In the southwestern quadrant of the city, tucked deep behind markets and alleys now drenched in silence, stood the Zorthar Mansion.
It was a symbol of wealth carved through blood, debt, and steel. Its towering walls were draped in shadows of armed mercenaries who were paid to guard the Mansion.
The Zorthar family did not trust the locals to guard their treasure. No, these mercenaries were imported and hardened killers from across the continent, paid handsomely to guard the estate and silence intruders without hesitation.
Still, the family had no shortage of local thugs. These roughnecks were less for security and more for tasks involving torture, intimidation, or retrieval. They enforced the family's grip on the money-lending business, especially when borrowers missed payments. Some broke bones, some broke spirits, but all did so in the Zorthar name.
Inside the mansion, the air reeked of luxury. Gilded furniture, shining marble floors, and chandelier light displays adorned every corner, not just to indulge in wealth, but to prove something that the Zorthar wealth was meant to scream in the face of nobles: "A commoner can rise. A peasant can rule."
At the heart of this display sat Mikhail Zorthar, head of the family and its cold-blooded architect. He reclined in a chair carved from rare wood, resting atop an elegant rug woven by renowned artisans from the west. Yet none of this mattered to him. His attention was on the thick bundles of paper laid out across his oversized desk.
A man known more for his mind than his fists, Mikhail had not fought his way to the top, he had outsmarted everyone who stood in his way.
The Zorthar family had once been humble woodcutters, with lending as a small side trade. That side trade soon made more than timber. And if one could cut a tree, so could one cut a man.
Through fear and numbers, they expanded by absorbing inns, coercing businesses, bleeding the city dry one deal at a time.
After Duke Gerin's neglect, Zorthar became unstoppable since no one was there to question them anymore. When challenged, they simply bought deadlier soldiers. Mikhail had led the family through these fires and emerged richer after every blaze.
It was he who made sure the family would survive when the Duke attacked, his plans and tactics saved the family from the Duke's wrath.
A knock broke the silence. "I'm here, uncle." Prestor Zorthar said as he entered the room, discarding his cigarette at the door. He remembered Mikhail's rules well, no distractions in business.
Mikhail didn't look up. His eyes remained locked on the papers before him, pen in hand.
"The meeting starts when everyone arrives." He said calmly, voice like still water that hinted at unfathomable depths. "You don't need to wait here."
Prestor stiffened. That calm voice had always unsettled him. Mikhail never yelled, never threatened. He punished through absence, through disinterest. To not be looked at by Mikhail meant you were trash. To speak and be dismissed without even eye contact? Worse.
Still, Prestor tried. "I wanted to report about-" Mikhail interrupted, still without looking up. "About the Baron's purge of the so-called traitors. Yes, I'm aware. You may go, Prestor."
Prestor clenched his jaw, nodded, and exited quietly.
Mikhail sighed and finally lifted his head. "It's disappointing when trash doesn't realize it's trash." He murmured. "So... it's true. The Baron has no support from the Duke."
On the couch facing his desk, a silhouette shifted. A woman lounged comfortably, features hidden in dim light, save for the glint of jeweled rings and silken fabric.
"Yes." She said, her voice delicate and honeyed. "He's the black sheep. They've thrown him to the wolves."
Mikhail tapped his pen twice against the desk. "Very well." He said. "Pay the dogs. Tell them to stir the hornet's nest, do something violent at the palace. Let's see if the Duke lifts a finger. If not... then perhaps we will see if this Baron is more dangerous by himself than we thought."
The woman let out a musical laugh. "Oh, it'll be fun to see that little noble squirm."
Mikhail, unfazed, replied coldly, "Do not underestimate your opponent as if he turns out to be a beast, then we will not survive. Make sure to remember that we're not the hunters, we're the meat. Don't poke recklessly as we survive through making others poke the beast while we take care of the weaker prey."
She scoffed. "Hmph. Whatever. I'll just enjoy the show when he squeals." She stood and strutted out, leaving the room with perfume and pride lingering in her wake. Mikhail merely muttered under his breath, "Women."
Meanwhile, at the Palace Baron Estefan Angeras sat on the couch, sipping coffee brewed to precise perfection, bitter, dark and strong. Galliard stood nearby, awaiting orders if he needed more food or anything else.
"I heard there's an informant from Frejlurd." Estefan said calmly. "Someone who knows about the third faction. So tell him that I want to meet this informant, tomorrow itself without any delays."
"As you wish, my lord." Galliard replied.
"But make sure the message reaches Frejlurd directly. No intermediaries. Only him." Estefan said.
Galliard nodded and turned to leave, but Estefan added, louder this time: "And don't worry about the servants hearing. I trust them... or at least I know who they'll gossip to."
He said it almost theatrically as it was loud, clear and very deliberate. It was like if he wanted word of the meeting to leak. A move so bold, it had to be either a trap or maybe a challenge.
The third faction was elusive, more shadow than shape. No one knew who led them, who ran them or where their base lay as anyone with knowledge had to be an insider and Estefan, it seemed like, was using the third faction's members against this secretive faction.
In a distant corridor of the palace, a figure sat alone in the dark. Before them floated a magical projection, an moving image of a silhouette belonging to a man. A communication spell was triggered. "He's meeting an informant tomorrow." the figure whispered.
"Are you sure about this?" The silhouette responded but the person doubled down on it, "Yes… he is someone who loves challenges, there is no way he would lie like this… he wants someone to attack when they meet."
"Very well, keep an eye on it tomorrow and make sure to relay their conversation… if possible the person's appearance as well and the identity." The silhouette gave the orders.
They stood slowly, cloaked in shadow. The image flickered, ending and the person stood up, it was a traitor? And the person was…
[To be Continued]