The dawn over Rivermarch was crisp, the air thick with the scent of pine and woodsmoke. The fledgling capital stirred sluggishly to life—tents and half-built wooden structures huddled together like weary travelers, their shadows stretching across the muddy commons. A crowd had gathered near the splintered remains of an old market stall, drawn by a voice as smooth as honey and sharp as steel. At the center stood a man, his posture relaxed yet commanding. His clothes were unassuming—a traveler's worn cloak, a lute slung across his back—but his presence crackled like a lit fuse. Silver hair framed a face weathered by charm rather than age, and his eyes glinted with the practiced ease of one who knew how to make an audience *feel*. When he spoke, his words carried effortlessly, as if the wind itself bent to his will. "Look around you," he urged, gesturing to the patchwork tents and the skeletal frames of unfinished buildings. "A kingdom built by heroes—or so they claim. Yet where are those heroes now?" Murmurs rippled through the crowd. A farmer tightened his grip on a rusted scythe; a young mother clutched her child closer. "They roam the wilds, chasing glory and gold," the stranger continued, his tone dripping with mock sorrow. "While you sleep in the dirt, defenseless. Bandits steal your grain. Wolves take your livestock. And where is your mighty Warden? Your protectors?" He paused, letting the silence swell. "Gone. And what have they left you? A few trinkets? A crown of thorns?" His gaze swept the crowd, lingering on faces still bruised from last week's tavern brawl—a brawl sparked by rumors of stolen tools. "They feast on treasure plundered from ancient crypts while your children shiver in tents. They call themselves rulers, yet they abandon you to chaos. Is this the promise of Rivermarch?" A gangly carpenter shouted, "Aye! My cousin vanished near the Narlmarches—monsters, he said!" Others nodded, their grievances bubbling up like a poisoned spring. The stranger's lips twitched, almost imperceptibly. A faint shimmer hung in the air around him, a scent of lavender masking something sharper. Magic. It was then that Tybalt and Brinn arrived, their boots sinking into the mud as they pushed through the throng. Tybalt's hand drifted to his sword hilt; Brinn's keen eyes scanned for threats. The crowd parted reluctantly, some avoiding their gaze, others glaring with newfound defiance. The stranger, who introduced himself as Grigori, turned toward them, his smile widening. "Ah! The loyal retainers," he crooned, spreading his arms in mock welcome. "Tell me, friends—do you truly believe your masters care for this rabble? Or are you just fools, guarding an empty throne?" His voice dropped, conspiratorial. "Strike me down if you dare. Prove me right." The crowd held its breath. A drunkard near the front clenched a stone. A weaver's fingers trembled near her belt knife. Above, crows circled, their cries like laughter. Brinn stepped forward, his voice steady but carrying the weight of command. "You speak well," he said, his gaze locking onto Grigori. "Well enough to turn hardship into anger, to spin frustration into resentment. But words alone do not build homes, nor do they keep the winter from our bones. I hear the fears of these people—you twist them like a bard weaving a tragic tale, but the truth is simpler: Rivermarch is young. And young things struggle before they stand tall." He turned, sweeping his eyes over the gathered crowd, meeting them not as a lord above them but as one of their own. "I will not promise you riches overnight, nor comfort without effort. What I will promise is this: No one here stands alone. We fight together. We build together. Those who raise hammer and saw will see their work endure. Those who guard our roads will see their families safe. We are more than stories whispered in anger—we are a kingdom in the making, and every one of you is a part of that." Then, his gaze snapped back to Grigori, sharp as steel drawn from its sheath. "And you. You walk into my streets and weave doubt with honeyed words. You speak of heroes abandoning their people, yet I see no calluses on your hands, no dirt beneath your nails. Tell me, traveler—what have *you* built? What burdens have *you* shouldered? Or is your trade only to sow discord and watch a kingdom strangle on its own fear?" Brinn lifted his chin. "If you have a grievance, speak it plainly. If you have an offer, make it truthfully. But if you come only to spread poison, then take your tricks elsewhere. Rivermarch has no place for cowards who fight only with whispers." He let the words settle, watching the crowd. This was the test—not of his strength, but of their resolve. Would they be led by fear, or would they choose to stand? Grigori's smile deepened, a predator savoring the pivot of prey. He clapped slowly, the sound sharp as a dagger on stone. "Oh, bravo," he purred, stepping toward Brinn with the grace of a man who'd danced through a hundred such confrontations. The air around him seemed to pulse—a faint, golden shimmer that made the crowd lean in, breaths quickening. Lavender thickened, sweet and cloying, masking the metallic tang beneath. "You paint such a noble picture," he said, circling Brinn like a carrion bird. "A kingdom *in the making*, you say? Tell me, when your people's bellies are empty, do they feast on promises? When the wolves come, do your pretty words sharpen their teeth?" He whirled to face the crowd, voice swelling. "The carpenter's cousin vanished. The blacksmith's tools were stolen. The widow's child coughs blood in the frost—where is your hammer and saw for *them*, Brinn?" A woman in the front row flinched, clutching a threadbare shawl. Grigori's gaze snapped to her, tender now, almost reverent. "You ask what I've built?" He drew a vial from his cloak—amber liquid catching the dawn light. "Salves for the sick. Charms to ward off the beasts that your Wardens ignore." He tossed it to the weaver; she caught it reflexively, her knife forgotten. "No speeches. No conditions. Only aid, freely given." Murmurs rose, hungry. The drunkard's stone slipped from his hand. Grigori turned back to Brinn, eyes glinting. "You mistake me for a coward because I wield words instead of swords. But words *are* swords here." He gestured to the half-built gallows at the edge of the commons, ropes swaying emptily. "How many have you hanged to keep this peace of yours? How many more will it take?" The crowd stirred, memories of the tavern brawl flashing in their eyes—the crack of bones, the Warden's men dragging bodies into the dark. "I do not fear your truth, *Low Regent* Brinn." Grigori spread his arms, the very image of martyrdom. "Strike me down. Let them see the price of dissent." He leaned in, voice a velvet blade. "Or admit that you fear what happens when they realize... they don't need you." Brinn held his ground, meeting Grigori's gleaming eyes with a steady gaze. He did not step forward, nor did he recoil—he simply stood, like stone weathering the tide. "I fear nothing that stands before me," he said, his voice measured, letting it carry over the murmurs of the crowd. "Not steel, not beasts, and certainly not words dressed in silk and shadow." He let the moment breathe, turning his attention not to Grigori, but to the people—*his* people. The ones who shivered in the cold, who clutched at hope even as doubt gnawed at their bellies. "You ask how many have been hanged? How many have been dragged into the dark?" His voice did not rise in anger but settled into something heavier, more unshakable. "I will tell you: fewer than the dead we found when bandits still ruled these roads. Fewer than the number of bodies I pulled from the Narlmarch mud when no law governed but strength alone. Fewer than the sons and daughters who would lie unburied if I had done *nothing*." He gestured, not grandly, but with purpose, sweeping his arm toward the unfinished homes, the huddled fires, the people who stood here because they still had something to stand for. "This city rises because *you* chose to build it. Not because of me, not because of a crown, but because you refused to let the world grind you to dust. It is slow. It is hard. But nothing worth keeping was ever forged without struggle." Then, finally, he turned his full attention back to Grigori, his stare unwavering. "You come bearing gifts, and that is well. You bring aid, and that is good. But do not mistake generosity for leadership. You ease burdens today, but what of tomorrow? What happens when your salves run dry, when the wolves come again?" He stepped forward now, closing the space between them. "What do *you* build, Grigori? What do *you* stand for? Or do you only stand *against*?" His voice was quiet, but there was iron beneath it. "If you would truly help these people, then help them stand. Not as pawns in a game you play, but as builders of their own fate. Because *that* is what Rivermarch is." His eyes flicked to the vial in the weaver's hands, then back to Grigori. "You say they don't need me. Fine. Maybe one day, they won't. Maybe one day, they will be strong enough that no Warden, no Lord, no King will need to shield them." He exhaled, slow. "But that day is not today." A beat of silence. "So, Grigori," Brinn said, tilting his head ever so slightly. "Are you here to help? Or just to watch from the shadows and whisper until you can pull down all we've built?" Grigori's laughter was soft, melodic, and utterly devoid of warmth—a winter breeze through dead leaves. He stepped back, spreading his hands in mock surrender, the golden shimmer around him flaring briefly as if drinking the tension in the air. The scent of lavender sharpened, mingling with the faintest hint of rot beneath. "Help?" he echoed, tilting his head like a curious raven. "Oh, Brinn of the Unyielding Stones, you mistake my purpose. I do not *help*. I… *illuminate*." His gaze swept the crowd, lingering on the weaver clutching his vial, the widow with her hollow eyes. "I show you the rot beneath the fresh paint. The cracks in your 'kingdom's' fragile bones." He pivoted sharply, cloak swirling like smoke, and gestured eastward—toward the distant, unseen borders of Pitax. "While you shovel mud and hammer splinters, Pitax thrives. Its streets are paved with song, not blood. Its people dine on art and wine, not promises and acorn stew. No wolves dare howl at its gates, for its walls are carved from the bones of those who once doubted its might." A flick of his wrist, and a vision shimmered in the air—a fleeting mirage of Pitax's golden spires, its gardens blooming with eternal spring flowers. The crowd gasped; a child reached for the illusion before it dissolved into motes of light. Grigori's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "You cling to this hovel because you've forgotten what true power looks like. But fear not. When Rivermarch collapses under the weight of your noble struggle… Pitax will be there. To sweep away the rubble. To offer mercy." He turned to Brinn, smile razor-thin. "You speak of 'building fate' like it's a virtue. How quaint. Fate is not built—it is *claimed*. And while you lecture these wretches on patience, your enemies sharpen their knives." He leaned in, close enough for Brinn alone to catch the glint of something feral in his eyes. "Tell me, King… when your people finally see the futility of your dream, whose banner do you think they'll rally to? The one who fed them speeches? Or the one who fed them hope?" With a flourish, he plucked a single white lily from the air—a conjured bloom that withered to ash in his palm—and scattered it at Brinn's feet. "We'll meet again. When the cracks widen. When the wolves return. And when you realize…" He glanced at the crowd, their faces a tapestry of doubt and yearning, and sighed as if mourning a lost cause. "…that kindness is the first lie tyrants tell themselves." He melted into the crowd then, his form dissolving like mist under the morning sun. But his final words lingered, carried on a sudden gust of wind that reeked of lavender and iron: "Pitax remembers its friends. Choose wisely." "Citizens of Rivermarch," Tybalt began, his voice cutting through the lingering unease left by Grigori's departure, "you have heard Grigori's honeyed words, but even the sweetest fruit can hide a poison pit. He showed you illusions of Pitax—a city gilded in gold and free from hardship. But you and I know better. True strength is not conjured from thin air, nor is it bought with hollow promises." Gesturing to the young mother holding her child close, and the carpenter who spoke of his missing cousin, Tybalt continued, "I see the weight you carry. Your burdens are real, but so is your strength. Look around you! What I see before me is not weakness, but the bedrock of a kingdom forged by your hands, your sweat, and your resolve." He turned to the weaver, still clutching the vial Grigori had given her. "Our homes are still rising, our roads still rough, but every hammer stroke, every seed planted, every night spent keeping watch is proof that we do not need sorcery to build something *real*." He pointed toward the muddy commons, the half-built structures, and the tired yet determined faces. "Pitax may shine from afar, but its glow is that of a distant flame, flickering and fleeting. What we have here is an ember, small but enduring, and together we will fan it into a blaze that no enchantment can snuff out." Grigori spoke of wolves. Tybalt's eyes met the crowd's, one by one. "Let them come. Wolves do not fear the illusions of Pitax. Wolves fear the fire in your hearts, the strength in your hands, and the unity that binds us." He offered you hope wrapped in magic, but hope cannot be conjured. Hope is built. And Rivermarch is built on hope, on trust, and on every one of you who refuses to yield." He stepped forward, placing a hand on the shoulder of a farmer gripping his scythe. "We are Rivermarch. Not a dream in the wind, but a kingdom rooted in the earth. No matter who whispers from the shadows, we will rise together." Raising his hand high, voice unwavering, "Stand tall, Rivermarch. Our future is ours to forge. I am Tybalt Rattigan, and I stand with you." The moment stretched, thick with the weight of Tybalt's words. The air, once choked with uncertainty and doubt, now carried something steadier—resolve. A beat passed before the blacksmith moved, shifting his hammer on his shoulder. His grip, once white-knuckled with tension, eased. He exhaled sharply, a short, deliberate sound, then turned back toward his forge. The first ember of momentum. The farmer with the scythe followed, nodding once to Tybalt as he passed. His steps were firmer now, no longer the wary shuffle of a man uncertain of his own strength. He had planted seeds before—he knew the value of patience, of persistence. He would not abandon the fields of Rivermarch, nor the hands that tilled them. Among the others, the energy shifted like the first wind before a storm. The murmurs, once poisoned with fear, now carried the cadence of conversation—some in agreement, some still uncertain, but no longer shackled by the weight of Grigori's whispers. A woman adjusted her grip on a basket, eyes lingering on the spot where the silver-haired speaker had stood before turning away. A merchant rolled his shoulders, the tension in his jaw easing as he muttered something to his apprentice. The young mother still held her child close, her fingers woven into the fabric of the threadbare shawl. She looked down at the vial, her lips pressing into a thin line. Then, slowly, she let out a breath and turned toward the rising sun, walking toward the morning's work. The weaver hesitated the longest. Her hands flexed at her sides, the absence of the vial still fresh. She glanced toward Tybalt, then toward Brinn, her brows furrowing. There was a war still waging inside her, a battle between easy comfort and hard-earned hope. Finally, with a quiet breath, she straightened her shoulders and turned toward the market stalls, her fingers already reaching for the fabric she had set aside that morning. A shift in the crowd. Small movements—people turning, adjusting, stepping forward. There were no grand declarations, no fanfare. Just the sound of footsteps returning to work, to purpose. Not all had been swayed. A few still lingered, their eyes shadowed with doubt, their expressions unreadable. They did not move to argue, nor did they join the rest. Some turned away, slipping into the alleyways of Rivermarch's growing streets. Others remained, watching, waiting. But the tide had turned. The morning had begun with whispers of discontent, with Grigori's voice wrapping them in a net of fear and longing. Now, as the people of Rivermarch moved, worked, and built, those whispers faded beneath the steady rhythm of a kingdom finding its footing.