Purge(1)

With the strategic plan set and the troops briefed, anticipation hung thick in the air like a storm brewing on the horizon. Alaric and Eldmund retreated from the debrief room, their minds consumed by the weight of the impending mission.

In the quiet of their shared quarters, the brothers exchanged few words, their thoughts turning inward as they mentally prepared for the task ahead. Alaric paced the room, his mind replaying the details of the plan, each step meticulously laid out in his thoughts. Eldmund, ever the stalwart presence, sat at the table, sharpening his sword with methodical precision, the rhythmic scrape of steel against stone a comforting cadence in the silence.

As the sun dipped below the horizon and the city plunged into darkness, the time for action drew near. Alaric and Eldmund gathered their gear, each movement deliberate and purposeful. With their swords strapped to their sides and their resolve burning bright, they made their way to the rendezvous point where their troops awaited.

The night was alive with tension as the soldiers assembled, their faces masked by the shadows cast by flickering torchlight. Alaric surveyed his troops with a mixture of pride and determination, his gaze lingering on each face as he silently assessed their readiness.

"Sirus," Alaric called, his voice cutting through the stillness of the night. The trusted aide stepped forward, his presence a reassuring anchor amidst the uncertainty that hung in the air.

"My lord," Sirus responded, his voice steady and sure.

"Is everything in place?" Alaric asked, his eyes locking with Sirus' in silent communication.

"Yes, my lord," Sirus confirmed, his tone unwavering. "The city is sealed tight, and our forces are poised to strike."

"Good," Alaric replied, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his features. "Then let us begin."

°°°°

The iron-clad edict had already arrived at dawn, sealed with the vermilion wax of the Duchy office, its proclamation ringing through the city streets as town criers echoed the words that would seal the city's fate for five days. "By decree of the Grand Ducal Authority, a lockdown is in force for all non-residents and residents!" they bellowed, their voices slicing through the early morning calm like a scythe through ripe grain.

Chaos ensued, as it always does when freedom is curtailed. Merchants from afar, who had come to trade silks and spices, clutched their wares close, their eyes darting for an escape that did not exist. Travellers, who had sought the comfort of the city's renowned inns, hotels and various amenities, were now prisoners to the whims of unseen jailers. They roamed the cobblestone streets, their pleas for exception falling on deaf ears.

Yet for those whose blood was born of this soil, life beat to the familiar drum of routine. Bakers kneaded dough with the same vigour as before, blacksmiths' hammers sang against steel without missing a beat, and children scampered through the alleys, ignorant of the turmoil that gripped the hearts of strangers among them.

"Merely precautionary," the officials had assured with honeyed words, "a mere five days to ensure the safety of our esteemed populace against the lurking threat of this mysterious ailment." Smiles were offered, and hands were wrung, but beneath the placating gestures, the gears of a more sinister machination had already begun to turn.

In the shadows of the high stone walls that cradled the city, the true nature of the lockdown whispered like a spectre amongst the ranks of the armoured sentinels. The military operation, codenamed PURGING THE UNDERWORLD, shrouded itself under the guise of public health—its aim was not to heal, but to excise, to cut away the clandestine rot that festered in the underbelly of the city.

Soldiers marched in silent columns, their boots striking the ground with grim purpose. Orders were issued in hushed tones, each command a thread in the tapestry of deception that draped over the city. The citizenry watched with unease, sensing the tremors of something amiss yet unable to grasp the magnitude of the deceit that cocooned them.

"Five days," the soldiers murmured amongst themselves, "five days to cleanse the darkness that hides within." Their faces were stoic masks, betraying no hint of the violence that brewed in their hearts, the unspoken anticipation of the purge that awaited. The sun rose higher, casting a golden glow upon the city—a city that stood on the precipice of an abyss, its people unaware of the precipitous fall that lay just beneath the veneer of normalcy.

°°°°

Sirus adjusted the stiff collar of his military tunic, a gesture that on any other day would signal discipline but today served as a silent signal to his team. They fanned out across the cobblestone streets, eyes sharp beneath helmets that glinted in the muted light of dawn. To the casual observer, they were vigilant protectors, scouring for signs of illness, a reassurance in trying times. But Sirus knew better. He and his men were hunters concealed in the skin of healers, a net woven with threads of authority and fear.

"Remember," he said, his voice low but carrying over the subtle din of the city stirring to life, "any attempt to flee is an admission of guilt. We're not just patrolling—we're purging."

His team nodded, the weight of their true purpose grounding them as they moved with purposeful strides. Their eyes missed nothing, not the twitch of a curtain from a high window nor the scurry of a rat into the shadowed alleys. Every shiver of movement could be the precursor to flight, every whisper of fabric the rustle of conspiracy. The citizens they passed offered weak smiles and hurried nods, their faces etched with anxiety as they averted their gazes from the too-keen eyes of their supposed saviours. Their senses were on high alert as well, the manifestation of an origin or the reinforcement of limbs by cosmic energy, was all suspect.

Meanwhile, Eldmund and Alaric had set their plan into motion, beginning at the westernmost part where the shadows clung a little tighter to the walls. Eldmund's stride was measured and deliberate, his gaze piercing through the evening fog like a blade seeking its sheath. Alaric matched him step for step, a silent sentinel whose mere presence whispered of inevitable confrontation.

"West to east," Alaric said, sparing a glance toward where he assumed the main city gates resided and stood resolute in the distance. "We cleanse as we go."

"Like herding sheep to the pen," Eldmund replied, a grim satisfaction curling the edge of his lips. The strategy was sound; drive the hidden vermin before them, give them no quarter, no chance to double back or slip through their fingers.

"Exactly," Alaric affirmed. "And when we reach the gates, let there be no doubt—the purge will be complete."

Their path was a slow burn across the cityscape, a methodical advance that left no stone unturned, no dark corner unexamined. It was the dance of predator and prey, a choreography set to the rhythm of a city's heartbeat now fluttering with dread.

The sun crept lower as if desperately running away from bearing witness of the massacre to come. Fear of Its proverbial purity being dimmed by the ungodly acts that would follow nightfall. Sirus' team continued their march, the pretence of health checks a thin veil over their true intent. And somewhere in that maze of streets and secrets, Eldmund and Alaric pressed onward, two figures inexorably linked by duty and determination, their minds focused on the endgame. The eastern gates awaited, and with it, the final act of their grim performance.

°°°°

Alaric's steel gaze swept over his contingent of troops, each one clad in the livery of the Duchy's military might. Today, their uniforms bore no cloaks or subterfuge; they marched through the city's avenues with purpose and intimidation as their allies. The sun, a traitorous spotlight, cast long, militant shadows beside them, stretching towards the Western Wall where their first objective lay hidden behind an unassuming façade.

"Forward," Alaric commanded, his voice a blade cutting through the murmur of the streets. "The gambling den."

They reached the threshold of their quarry, nestled against the wall like a serpent in the grass. Here, where the vices of many had found sanctuary, Alaric stood—unmasked and undeniable. His presence alone was a proclamation of intent, for where Eldmund was the silent reaper in the shadows, Alaric was the hammer of daylight.

 "Oberon," he addressed one soldier—a name as much a title at this moment. "Manifest your Principality."

"Origin manifestation... Mosiac Bastion," Oberon intoned, his voice resonant with power that rippled through the air. It was as though reality acquiesced to his command, bending and refracting around the gambling den. Mirrored walls rose from the cobblestones, shimmering into existence, encasing the structure in a labyrinth of reflections. The Mosaic Bastion came alive, its myriad surfaces creating a world within a world, isolating prey from predator, yet binding both in a dance of mirrored inevitability.

Alaric's eyes narrowed as he observed the Principality's effect, noting the way the light bent unnaturally, the way sound seemed to hesitate before daring to echo off the glassy barriers. It was magnificent and menacing, a testament to the military's arcane arsenal—one of six Barrier Type Principality Origins at their disposal.

Mosaic Bastion, he recollected, his mind tracing over the strategic implications of such power. A fortress of reflections, yet not without its flaws. Dimensional instability meant that they could not linger; the energy it consumed was prodigious, and any disruption risked shattering the illusion of security it provided, provided the opponent managed to find its weak points.

"Quickly," Alaric urged his troops, feeling the weight of the Principality's limitations pressing upon them. "We must finish this before the Bastion's appetite overwhelms Oberon's reserves or worse, before our enemies discern its vulnerabilities. We have two more places to raid, we have no time to waste"

The soldiers moved with renewed urgency, spurred on by the knowledge that time and energy were resources quickly depleting. They entered the maze of mirrors, boots echoing crisply, every step reverberating through the Mosaic Bastion's illusory corridors.

Alaric took point, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, ready to sever the head of corruption festering within, He had summoned Aetherblade Nyx. This was the beginning, the first purge under the watchful eyes of the mirrors. And as his men fanned out behind him, entering the den, Alaric knew that the reflection staring back at him was more than just his image—it was the embodiment of the Duchy's will, uncompromising and resolute.

 The air vibrated with the hum of power as the world around them solidified into a labyrinth of reflections. Alaric stood at the heart of the Mosaic Bastion, his eyes reflecting the myriad images of his men, distorted and multiplied within the gleaming walls. The Principality Origin was now a living entity, its heartbeat synchronized with the pulse of Oberon's might.

"Oberon," Alaric's voice cut through the silence, authoritative and clear, "you will be protected and guarded at all costs. Your Principality Origin must remain in action until we finish." His gaze locked on the soldier who had summoned the barrier, seeing in the young man's eyes a reflection of his own resolve.

"Those without cosmic energy—ignore them," he continued, his hand sweeping over the assembled soldiers, "unless, of course, they attack you." His words were a blade, unsheathed and glinting with purpose. Every soldier stiffened, their expressions hardening into masks of determination.

"I will move to the Lord's office with my vanguard. Ensure no one escapes." Alaric stepped forward, his boots clicking against the mirrored floor. He felt the weight of command settle upon his shoulders, a mantle as heavy as the armour he wore.

His speech began as a low rumble, building with the fervour of a storm about to break. "Sons and daughters of Austrias, today we wage war. Be brave, be courageous. Slaughter all who resist, mercy to all who bow their heads before us." His sword slid from its scabbard, a flash of deadly intent. "Long live the Eastern Duchy."

A chorus of assent rose from the troops, their voices echoing off the glassy surfaces, multiplying their oath into a war cry. They moved as one, a tide of steel and determination, flowing towards the heart of corruption that lay hidden behind the facade of the gambling den.

Alaric led the charge, his presence an unwavering force at the forefront of the onslaught. Today, the mirrors would not only reflect their images but would bear witness to the cleansing fire of the Duchy's justice.