The days leading to collapse were not marked by shadows or cryptic whispers. They were loud.
The city spoke openly now.
Asveri first noticed during their regular duties in the manor. Serving, carrying, cleaning—nothing changed. But beyond the walls, the city churned.
"Tax riots in the lower district again," muttered a passing servant one morning.
"The Master's new machines drained half the river. Crops failed."
"They seized the blacksmith guild's entire stock. Said it was for 'defense'."
It became impossible not to hear. Merchants bickered in hushed tones about embargoes. Artisans grumbled about rising levies. Even the guards began to exchange looks not born from discipline, but from dread.
Anor'ven, polishing a silver railing, spoke softly as Asveri passed.
"They have broken them."
Asveri stopped. "Who? The rebels?"
"The people. The nobles. All of them. Squeezed dry until nothing remains but anger."
Asveri swallowed, his throat tight. He had felt the storm coming for weeks through stray thoughts and emotions swirling in the manor. But now, the explanation was everywhere. Spoken, bitter, raw.
The Master—obsessed with perfection and control—had pushed too far.
He taxed endlessly for new steam-fueled wonders. He seized grain to feed private armies. He stripped the craftsmen bare to build war machines, convinced power alone would hold dominion.
But power, Asveri realized, came with cost. And when the weight fell solely on the weak, even the silent eventually screamed.
---
That evening, the tension thickened.
Anor'ven and Asveri were stationed in the great hall. The nobles had gathered in force, their voices no longer elegant and measured.
They argued. Fiercely. Without restraint.
"The lower city is lost!" barked one bloated merchant lord.
"Seal the upper gates. Let them starve!" retorted another.
"They will not starve quietly. Their blood will soak our walls."
"What of our promises? We ruled by their obedience, not chains."
"The Master promised prosperity. Instead, he brought ruin."
Asveri stood near Anor'ven, tray in hand, watching them. He leaned closer, whispering.
"They're all turning against him. No one's even pretending anymore."
Anor'ven did not glance his way. His eyes remained fixed on the desperate assembly.
"Desperation reveals truth. They care only for survival."
"You don't seem surprised," Asveri murmured.
"I am not. This is what comes after ambition fails."
Asveri let silence hang between them, then risked a small, bitter laugh.
"Kind of pathetic, huh? They built all this... just to tear each other apart."
"That," Anor'ven said calmly, "is humanity's eternal shape."
---
By midnight, the city ignited.
Asveri awoke to screams.
Through the narrow window of the servant quarters, he saw flames dancing along rooftops. Bells rang out—not noble or ceremonial, but frantic and sharp.
He sat up quickly, shaking the dust from his clothes. Others murmured in panic around him.
"They're here! The city's broken through!"
Anor'ven was already standing near the door, calm as a statue.
"So, it has begun."
Asveri hurried to him. "This isn't just unrest anymore. They're attacking. They want blood."
"Of course," Anor'ven replied, unbothered. "Chains rust, and hunger sharpens teeth."
Guards stormed in moments later, ordering all servants to the grand hall.
Dragged along with the frightened mass, Asveri felt his pulse quicken. The manor shook faintly, distant booms marking breaches and shattered defenses.
When they arrived, chaos reigned.
---
Nobles screamed at one another, their former grace shattered. Some demanded soldiers form last stands. Others clung to bags of gold and heirlooms. Still others called for negotiation, hoping to barter lives for mercy.
The Master arrived late.
Clad in elaborate battle robes, face pale and drawn, he stood atop the stairway overlooking the hall.
"Silence!"
His voice, amplified by mechanical devices, echoed through the stone chamber. The nobles obeyed, but fear clung to them like wet cloth.
"You pathetic worms," the Master hissed. "I gave you brilliance. Steam, order, safety. And yet you cower when insects pound at our walls?"
A brave noblewoman stepped forward, her face tight with disdain.
"You gave us chains. You turned harvests into fuel and homes into machines. You taxed until mothers wept and fathers starved. This is your legacy."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
The Master sneered. "Ungrateful filth. You could have basked in eternal progress. Instead, you spit on the hand that elevated you."
Asveri leaned toward Anor'ven, whispering, "He's lost them."
"He never had them," Anor'ven corrected.
Before more words could be exchanged, the hall doors burst open.
---
The rebels arrived like a crashing wave.
Dirty, scarred, furious — they wore no uniforms, only anger.
Guards fell back, surrendering or dying swiftly. Some nobles screamed, others fought, and many simply fled.
A moment of eerie stillness passed as the rebel leaders entered.
"We are done starving!" bellowed a heavyset man with soot-streaked arms. "Done bleeding for your toys and towers!"
Another stepped forward, young but wild-eyed.
"Tonight, the city claims itself."
The nobles were divided in response. Some groveled immediately, throwing wealth at the rebels' feet. Others tried to run, only to be cut down.
Anor'ven watched impassively, arms crossed.
Asveri, eyes wide, whispered, "This... is worse than the farm."
"This," Anor'ven corrected again, "is simply louder."
---
Amidst the chaos, Asveri was seized.
A thin, frantic noble — one who had whispered before about fleeing — grabbed him and dragged him forward.
"This one!" he cried. "They value the odd! He's young — foreign! He'll fetch a price. Take me with him. I'll trade him for passage!"
The rebels hesitated. Practicality flickered in their bloodshot eyes.
Asveri struggled briefly, caught by surprise. He shot a quick look toward Anor'ven.
No words passed.
But in the next breath, Anor'ven moved.
His hand clamped the noble's wrist. No emotion. No hesitation.
A wet crack filled the air as bones snapped. The noble howled, dropping like a puppet with cut strings.
The rebels stepped back instinctively.
"Enough," Anor'ven said quietly.
His voice, though soft, silenced the immediate threats. Not out of awe, but confusion. They could sense — somehow — that forcing the matter would end poorly.
Asveri pulled himself free and returned to Anor'ven's side.
"You're scary when you want to be," he muttered.
"I am always the same," Anor'ven replied.
---
By dawn, the manor had fallen.
The Master was dead — rumors claimed his own advisers slit his throat when the rebels broke through the inner gate.
Smoke choked the morning sky. The estate was stripped and desecrated. Statues shattered, symbols of power torn down. Nobles who survived were paraded outside, their titles meaningless.
Asveri and Anor'ven stood quietly near the burned gates, shackled once more by practical men.
A rebel captain approached them, his armor mixed with leather and stolen noble garb.
"You two," he said bluntly. "You're prisoners now. Valuable ones, I think. You'll come with us."
Anor'ven gave a short nod. "Of course."
Asveri clenched his jaw but did not resist.
"We're really just going to let them drag us around again?" he asked softly as they were loaded onto a wagon.
Anor'ven glanced at him, face serene.
"Chains take many forms, Asveri. Some are iron. Some are words. Some are simply necessity."
Asveri exhaled sharply. "I hate when you say stuff like that."
"Because it is true," Anor'ven replied without bitterness.
The wagon jerked forward, carrying them down winding roads away from the ruins of another dream.
Asveri leaned back against the wood, staring at the sky.
"Do you ever think it will stop?" he asked, quieter now.
"No," Anor'ven answered.
And with nothing left to say, they rode in silence toward a new unknown — The wagon creaked into the distance, carrying them beyond the ashes — toward a place neither could yet imagine.