Chapter 535: Falling sword(2)

It was night in Arudonaven.

The city slept beneath a sky of pale silver and restless clouds, its streets quiet save for the occasional creak of wooden shutters in the wind and the distant bark of a hungry dog. The fires in the towers burned low, their light barely brushing the narrow alleys, and the gates stood shut not from fear, but routine.

The enemy was far, after all.

There was no siege here—no war drums or battering rams at the walls. The Herculeans had retreated like whipped dogs, and with them had gone the tension, the sleeplessness, the constant rhythm of marching boots and shouted orders. The city, lulled by the illusion of safety, had fallen into a kind of half-sleep, its vigilance thinned like watered wine.

Lucius stood in the dark, cloaked and still as a stone.

This was the hour he had been waiting for.

A soldier’s greatest ally wasn’t steel or numbers, but complacency of the enemy . And tonight, Arudonaven gave him that gift with both hands.

He had not called upon the city’s recruits. No—he was no fool. The men trained in the light of day with Ebran’s voice barking orders were of the city, born to its streets, still tied to it by blood and home and fear. They would not partecipate in the coup, but certainly they would not oppose the new regime once the deed was done.

But his mercenaries? They would do what he told them . Blades-for-hire with no name but the one they used on contracts, no home but the campfire, and no god but gold. They obeyed him without question if he gave them the coin.

Now they would bleed . For his grace.

They were already in place.

Hidden in the dark folds of the lower districts, tucked into courtyards, stables, cellars—anywhere the city’s flickering torchlight did not reach. There, they waited. No banners. No drums. Just cold steel and silence.

Lucius ran a gloved hand across the edge of his cloak, his eyes scanning the narrow street ahead.

Tonight, the false calm would end.

The siege had not yet begun—at least not in name.

But in every other way, the fall of the city had already started.

Orymus, for all his youth and inherited titles, had done exactly what Lucius hoped he would. With whispers of Herculean remnants and rebel sightings, the lordling had emptied the keep’s halls to man the walls, spreading his sworn swords thin over ramparts and gatehouses. Even the knight, Agolonthios had been dispatched to patrol the outer perimeters as head of some force.

That left only a maniple inside the keep. Fifty men, maybe sixty at best. Enough to hold a gate, not a fortress.

And Lucius... Lucius remembered that keep all too well.

It rose like a jagged tooth above the city’s heart, squat but solid, its stone blackened in places from an older fire long faded. The last time he stood before it had been as a soldier in the ranks of Yarzat’s host, when they’d brought steel and flame to Arudonaven’s doors.

He had watched men die by the dozens trying to breach it.

He remembered the way the stairways choked with bodies. How archers rained death from its upper turrets. How the very walls had seemed to bleed, not crumble.

Small, yes. But stubborn.

A good place to die,

some had called it.

A better place to hold.

And that was the gamble.

Lucius exhaled softly through his nose, scanning the dark.

The outer walls were manned, the towers lit, the gatehouses watched—but the center was hollow. A beautiful mistake. One that Lucius intended to exploit fully before the dawn even brushed the horizon.

--------------------------

He had already scattered his men like wolves among the sleeping streets.

They clung to shadows, tucked in alley mouths and behind shuttered market stalls, every hand gripping a blade, every ear twitching for the signal.

The final piece was simple. The keep’s gate.

A single open gate, and all the blood and smoke to follow would belong to someone else.

And here, fate had granted him more than just a plan. It had granted him

reputation

.

Lucius wasn’t just another sword for hire within Arudonaven. No—he was

the

captain. The man Orymus had personally entrusted with the training of the city’s levy. The man who walked the halls of the keep like he owned them.

He approached the keep now with deliberate calm, his boots soft on the ancient stone, the moonlight cutting faint silver lines across the yard. The torches at the gate’s flanks burned low, and two guards—half-lulled by the night’s stillness—stood lazily at their posts.

Their chatter, whatever foolish thing it had been about, died the moment they spotted him.

"Stop right there!" One barked, hand going instinctively to his spear haft. "Captain Lucius’’ he said remembering the face’’ it’s late—what business may you have here?"

Lucius didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

He inhaled, slow and steady, through his nose. Not just to breathe. To

shift

.

To let the mask slide over his face. To become the man they knew

His expression grew calm, his posture subtly changed. Not too stiff—not a soldier on edge. Just a leader with a purpose. Confident. Assured. The kind of man who belonged

anywhere

he chose to walk.

And the moment held, thick and brittle.

All he needed was a few more steps, a few more words.

And the gate would open.

With the pride of a man used to being obeyed—and the steel-spined arrogance of someone who knew

he must

—Lucius stepped forward, chin held high, and announced in a tone that brooked no debate:

"I have been summoned to speak with his lordship."

The two guards stiffened like dogs hearing an unfamiliar step in the dark. One squinted, the other leaned slightly on his spear, both caught somewhere between suspicion and deference.

"At this hour?" one muttered, glancing at the other.

"I didn’t see any messengers leave the keep," the other said under his breath. "You?"

Lucius, already halfway past the torchlight, halted with a slow, theatrical sigh.

"I don’t have

all night

to answer foolish questions," he said with perfectly feigned irritation. "If you want to explain to Lord Orymus why I arrived late to a private summons, then by all means—

keep me here.

"

He turned, gesturing sharply to the two men flanking him. One of them, playing his part well, stepped forward, arms wrapped around a locked chest braced in polished iron—heavy, mysterious, suggestive of weightier matters than common eyes should see.

"The lord awaits," Lucius said, pointing at the chest, his voice dropping to a murmur laced with meaning. "And unless you want to be

personally

included in this conversation, I suggest you let me pass."

The two guards hesitated.

The older of them gave a slow, uncertain nod, his eyes darting from Lucius to the chest, and back again. He cleared his throat awkwardly and straightened his spine.

"Of course, Captain," he said. "It’s just... the hour, sir. I’ll report your presence to his lordship. So that he may, ah... prepare proper accommodations for you."

Lucius’s eyes narrowed, cold and calm.

"There is no need," he said smoothly. "As I told you—I was

called

."

"I... still must insist," the guard said, his tone softening in apology. "It is a late hour, Captain. We’re under orders not to let anyone in without notice—surely you understand..."

Lucius did not move.

Not forward. Not back.

Just stood there in silence, watching him like a man trying to decide if he was looking at a nail or a fly—and whether it was worth crushing.

Lucius exhaled—long, slow, exasperated—as though the mere weight of dealing with

incompetents

threatened to crack his spine.

"If you don’t want me standing out here all night," he said coolly, "then kindly keep it up and send someone inside . The lord has little patience, and I’ve got none left to borrow."

The guards glanced at each other again, their shoulders loosening, tension leaking out like breath from a punctured wineskin. The older one even offered a tentative half-smile, taking a step toward the gate, clearly relieved that the situation had been resolved

That, of course, was his mistake.

Lucius took a step forward, then suddenly halted and tilted his head slightly.

"But before you go in," he said, his voice dropping, almost casual, almost amused, "tell your friend over there that if he keeps glaring at me like that..."

He raised a gloved hand and pointed just past the younger guard’s shoulder.

"...I’ll have his eyes."

The younger guard blinked, visibly startled, turning around to see who Lucius was speaking of.

He never made it halfway through the turn.

THWACK.

A wet, muted sound—like a mallet sinking into ripe fruit. The hilt of a dagger jutted from under his jaw, rammed clean through the soft hinge of his mouth, pinning his tongue in place as blood fountained between his teeth in a gurgling choke.

By the time the other guard reacted—mouth just parting for a yell—Lucius’s man had already dropped the "chest" with a

thud

that echoed in the silence. With the smooth, wordless rhythm of practice, he lunged, driving a dagger into the side of the guard’s armpit, angling upward. The blow was surgical. The man went rigid, then slack, before he could even scream.

His man caught his fall, cradling him like a brother, whispering in his ear as if this were some intimate mercy.

He looked down at the two bodies twitching at his feet.

The blood soaked into the gravel. The gate stood ahead.

Open....

And not a single soul had yet raised the alarm.

Lucius turned to his companion and spoke like he was ordering wine.

"Get the others and for the love of the gods, tell Ebran to go ahead with his part and not fuck it up."

The putsch had begun.