CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

Streets of Silence

I left the frozen figures where they stood, a grim display meant to linger. In the old wars, they called it "heads on spikes"—a brutal act, tied to the first rule, but layered with the second to shield those behind me. Fear, sharp and cold, would stop the next mob from trying. I'd read about it in the book Elina gave me, how ancient walls bristled with warnings to break an enemy's will. Now, I'd done the same, and it felt wrong how easily it came.

Killing should've torn at me, twisted my insides until I couldn't breathe. I'd braced for it, expected guilt to claw me apart. But when that last tear fell on the ground, my heart steadied, calm as though I'd slain another beast. Nothing. The act was too simple, too quick, and I hated how little it stirred me. Humans, with families and dreams, gone in a breath of mist, and I felt… detached.

I stepped back behind our barricade, the mist fading into the dusk air. The ice statues stood untouched, their faces locked in screams or snarls, a silent testament to what I'd done. The street was quiet now, save for the faint creak of frost and the shuffle of boots behind me. The chainrunners knew my magic—frost that could kill in seconds, but the civilians who'd joined us hadn't seen it up close. Their eyes widened, hands tightening on spears, unsure whether to stare at me or the figures.

As I crossed the line, every fighter saluted, even the siblings, Artemis and Leslo, snapping to attention like soldiers carved for war. Artemis's voice cut through, bright with passion, edged with respect, maybe a flicker of fear. "Glad to see you here, sir." Her words hit like a blade. I didn't answer, didn't want their praise for what I'd done. Each salute stung worse than a wound, a reminder of the lives I'd taken—twenty, maybe more, people who'd never see their homes again.

I kept my head down, moving through the parted crowd. Only Gustav and Gorin met my eyes, their nods steady, no fanfare. Gustav's face was hard, like he'd seen too much to judge. Gorin held a quiet unease, but he didn't flinch. They understood what it cost me and what it meant. I nodded back, grateful for their silence.

By nightfall, word of the street had spread. Fear worked, just as I'd hoped. More people came to our side, hands raised, voices low, civilians and even a few guards, their armor clinking as they crossed the barricade. Some believed in our cause, the hope we'd promised. Others saw our strength, the sub-artifacts glinting on our fighters, the Frost Titan's shadow in the distance. Most, though, came because of me—what I'd done, what they thought I was.

I heard their tales in the alleys, drifting through crowds as I passed. "It's true," a man whispered, his voice loud enough to pull a small knot of listeners. "I saw it myself, they looked into his eyes, and they froze solid. Don't meet his gaze, or you're done." He hadn't been there, not even close, but that's how it went. Truth twisted, growing claws. The words weren't grand, no bard's song, but they built a legend, one that made my skin crawl.

Meris would hear these stories, Elina too, even Jharim. I hoped they'd see past the lies, know me for what I was, not this shadow the district painted. But the tales did their work. Fear pushed more to our side, sparing lives that might've been lost in another fight. It was the old wars' logic—break their will, make them surrender. Strength, fear, guile. I'd used them all, and it felt too much like her.

She'd cleansed District 97, wiped out its powerful families to reshape it in her image. I'd seen the bodies, the blood, and sworn I'd never walk that path. But now, standing here, I wondered. The council was the root, five seats whose greed choked the district. Killing them might end this, but their families would rise, new heirs as dangerous as the old. Was that why she'd done it? To cut the problem at its core? I muttered to myself, "Maybe that's how she saw it, refusing half-measures and leaving no survivors to fight back."

***

Days passed, and I stood watch, my eyes scanning the barricades. I carried the weight of those I'd killed, their frozen faces burned into me. I wanted to spare others that burden, to keep the blood on my hands alone. But the people around me didn't flinch at the idea of killing their own. Their faces were hard, their talk blunt, as if war was just another run in the fog. I envied their ease, even as it chilled me.

Lirien's orders were clear, her voice sharp when she'd gathered us. "We don't strike first," she'd said, eyes like flint. "Let them come. Let them waste their forces. When they're weak, we hit." It was guile, giving time for minds to shift, for fear to pull more to our side. The council's attack came exactly as she'd predicted, a joint assault with forces converging across the district's streets. They'd sacrifice numbers, betting we couldn't hold everywhere. They were right; we couldn't. But we didn't need to.

Three streets took hits that day, their clamor echoing through the district. I heard it all, boots on stone, shouted orders, metal clashing, the enemy not even trying to hide. My senses, sharper than any human's, caught every move. I chose one street, not the primary road, but a narrow vein of dust and broken cobbles, flanked by crumbling shops and sagging roofs. Our barricade—piles of crates, splintered beams, and scavenged iron—stood firm, manned by a dozen chainrunners and a handful of civilians, their faces taut with grit.

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I clung to a tall structure nearby, my tentacles unfurling from my back to grip the stone. Hazeveil draped me in shadow, hiding the writhing limbs that held me high above the street. Below, the defenders gripped bows and blades, their breaths visible in the cold dawn air. The street was quiet, save for the creak of wood and the distant shouts from other battles. Dust hung thick, stirred by boots and wind, coating the barricade in a gray haze.

"Ready yourselves," a sturdy old warrior barked, his voice rough with years of service. He stood at the barricade's center, gray beard jutting, hands steady on a sword. "Now, fire!" A volley of arrows hissed forward, cutting through the dust. Five attackers fell, bodies crumpling mid-charge, blood pooling on the cobbles. But two dozen more surged behind them, guards in dented armor, civilians clutching clubs and knives, their faces a mix of rage and desperation. Families waited for them somewhere, I knew, but they'd chosen this side.

"Don't stop!" a guard shouted, voice cracking with urgency. "We've got numbers, keep going!" They ran harder, boots pounding, weapons raised, aiming to overrun the line. The defenders nocked arrows, but there weren't enough. I couldn't wait.

From my perch, I let my frost loose. Mana hummed in my veins, cold and sharp. Before me, ice formed, not spears but pillars, massive and unyielding, each five meters long, thick as a man's torso, rippling with jagged frost. They hung in the air, floating near me, their weight trembling the space around them. I sent the first forward. It roared, a thunderous crack splitting the air, and struck the street like a god's hammer. A guard vanished, impaled through the chest, blood spraying as the pillar drove him into the ground.

More followed, relentless. Each pillar launched with a bone-rattling thud, tearing through flesh and stone alike. One caught a civilian mid-scream, pinning her to a wall, her club falling limp. Another hit the ground, shattering cobbles, spraying ice and blood. I aimed some at empty patches, giving them a chance to flee, to see the carnage and turn back. The street became a graveyard of frost, pillars jutting like warped trees, bodies skewered or crushed beneath.

A few stopped, weapons clattering to the ground. "I surrender!" one man cried, hands high, eyes wide with terror. "Please, don't kill!" a woman begged, dropping her sword, her voice raw. They stared up, barely catching my silhouette through the dust and shadow, Hazeveil billowing in the wind.

The crimson core in me thrummed, its strength obscene against people who couldn't wield mana. This wasn't a fight—it was slaughter, and it sickened me. But fear worked. The survivors would carry this moment, their tales spreading, sparing lives by breaking wills. The ground below was a nightmare, pillars three times a man's height, piercing bodies in grotesque tableaux, blood pooling red against the ice, the only color in the gray dusk.

The defenders had scattered when the pillars fell, diving behind crates, shields raised against the chaos. Now they crept back, formation loose, staring at the wreckage. Chainrunners saluted, their arms stiff, eyes mixed with awe and dread. Civilians whispered, clutching weapons like lifelines. I didn't linger. My tentacles released the wall, pulling me toward the next street under attack, my heart steady—too steady, cold as the frost I'd left behind.

The next street was a slaughterhouse. The defense line lay shattered, barricades of splintered wood and twisted iron scattered across the cobbles, bodies sprawled in pools of blood. Shouts and steel clashed in the dim light, the air thick with dust and the iron tang of death. My mist or pillars would kill friend and foe in this mess, so I acted fast. I leaped from my perch, tentacles releasing the wall, and dropped to the street below. The ground rippled under my weight, cracking as I landed on a warrior poised to stab a warrior without armor on our side. His body collapsed beneath me, bones snapping with a wet crunch, his spear clattering away.

The fighters froze, startled by my arrival. Guards in battered armor, civilians gripping crude blades, their eyes widened, breaths catching in the chaos. I seized the moment, frost surging through me. Two enemies flanked me, their clubs raised. My claws formed, jagged and glinting, and I struck. They tore through flesh like cloth, blood spraying in arcs as the men crumpled, lifeless, to the ground. The street seemed to hold its breath, the clang of weapons pausing for a heartbeat.

"It's… it's the frost monster," a civilian stammered, collapsing to his knees, his sword slipping from trembling hands. He scrambled back, legs failing under raw fear, his voice a broken plea. I stepped past him, ignoring the terror in his eyes. He'd lost the will to fight, so there was no need to kill a man already broken.

Another came at me, a guard with a spear, his thrust clumsy, too slow. I sidestepped, the blade grazing past my ear, Hazeveil fluttering. Frost gathered behind him, forming a blade mid-air, sharp and precise. It pierced his skull in an instant, blood trickling as he fell, eyes blank. No pain, just death.

The chainrunners rallied, their morale surging. Their weapons flared with runes, glowing faintly as they activated. They pushed forward, steel biting through armor, relentless now, their shouts fierce. The enemy faltered, some dropping weapons, others running. The fight ended fast, as sudden as it began. A handful surrendered, hands high, voices begging, "Please, we yield!" Their faces pale.

The third street fell the same way. Brutality—swift, overwhelming—broke their will. Bodies littered the ground, some pierced, some crushed, as survivors fled or knelt in surrender. Their minds would carry scars forever, tales of the "frost monster" spreading through the district's alleys. But I knew the truth: these fights were bait. The council had sent these men, guards and barely trained civilians alike, to die, drawing our forces to the side streets. The real battle roared elsewhere, its din reaching me even here. The primary road, wide enough for an army, where the district's Artifact Holders and the council's elite gathered.

What the council didn't know was Lirien had played the same game. She'd let these streets bleed, sacrificing our own without reinforcing them, her eyes fixed on the primary road. I'd taken the bait deliberately, defending these lines to save those I could, but she hadn't cared. Her strategy was cold, ruthless, and I couldn't forgive it. The bodies at my feet deserved better.

The bait was spent now. I turned toward the heart of the district, where the true fight raged. Shouts, steel, and the hum of artifacts echoed, louder than the chaos I'd left behind. The Artifact Holders were there, their power clashing against our sub-artifacts, a battle to decide District 98's fate, its rulers, its future.

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