Lucent, Capital of Westerweald

Lucent's front gates thronged with activity as the villagers of Sentinel poured into the city.

The Greycloak guards could barely keep them out – so ravenous were they for food and basic provisions. Many of the seasoned warriors were almost knocked out by the stench that wafted off the refugees alone.

They cried of atrocities committed against them by the Demon Hat in the last fortnight, and of the evil army of tree-men that had descended on the village. They spoke of tortures and horrors too great to name, and of their exodus through Triant and the surrounding hamlets of Westerweald which couldn't hope to stand against the threat that was coming.

Lucent citizens descended into chaos themselves. For many of them, hearing all this madness was the last straw. In the central square of the poor district, a beleaguered group of merchants and craftsmen took up simple arms and stormed towards the grand palace, intent on getting the Greycloaks to acquiesce to their demands for food and shelter.

The refugees joined them in a march through the city – a march that would be referred to in the history books as 'The March of the Flies'. As the procession moved, it was joined by more and more of the city's civilians, and slowly they formed a dirty, angry snake of bodies that crawled towards the Noble quarters.

They were met by a line of Greycloaks in resplendent, opal armor. The soldiers drew their swords, demanding that the civilians get back.

In response, the poorest residents of the city held back, spitting insults at the Greycloaks and daring them to throw the first strike.

The Greys stiffened, their helmets hiding the fear that was assailing them as the lines of the procession started to inch towards them. Even if they were immortal warriors designed to put down monsters, they weren't invulnerable. There was only a line of twenty of them against a growing horde that was slowly beginning to encompass the entire population of the city's lower half in total…

Only at the barked commands of the city's current Viceroy, the old Greycloak Architect Mobius, did the guards let a few of the refugees through to the palace where they would present their story to the Viceroy himself.

As the gates opened, the crowd pulsed and surged. Someone threw a stone that cracked one of the Greycloak's helmets.

And the gate guards drew their silver blades…

Jonah watched all this unfold from within Castle Lysandus itself, his fists trembling as the poorest of the city began to rise up. How could it be that they didn't know the Greycloaks were here to help them? How could they not understand that this city owed everything to the Greys? Even if the people suffered, why couldn't they understand that they suffered for a good cause?

"Causes mean nothin' when people are starvin'," Instructor Ranok said behind him.

He felt the old Greycloak's firm hand on his shoulder, and he realized he must have been thinking out loud.

"They should try fighting the Archon," he replied tetchily. "They'd probably chose a life of starvation over five seconds in combat with the hybrid armies."

Ranok huffed. "You ever been in a city on the brink of collapse, son? Ever been in a city at all?"

Jonah pouted, but shook his head.

"Plenty of people here hate the lives they live," he said. "Makes sense. Why would you wanna live the life of an [Urchin] when the guys just over the pearl-gates of the castle live the lives of [Nobles]? It don't seem fair, right?"

Jonah frowned. "But Kaedmon made them that way, right? How can they be angry about the Law? It's just the way things are. Being angry at the Law is like being angry at having to walk on the ground."

Ranok eyed the young man for a few moments before simply chuckling to himself and taking another liberal sip from his hip-flask.

"What?" Jonah commanded.

"Nothin'", the old man said. "Come on, time for us to attend the Viceroy's meeting. He wants all the Palace Greycloaks to hear what the Sentinel Rep has to say."

Jonah followed behind his instructor, leaving behind the sight of the chaos on the city streets that was slowly beginning to reach its boiling point.

"The Viceroy is troubled," Jonah said as he marched through the glittering palace halls towards the throne room. "I haven't seen him since Commander Argent –"

"Of course he's troubled, son!" Ranok laughed. "He was our old Gatekeeper, after all. A man meant to watch doors, not rule the whole damned capital of Westerweald. He got the job because he's got the best damn memory for history and the state of world politics than the rest of us. But he's not got the stomach to make the hard decisions necessary to rule human beings."

"You think you could do better?"

"Me? Hah! I'm a drunken old warrior, son. I'm only fit to train brats like you, these days."

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"Lightborn Artorious is an old man, too," Jonah pointed out.

Ranok eyed him. "Don't you mean, 'was'?"

"The Lightborn is alive. I know it."

He said it with the kind of blind, eternally hopeful conviction that children possessed. Even though Ranok's heart wept to know that it was 90% confirmed that old Arty was dead at this point, he couldn't bring himself to tell the boy the hard truth.

Instead, he straightened up, nodded to the throne room guards, and pushed open the doors.

"Now remember what we talked about, son," he whispered to his errant apprentice. "Don't ever address the Viceroy directly. And for Kaedmon's sake, don't interrupt anyone. I don't want a repeat of the first time you came here…"

Jonah winced at the memory, but held firm. He eyed the downtrodden looking refugees that had been invited into the throne room and the black-coated Viceroy who sat in the throne itself.

Mobius the Gatekeeper was older than anyone Jonah had ever laid eyes on. His complexion was dark, eyes smeared with varicose veins, and wrinkled like a dried-up prune. He looked nothing like the Greycloak warriors with their rippling muscles and headstrong hearts. Instead, his body was lithe and slow-moving. His expression was morose and sallow. His beady little eyes barely looked like they were open half the time, and he had the disconcerting habit of sighing between every sentence.

Jonah couldn't comprehend how Commander Argent had been replaced by this practically rotting corpse of a man. But he'd heard whispers that the Greys felt they needed a gentler soul to rule over Lucent.

By the looks of the outside world, it didn't look to Jonah like that was working at all…

The Viceroy raised a hand to call for the doors to be closed, and then beckoned for the three flea-bitten refugees from Sentinel to rise and, in front of at least twenty five Greycloak guards, explain why they had come all this way.

"You prostrate yourselves before our doorstep," the Viceroy began. "You do this in a time of great crisis for the people of this land. But Lucent's gates will remain open to all humankind. While this city stands, no man of Kaedmon's realm shall be alone."

The refugees bowed, and one of them with a gangle of shaggy hair stepped forward.

"We…appreciate that, m'lord."

Some of the Greys stiffened at his pronunciation. But the Viceroy waved away their annoyance with a thin, bony hand.

"Tell us what became of your village."

Jonah stood rapt in attention as the refugee speaker explained their plight. The Archon and his team of Hybrids had come, broken their city, and loosed a plague of Drytchling warriors upon them to displace them from their homes and slay most of the town. Once finished, they had been given the shame of exile from their homes.

Why? Jonah's thoughts screamed. Why is he letting people go? Why did he let me go?

The refugees wept as the speaker went on to relate the suffering their people had experienced on the road, and though Mobius listened carefully, nodding gently at the visceral descriptions of death and disease, there was one thing his mind was focused on

"Where did the Archon go?" he asked.

The refugees looked to one another and gulped before their representative blurted out an answer.

"To…to Griffon's Watch, m'lord."

The Greys began whispering to each other. Their lack of medical supplies from Dr Haylock in this past fortnight now made sense.

Mobius leaned back in his chair, stroking his beardless chin.

"So…he is seeking her after all…"

Whatever this strange murmur meant, Jonah couldn't understand. What grabbed him more was what came next:

"We can no longer take the Archon's incursions sitting down," the Viceroy croaked. "Commander Argent and the Lightborn are gone. Now, one of our villages has been destroyed. Meanwhile, we fumble in our searches of the Ashfalls without any leads on the Hybrid base of operations. We let our people starve and do…nothing."

The Viceroy's voice caught in his throat, and he whispered something to himself.

"Our calls for aid to Eastmarch have went unanswered…the people are beginning to turn…"

The Greycloaks looked at him, seeing the indecision that was smeared across his face.

The refugees, meanwhile, looked like they were realizing they'd made the biggest mistake of their lives coming here.

"Lord Mobius," Ranok suddenly piped up beside Jonah. "There's a solution."

Jonah was surprised to hear his Instructor speak with such determination for once. He looked up to see his eyes – normally full of inebriation – now totally focused.

"Sir Ranok?" the Viceroy asked. "Speak."

"The Lucent Navy, Lord," Ranok said. "At two hundred ships stand ready for your command. They can be at Griffon's Watch within three days if we set out now."

The Viceroy licked his dried lips and stared down the normally drunken Grey.

"You would lead them, Ranok?" he asked. "Is that what you wish?"

Ranok broke ranks and marched forward hastily, dropping to one knee before the old man.

"It would be my honor, Viceroy. Send me against this usurper and his people. I'll bring you his hatty little head. And those of his companions."

"This is because it's her, isn't it?"

Ranok's eyes never blinked as he answered: "Because it's her."

The Viceroy leaned back in the throne, hands drumming against the armrests.

"I can spare twenty Greycloaks to this mission," he said. "The rest of the Order must remain here in case of surprise attack. If Sentinel has fallen…we can no longer trust in the strength of our own walls."

"My Lord," Ranok said. "We will not fail you."

The Viceroy seemed satisfied. He dismissed the meeting and told the refugees to proceed to the inner palace. There, they would be interred and have full access to the services the Greycloaks could provide.

Jonah began to see the truth of Ranok's words as he bowed and left with the rest of the soldiers. The Viceroy cared about Argwylians, it was true. But he didn't hear the grumbles of his Greycloak soldiers as he committed them to a naval battle whilst the refugees were allowed to fill their bellies in the palace pantry.

More distressing was the fact that Ranok had suddenly become possessed by some kind of hidden zeal as he marched out of the throne room.

"H-hey!" Jonah shouted after him. "Master!"

Ranok didn't stop.

"Master Ranok!"

"I'm no one's 'Master', boy," the old Greycloak sighed as he stopped before leaving the palace grounds. "I'm an old drunk who just happened to take a brash young man under my wing. Now, it's time for me to get back to work."

Jonah stopped, seeing the clenched fists of his Master.

"I'm coming with you," he stated.

"Hah! Boy, you've got spirit. But you're lacking in the brains department. Live and fight well. This old bastard's going towards his end."

Jonah gripped the old Greycloak's cape as he tried to storm off. He wasn't about to let his Master just walk away.

"D - didn't you tell me that anger doesn't serve us?" he said, trying to keep himself from sounding as desperate as he felt.

"This ain't anger, kid. This is duty. Because I know what the Archon wants in that prison. There's only one damn thing he'll be lookin' for. A prisoner that's more dangerous than any monster we've ever seen."

He heard his Master sigh again before he simply unshackled his cape and let it fall away into Jonah's hands.

"A prisoner?" Jonah asked. "How do you -?"

Ranok looked back over his shoulder with grim resolve. For the young warrior, it was like looking into the eyes of the rage-filled Archon all over again.

"Because," he said. "I'm the one that captured her."

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