"It's a squall, Captain! We can't push on!" The first mate stared at a sky twisting in a heartbeat—currents heaved like serpents, thunder drummed, lightning bared white fangs. Fear cracked his voice.

Medith and the others reeled as the Cyclone booted them back several yards, like leaves slapped from a branch. Sailors and guards caught them, anchoring their sway. "How's this happening? How far left?" Medith's voice shook like a taut wire.

The captain barked orders like a storm-beaten drum. "Hard to say! It depends on the weather! About five hours more. For now, we brace against the gale!"

"Tsk." Medith clicked her tongue, a pebble against glass, and dragged the women below deck, into the hull's dim throat.

"Medith, what's wrong? Why so panicked?" The women pressed in, urgency fluttering like trapped sparrows. Their mana ran low, lanterns starving for oil. They'd whipped the ship faster, riding Wind Magic like a harnessed gale, cutting two days off the route.

Now they were panting, breaths like silk torn, fine sweat beading on their brows like dawn dew.

"Those carrier pigeons from Sia City—every last one dropped dead. Why? I don't know, but a black feather omen is never good. They should've flown toward the Royal Capital, yet they died together at the same point."

"It means one of two things. Either this sea hides a snare, or someone drugged them and the dose bloomed above our ship, and they fell like rain."

"The sea doesn't do sudden death, and the currents carry no poison. They were killed. Sia City's pigeons are gone—someone's cutting Sia City’s threads. I don't know to what end, but it's a blade in shadow."

"I strongly suspect an assault on the city, or a plot against the official inside—Powell," Medith fired the words like arrows snapping from a bowstring.

"Ah? How?" Sais balked, doubt wrinkling her brow like a wind-rippled pond. "Who'd be that bold? Sia City’s defenses are tight as stone. Without fifty thousand, you won't even kiss the gate."

Those cliffs of walls and thousands of elite guards from the Royal Capital form a hedge of thorns, a death line.

"Then why not tell the crew?" Phiby asked, her voice thin as thread in the storm.

Milia flipped her hair, silk catching lamplight. "No. They wouldn't believe us. Without proof, shouting fire spreads panic like sparks on dry grass. If they do believe, they'll spin the helm and race for aid from the Royal Capital."

"If it's true, the round trip bleeds time like sand from a fist. Sia City might not hold. If it's false, we’ve frightened the people for nothing."

"And convincing Ogathas to march is moving a mountain with a spoon."

Medith nodded again and again, her praise a warm wind. Milia's mind was sharpening like a whetstone. Sais, though, wore a question-mark face the whole time—Medith had thought her bold and bright, but it was all bust, no brains.

"I hope I'm just seeing ghosts in rain. For now, tend each other and refill your mana, bank water before the storm. If it’s real, at least we’re not naked to the blade."

"Promise me—if Sia City falls into crisis, keep your reins tight. Don't rush, no matter what you see," Medith pleaded and commanded in the same breath.

The women nodded, eyes like flint, their resolve bending like pines in wind.

November 11, 23:47. Night sank like ink; drowsiness glazed the city. Most of Sia City's folk drifted in sleep. A few moved through midnight streets—freshly working prostitutes, rowdy kids slipping home late, a middle-aged uncle hurrying toward drink.

The rain had paused, but pooled water still mirrored lamps. Footsteps slapped through it, slap-slap, small ripples like fish rings.

The City Guard rotated shifts. Soldiers soaked for a day finally untied their bones for a moment. Powell had food brought in heaps—fragrant roast chicken with amber skin, wild rabbit glistening with fat, broth breathing perfume, melons sweet as summer.

Powell had been lavishing meals on the troops lately. With Emperor Aelius's coronation, it made sense. The wall’s life-gate, usually iron-lipped and strict, opened for Powell like stone lips parting.

Today again, he came to the wall with baskets heavy as harvest.

"Marquis Powell, you trouble yourself, feeding us lowly men extra, day after day," said Nip, East Captain of the City Guard, gratitude warm as a brazier.

Powell chuckled and set the food down, the steam rising like banners. "You're too polite, East Captain. You're the wall's edge warriors, the loyal spears that guard us. A bit of food is hardly worth a word."

"A rare dinner. Go fetch the other captains."

"But—"

"It's fine. It's only a ten-minute swap. Let them steal a breath; even iron rests."

"Hahaha, true enough. I'll call them."

"Good. I'll wait."

Four captains unbuckled helmets and shed heavy armor, shells hitting the table with dull clinks. Their eyes shone at the dishes; they wiped at drool like boys at a market stall.

"Marquis, you're too generous. It's so rich, we’re almost ashamed," Nip said, even as his knife and fork sang, steel tasting skin.

"Mmm. This roast chicken is a dream—skin crackles like lacquer."

"I can’t remember when we last crowded a table like this."

"Yeah, we owe the Marquis for this."

"Come! Marquis, a toast to you."

"Come, come!"

They huddled around the small table, glasses held like little stars. Powell smiled, set his cup out to be filled, then clinked with them, glass tapping glass like bells.

"Tsk—ha! Good wine! Fit for noble tribute. Marquis, don’t take that as a jab."

"Ha, why would I?" Powell’s hand hung in the drinking pose, frozen like a puppet. His gaze went dark as a storm cloud. Outside the door, Sinis watched through a knife-slit gap, and saw Powell’s face—wicked, grim, a mask carved from shadow.

"Marquis, why aren’t you drinking?"

"Ah… that… because… I can’t."

They caught the twist in his expression. The words hit like ice. Their eyes flicked to the food and wine; color drained from their faces like a retreating tide.

"Marquis! You—ugh—" Nip’s gut flipped like rivers overturning. Dizziness struck like a hammer. Fluid streamed from his mouth and nose, slick and foul.

"Why… you… bar—" The West Captain never finished. His vision went black, a candle snuffed. His body sagged onto the chair, strings cut, head lolling to one side. Blood seeped from seven orifices; his eyes locked open in rage. He died with anger burning like a coal.

"Guh… guk-guk…" Nip spat two crimson strokes that soaked Powell’s cup like a red flower. "Die… trai… tor..." He clenched Powell’s fine clothes with iron claws. Blood-tears slipped from his eyes, and he died against Powell’s chest.

A moment later, all four captains lay dead. Bodies sprawled in broken angles, chairs and table overturned like wreckage in a surge. Wine and blood mingled into a shocking scarlet lake. Dishes lay scattered; even roaches and ants edged past them, afraid to lick the curse.

"Excellent." Outside, Sinis's voice cut the night, a cold blade flashing.

He pulled a fire striker from his breast, bound cloth to an arrowhead, sparked it, and let the ember bite. The fire arrow leapt like a comet. At a hundred meters, the cloth burned away and spilled thick black smoke, a drifting omen. If you looked close, the smoke bulged into a faint lion's head.

Finished, Sinis spared Powell not a glance. He surged toward the oncoming guards, a hawk stooping, steel flickering like rain.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry…" Once Sinis left, Powell’s old tears ran like rain on stone. His hands, shaking like leaves, gently closed the captains’ bulging eyes before they split.