Ch 28: The price of a word

New Portland thrummed with new life under Fenrir's rule. The once-chaotic streets were now bustling with organized trade, the city quickly transforming into the hub of their burgeoning power.

Controlling the salt trade had been a masterstroke—salt, the lifeblood of preservation and flavor, was now their leverage. The nearby lords were already making subtle overtures, desperate to curry favor with Fenrir and his faction.

As Fenrir strolled through the market near the shoreline, the air heavy with the tang of salt and brine, a messenger approached him. The young man bowed deeply before offering a sealed letter. Fenrir broke the seal with a flick of his clawed fingers, his sharp eyes scanning the contents.

The news was grim but calculatedly vague: Mary Ann's castle had burned to the ground. The cause was officially deemed "an accident," but Fenrir's sharp instincts told him otherwise. The castle had been an imposing stronghold, its defenses nearly impenetrable. An accident? Hardly.

He handed the letter to Rui, who stood silently at his side. She read it, her expression darkening. "Do you think this was the temple's doing?" she asked.

"Unlikely," Fenrir replied, his voice calm but thoughtful. "The temple doesn't act so subtly. They'd have made a spectacle of it to prove a point. But the timing is curious."

Rui frowned. "And the investigation? The letter mentions a Saintess Catherene. She's leading it."

At the mention of the name, Fenrir froze, his golden eyes narrowing. A strange sense of recognition stirred within him, like a whisper from a long-forgotten past. "Catherene…" he murmured. "That name sounds familiar."

Rui tilted her head. "Do you know her?"

"I might," Fenrir admitted, though his tone was distant. His mind raced through fragments of memory, piecing together the possibilities. Could this Saintess Catherene be the body chosen by the fifth Dark Lord? The thought lingered, heavy with implications, but he quickly shook it off.

"Speculation can wait," he said briskly. "For now, our focus is here. We need to ensure the salt trade remains untouchable. The lords will flock to us if we hold their supply lines in our hands."

He moved toward the shore, where workers labored over vast salt pans, harvesting crystals from the sea. Fenrir observed them with a discerning eye, noting their efficiency and the steady flow of goods being loaded onto carts. Rui trailed behind him, her gaze sharp as she mirrored his vigilance.

As he surveyed the operation, his mind couldn't fully let go of the thought of Catherene. If she truly was tied to the fifth Dark Lord, her presence within the temple would be both a threat and an opportunity. The Dark Lords were unpredictable, their motives often obscured by layers of ambition and cunning.

Still, he reminded himself, this was not the time to dwell on hypotheticals. Control of the salt meant control of the lords, and control of the lords meant dominance over the surrounding territories. One step at a time.

For now, Fenrir would focus on ensuring their plans moved forward, even as the shadows of the past and the looming threats of the future circled closer.

The sun dipped low over New Portland, casting warm golden light over the cobblestone streets. Fenrir moved through the bustling market, his gait slow but deliberate. The limp in his step—more pronounced since his injuries—caught the attention of many. Most bowed their heads or avoided his gaze, wary of the man who now ruled the city.

But not everyone feared him.

A group of townsfolk, their features sharp with disdain, gathered near the edge of the square. They were remnants of the faction that had opposed Mary Ann, emboldened by the rumors of her castle's destruction. Fenrir's presence only seemed to ignite their courage.

"Look who it is," one man sneered, his voice loud enough to carry. "The cripple who thinks he can rule."

Another laughed, leaning against a market stall. "What kind of leader limps like a broken dog? Maybe he should stick to barking orders from the shadows."

Fenrir stopped, turning his golden gaze toward them. The crowd nearby grew tense, the murmurs of commerce fading into silence as all eyes fell on the scene. Rui, who walked a step behind Fenrir, stiffened at the insults, her hands balling into fists.

But Fenrir merely smiled. It was a slow, deliberate expression, sharp enough to cut. His eyes sparkled with something unreadable—amusement, perhaps, or maybe something far darker. "It's good to see that humor hasn't died in New Portland," he said lightly, his voice calm and composed.

The men exchanged uneasy glances, their bravado faltering for just a moment. But when Fenrir turned and continued walking, their jeers resumed, muttered under their breath as he disappeared into the crowd.

Rui remained quiet as they walked, her face an unreadable mask, but her tension was palpable. Fenrir glanced at her sideways. "Let it go," he said softly, his tone gentle but firm.

She didn't respond.

By morning, the town was abuzz with whispers. The men who had mocked Fenrir were gone. Not just them, but their families, too. Their homes stood eerily silent, their belongings untouched. It was as if they had vanished into thin air.

Fenrir sipped his morning tea in the mansion's study when Rui entered, her steps purposeful. Her amber eyes met his golden ones, unflinching. "It's done," she said simply.

He placed the cup down carefully, his gaze steady. "I told you to let it go."

"And I chose not to," Rui replied, her voice cold. "They disrespected you. Mocked you. I won't stand for it."

Fenrir leaned back in his chair, his lips curving into a faint smile. "You're loyal, I'll give you that. But you should remember something, Rui."

She tilted her head, waiting.

"Fear is a useful tool, but it's also a dangerous one. The more we rule by fear alone, the more enemies we breed in the shadows."

"They weren't afraid enough," Rui countered. "Now they are."

Fenrir studied her for a long moment before nodding. "Perhaps you're right. But tread carefully. A kingdom built on fear alone has its foundations in sand."

Rui said nothing, her expression defiant. She turned and left the room, leaving Fenrir to his thoughts.

As he gazed out the window at the bustling town below, Fenrir's smile returned, softer this time. Rui's ruthlessness would serve their cause well, but he knew that her fire, unchecked, could burn out of control. For now, though, her loyalty was an asset he wasn't willing to temper. Not yet.

______

Saintess Catherene stood in the grand hall of the temple, its towering arches bathed in golden light. She gazed out through the wide open windows at the distant horizon, her serene expression unshaken even as Lord Joseph paced behind her, his frustration evident in every step.

"You had the power to stabilize the city, Catherene," Joseph said, his voice tight with restrained anger. "You saw the chaos during the election. The riots, the deaths. And yet you did nothing."

Catherene turned to face him, her ethereal presence calming yet authoritative. Her pale robes shimmered faintly in the sunlight, and her silver hair framed her soft yet resolute face. "It is not my place to meddle in human politics, Lord Joseph," she said calmly. "I am a servant of the divine, not of mortal governance."

Joseph stopped pacing, his brow furrowed. "But people look to you for guidance. Your voice could have brought reason to the madness."

Catherene inclined her head slightly. "My role is not to guide human affairs, but to protect humanity from what lies beyond. The election, as chaotic as it was, fell within the realm of mortal ambition. The attack on the public rally, tragic as it may be, appeared to be the work of men, not of something unnatural. Therefore, it was not my duty to intervene."

Joseph frowned, clearly unconvinced. "And if it had been something unnatural? If there were even a chance?"

"Then I would have acted without hesitation," Catherene replied firmly, her piercing blue eyes meeting his. "But speculation is not enough. I act on certainty, not on fear."

Joseph let out a frustrated sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly. "You make it sound so simple, Saintess. But it's not."

"Few things are simple," Catherene said gently. "But the line between what is my duty and what is not must remain clear. Otherwise, I risk overstepping my purpose."

Before Joseph could respond, a messenger hurried into the hall, his face pale and his breaths quick. "My lord, Saintess," the man began, bowing deeply. "News from the city. Fenrir, the servant of Lady Mary Ann, has been brought to the temple. He was attacked—stabbed, it seems."

Catherene's serene expression flickered, her brow furrowing slightly at the mention of Fenrir's name. A strange feeling stirred within her, though she did not show it.

"Where is he now?" she asked, her tone steady but commanding.

"They've brought him to the infirmary," the messenger replied. "The wound is deep, but he is still alive."

Joseph turned to Catherene, his earlier frustration replaced by concern. "This seems… unnatural, wouldn't you say? A man like Fenrir, targeted in such a way?"