Morning in Gildcrest was not peaceful. It was mechanical—bells rang, boots thudded, shops opened with sighs rather than songs. The air stank of old smoke and new ambition.
Lucien leaned against a broken fountain in the outer district, watching a group of children play with sticks like they were swords. One of them wore a scrap of cloth tied like a cape, shouting about being a Templar. Lucien almost laughed. Almost.
He remembered when he used to play like that.
Before the screaming. Before the flames.
Before the smile that never left his face again.
---
A man approached, limping. Grime on his hands, scars across his brow—Gregor, a disgraced ex-captain of the City Guard. Now, just another broken man in Lucien's growing orchestra.
"They found Bishop Halden dead," Gregor said quietly.
Lucien didn't react. "And?"
"No signs of a break-in. Looked like he died of stress. Poison wasn't traced. Exactly like you wanted."
Lucien finally turned. "And his vault?"
"Gone. Clean sweep. The Church thinks it's an inside job. Suspicion's turning inward."
Lucien offered a satisfied nod. "Good. That means they're bleeding where they can't see."
Gregor hesitated. "That makes three now. People are talking."
Lucien's eyes narrowed. "What kind of talk?"
Gregor lowered his voice. "They say there's a ghost in the system. Someone haunting the inner circles. Some even think it's a demon."
Lucien smirked. "Let them believe that. Fear is sharper than truth."
---
By noon, Lucien sat across from a wealthy merchant lord named Torren Vex. The man sweated through his silk vest despite the cool air. His estate reeked of excess—polished marble floors, glass chandeliers, and guards who didn't know how to hold swords properly.
"You said you had something that could save me," Torren said, voice wavering.
Lucien tapped his gloved fingers against the table. "You've been laundering tithes through foreign channels. The Church is already sniffing."
Torren flinched.
"I have a letter," Lucien continued, sliding it across the table. "An anonymous confession from a junior cleric, naming someone else. You, however, will donate twenty percent of your earnings to the Orphan Guild I'm establishing."
"Orphan Guild?"
"Don't worry, it's real," Lucien said. "And it's mine."
Torren swallowed. "You're blackmailing me."
"I'm protecting you," Lucien said, his voice like silk draped over steel. "And I'm building something bigger than both of us."
---
That evening, Lucien walked the narrow streets alone again. People now recognized his face in passing, but didn't know his name. They smiled politely or avoided his gaze. That was how he wanted it—for now.
He turned a corner and almost collided with a girl holding a basket of bread. She gasped, nearly dropping it, and Lucien instinctively caught the top loaf before it hit the ground.
"I—sorry, I didn't see you—" she said, eyes wide.
Lucien handed her the bread and studied her face. She was younger than him, maybe sixteen, with bruises hidden beneath her collar.
"Be careful," he said quietly. "Not every corner in this city is kind."
She nodded, nervous. "Thank you."
"What's your name?"
She hesitated. "Lina."
He smiled. Not the cold, crafted grin he wore with nobles and killers, but something softer.
"Lina… if anyone ever hurts you, remember something."
She blinked.
"There's a devil in this city who smiles when justice sleeps. He's watching."
Then he walked away.
---
Back in the hideout, Orren sat hunched over a cauldron, and Silna read through coded letters. Gregor cleaned his blade by the fire. None of them spoke much anymore—they were becoming something else. Not a group. Not a family.
A movement.
Lucien placed a new piece on the board—an emblem stolen from Torren Vex's crest. He set it beside the Church seal.
Another thread woven.
Another fire lit in the dark.
He sat back, staring at the board.
"I wonder," he murmured, "how many of them remember the name 'Lucien Ashvale'?"
No one answered.
But the city would.
Soon.
---
End of chapter 19