned by separate merchants, both recently in dispute with the treasury over grain pricing.
Someone wanted instability.
Or someone wanted Cassian associated with instability.
He crouched beside the woman.
"You will receive compensation," he said evenly. "From my personal accounts."
Her head turned sharply.
"You think coin replaces him?"
"No," Cassian said calmly. "But hunger will follow grief if not addressed."
She stared at him for a long moment.
"You're Valehart," she said.
"Yes."
"You were meant to die."
He held her gaze.
"So I've been told."
She looked back at the ruins.
"Then perhaps someone is angry you didn't."
Cassian rose slowly.
Perhaps.
He moved through the district for another hour, speaking little, observing much. Patterns emerged.
The fire had started at two separate points within minutes of each other.
Professionals.
Not panicked rioters.
He stopped near the second warehouse site and crouched again, brushing soot from a partially melted iron hinge.
There.
A faint residue clinging to the metal.
Oil-based accelerant.
Imported.
Expensive.
Not something common thieves used.
He stood.
"Fetch this to my estate laboratory," he told a runner quietly. "Discreetly."
The runner bowed and vanished.
Cassian mounted again, but before he could depart, he felt a presence approach from behind.
Rowan Ardent.
Of course.
"You compensate them personally," Rowan observed.
Cassian did not turn immediately.
"Yes."
"Unusual for a man accused of treason."
"Is it?" Cassian asked mildly.
Rowan stepped beside him, gaze scanning the district.
"Most nobles distance themselves from controversy."
"I prefer proximity," Cassian replied.
"To control the narrative?"
"To understand it."
Rowan's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Do you?"
Cassian faced him fully now.
"The fire was deliberate," Cassian said. "Two ignition points. Oil accelerant. Professional execution."
"I reached the same conclusion," Rowan replied.
"Then we agree."
"For now."
Cassian tilted his head.
"You believe I benefit from this."
"I believe," Rowan said carefully, "that chaos strengthens those prepared to capitalize on it."
"And you believe I am prepared."
"Yes."
Cassian considered him.
Rowan's conviction was not blind. It was reasoned. That made it difficult to dismiss.
"You assume I desire power," Cassian said quietly.
"Do you not?"
Cassian paused.
In his first life, he had desired order.
In this one—
He desired control.
A subtle difference.
"Power is a tool," Cassian said finally. "Nothing more."
"In whose hands?" Rowan asked.
"In capable ones."
Rowan's jaw tightened faintly.
"That is the difference between us," he said. "You believe capability justifies authority. I believe authority must answer to justice."
Cassian's lips curved slightly.
"And who defines justice?"
"The people," Rowan answered without hesitation.
"The people," Cassian repeated softly, glancing at the grieving district. "Are grieving. Hungry. Afraid. They do not define justice in crisis. They demand stability."
"And you would give it to them," Rowan said.
"Yes."
"At what cost?"
Cassian met his gaze steadily.
"Whatever is necessary."
There it was.
The line between them.
Not hostility.
Not yet.
But divergence.
Rowan stepped back.
"I will investigate from my side," he said. "If I find evidence implicating you—"
"You will act," Cassian finished calmly.
"Yes."
Cassian nodded once.
"As you should."
Rowan studied him for another moment, then turned and walked away.
Cassian watched him go.
A hero forged in ideals.
A hero who believed systems could be purified.
Cassian believed systems were machines.
Machines required maintenance.
And sometimes—
Replacement parts.
---
By evening, Cassian received confirmation from his laboratory.
The accelerant was imported from the southern trade ports.
Specifically from shipments overseen by—
Steward Malrec's commercial network.
Cassian did not smile.
He expected it.
The question was not who.
It was why now.
The failed watchtower trap.
The granted month of inquiry.
The private dinner.
Malrec was escalating.
Or reacting.
Cassian stood alone in his chamber, considering the next move.
If he accused Malrec directly, the steward would deny it and rally allies.
If he waited, more fires might follow.
He needed leverage.
Real leverage.
He summoned Tomas—the watchtower soldier who had spoken.
The man arrived pale but resolute.
"You asked for me, my lord."
Cassian studied him carefully.
"You told me a crate was removed the night before my inspection."
"Yes."
"Who supervised its removal?"
Tomas hesitated.
"I did not see the face clearly. Cloaked. But the seal ring… it bore Malrec's sigil."
Cassian's eyes sharpened.
"Would you testify to that?"
The soldier's breathing quickened.
"If I must."
Cassian stepped closer.
"You would not testify publicly," he said. "Not yet."
Relief flickered across Tomas' face.
"Instead," Cassian continued, "you will be transferred."
"To where?"
"To my personal guard."
Shock replaced fear.
"My lord… I am not trained—"
"You are loyal," Cassian said evenly. "That is rarer."
He watched Tomas absorb the meaning.
Protection.
And control.
Cassian dismissed him.
One piece secured.
He then sent a private invitation.
Not to Malrec.
To one of Malrec's junior accountants.
A quiet man named Elric.
---
Elric arrived trembling.
Cassian poured him wine personally.
A gesture.
A test.
"You oversee port import records," Cassian began conversationally.
"Yes, my lord."
"The southern shipments—particularly oil imports."
Elric swallowed.
"Yes."
Cassian slid a parchment across the table.
It listed quantities purchased by Malrec's network.
One entry circled.
"Explain this discrepancy."
Elric's eyes widened.
"I—I cannot—"
"You can," Cassian said softly. "Or you can accompany the next investigation publicly."
Silence.
The man's composure cracked.
"It was diverted," he whispered.
"Where?"
"A private warehouse. Unregistered."
"Owned by?"
Elric closed his eyes briefly.
"Malrec."
There it was.
Not proof of arson.
But proof of concealment.
Cassian leaned back slowly.
"Why?" he asked.
"I do not know," Elric said quickly. "I swear it."
Cassian studied him.
He believed him.
Which meant Malrec was stockpiling resources.
For further destabilization.
Or for something larger.
Cassian dismissed the man with a warning of silence.
Alone again, he allowed himself a moment of clarity.
Malrec was not merely framing him.
He was manufacturing crisis.
To what end?
Perhaps to weaken the king.
Perhaps to justify emergency powers.
Perhaps to eliminate both Cassian and Rowan in the ensuing chaos.
Ambitious.
Cassian almost admired it.
Almost.
---
Meanwhile, Rowan convened his own council.
Reports of southern oil imports had reached him as well—through merchant contacts independent of the crown.
"Malrec is consolidating supply chains," one ally reported.
"For fire?" another asked.
"Or siege," Rowan murmured.
He paced slowly.
"Valehart investigates aggressively," the woman from before said. "He questions port records. He moves soldiers."
"And you think that suspicious?" Rowan asked.
"I think he moves like a man building a base."
Rowan stopped pacing.
Yes.
Valehart was consolidating.
Transferring soldiers. Hosting private meetings. Speaking directly to the king.
Not reckless.
Methodical.
Rowan rested his hands on the table.
"If Malrec is orchestrating instability," he said slowly, "then Valehart's inquiry may expose him."
"And if Valehart uses that exposure to seize authority?"
Rowan did not answer immediately.
He thought of the grain district.
Of Cassian kneeling in ash.
Of compensation offered without fanfare.
Monsters did not do that.
But neither did tyrants always reveal themselves immediately.
"We watch," Rowan said finally. "And we prepare."
"For which outcome?"
"For the one where the kingdom survives."
---
Three nights later, Cassian acted.
Not publicly.
He did not accuse Malrec before the court.
He did not demand arrest.
Instead, he leaked information.
Carefully.
Through intermediaries.
Rumors that Malrec's warehouses contained unregistered stockpiles.
Rumors that import taxes were being siphoned.
Rumors that the steward profited while the grain district burned.
By morning, murmurs had spread among minor nobles.
By noon, merchants demanded clarification.
By evening, the king requested explanation from Malrec directly.
Cassian did not attend that meeting.
He waited in his chamber.
Patience.
Pressure lines.
Malrec would deny.
But denial under scrutiny weakened influence.
And weakened influence invited opportunists.
Cassian stared at the obsidian piece representing Malrec.
He moved it slightly off-center.
Destabilized.
Not removed.
Not yet.
A knock came.
"Enter."
Tomas stepped inside.
"My lord… there is movement near the southern docks. Unregistered transport at night."
Cassian's eyes darkened.
"Prepare horses."
He did not inform the king.
He did not inform Rowan.
He rode with only four trusted men.
The docks were quiet under moonlight.
Too quiet.
Cassian signaled silence.
They approached the warehouse Elric had mentioned.
Voices inside.
Low.
Urgent.
Cassian drew his sword slowly.
He did not hesitate.
He kicked the door open.
Inside—barrels of oil stacked high.
Crates of weapons.
More than before.
Not for framing.
For arming.
Men reached for blades.
Cassian moved first.
Steel met steel in tight quarters.
He fought without flourish.
Precise.
Efficient.
Two men fell within seconds.
The others fled through a rear exit.
Cassian did not pursue.
He surveyed the warehouse instead.
This was no minor sabotage.
This was preparation for open conflict.
He sheathed his sword slowly.
"Seal the building," he ordered. "Post guards."
As dawn approached, he stood among the evidence.
Weapons.
Oil.
Supply lines.
Malrec was not just undermining him.
He was preparing for insurrection.
Or coup.
Cassian's gaze hardened.
This had escalated beyond politics.
Beyond survival.
If Malrec moved first, the capital would burn.
If Rowan intervened prematurely, civil war would ignite.
Cassian exhaled slowly.
The month granted by the king would not be enough.
He would need to act decisively.
And decisiveness—
Was rarely clean.
As the sun broke over the horizon, illuminating barrels of oil meant to ignite a kingdom, Cassian felt something settle within him.
Not fear.
Not doubt.
Resolve.
He would not die quietly.
He would not be used as symbol.
He would not allow chaos to crown itself.
If the kingdom required something ruthless to preserve it—
Then so be it.
Far across the city, Rowan Ardent received word of the southern dock seizure.
He closed his eyes briefly.
"So it begins," he murmured.
The lines had been drawn.
Not in declarations.
Not in banners.
But in ash.
And in oil.
And in the quiet understanding that the next move would decide more than reputations.
It would decide the kingdom itself.