The Grand Plaza, once a symbol of the Church's divine authority, now boiled with unease.
The noon sun hung overhead, casting a harsh, glaring light on the marble steps where High Deacon Ferran stood, preparing to deliver his sermon. His robes, once pristine, seemed heavier today, as if burdened by invisible chains. His voice, steady and practiced, wavered for the briefest of moments as he addressed the restless crowd.
"My brothers and sisters," Ferran proclaimed, hands raised, "we must remain strong in faith! The Lord watches over us! Fear is the weapon of the wicked—"
A stone hurled from the crowd struck the podium, shattering the moment into pieces.
Gasps echoed through the plaza.
Ferran stumbled back, eyes wide in disbelief.
The guards tensed, swords half-drawn, but another shout rose before they could react.
"Liars!" a man screamed from the throng, his face twisted with fury. "You hide in your golden halls while we starve!"
"They tax us dry and call it 'divine will'!" another voice roared.
Dozens more joined the chorus.
Accusations. Rage.
The air thickened with fury.
And amid them, unseen, Lucien leaned against a shaded column at the plaza's edge, hood drawn low.
A faint smirk played at his lips.
It had only taken a few whispers in the right taverns. A few "accidental" leaks of ledgers showing the Church's corruption. A few hungry mouths desperate enough to believe.
Now the fire spread itself.
He didn't even have to fan it anymore.
The guards waded into the crowd, pushing, shoving, trying to silence the outbreak.
Ferran shouted orders, his voice drowned by the roar of the people.
Lucien observed quietly, memorizing every fearful glance, every nervous tightening of armor.
He saw it — the small, widening cracks.
Cracks that would become canyons.
"And when the ground finally breaks apart," Lucien mused, "they'll have no foundation left to stand on."
---
Later, in the Shrouded Quarter...
The slums of Saint Ravel were alive tonight. Candles flickered in broken windows. Murmured meetings took place in alleys, taverns, basements. The people who had long been forgotten by the Church found new hope — or so they believed.
And at the heart of it, the Black Rose society grew.
Lucien sat at the head of a long wooden table inside an abandoned guild hall. Around him, rough men and women — thieves, mercenaries, even a few disgraced ex-Templars — sat in tense silence.
One of them, a burly man with a broken nose, leaned forward. "We made our move too soon," he grunted. "They're going to crack down harder."
Lucien met his gaze without fear. His voice was low but carried across the room.
"Good," Lucien said.
The man's brow furrowed in confusion. "Good?"
Lucien rose to his feet, cloak swirling around him like a shadow.
He paced slowly, every word measured, slicing through the dim room.
"If they tighten their grip, more will slip through their fingers. Fear will turn to resentment. Resentment will turn to anger. And anger..." he paused, letting the word linger, "will turn to revolution."
The mercenaries exchanged uncertain glances. Some nodded.
Lucien stopped behind a young woman with a scar across her cheek. She flinched instinctively.
He leaned down, voice barely a whisper. "Tell me... when you watched your brother hang from the gallows for stealing bread, did you not wish to see this city burn?"
Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the edge of the table.
Tears welled in her eyes — not of sadness, but rage.
Lucien straightened, satisfied.
"I offer you that fire," he said, louder now, turning to address them all. "You only need the courage to light it."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room.
The broken were always the easiest to mend — but only into weapons.
Lucien smiled.
A beautiful, dangerous smile.
---
Meanwhile, in the Cathedral's Inner Sanctum...
Grand Inquisitor Velric knelt in the prayer chamber, surrounded by flickering candles. His gnarled hands gripped a jeweled rosary so tightly that blood seeped from his palms.
He could feel it — a malevolent force crawling unseen through his city.
Not a demon's obvious malice...
Something subtler.
Something human.
Velric opened his bloodshot eyes.
"Lord," he rasped, voice echoing off the cold stone walls, "grant me the wisdom to see the serpent before it strikes."
Behind him, a priest entered quietly, bowing low.
"Grand Inquisitor," he said nervously, "the disturbances... they are spreading. Even among the lesser priests."
Velric's gaze hardened.
"Then we must cut deeper."
He rose to his feet, discarding the bloodied rosary.
"Double the patrols. Conduct loyalty trials. Anyone who hesitates, anyone who doubts — root them out."
"And if the people resist?"
Velric's lips curled into a grim line.
"Remind them," he growled, "that doubt is heresy... and heresy burns."
The flames of tyranny rose higher —
just as Lucien had intended.
---
End of Chapter 11