“Hear, hear!” A voice called out from the back of the room.
“We all know damn well that the Atlassian elite serve themselves and their coffers, first and foremost. They send their spawn to Sophrosyne to study under those blasted Aetherborne, to continue this cycle of oppression built bytheirdesign, topreserve hierarchy based on one thing and one thing alone:Arcana.”
There was something off about the man as his energy intensified, growing red in the face as he continued his emphatic speech. It was hard to get a read on whether he was speaking genuinely, or putting on a show. His tells were in conflict, obscuring his intent. Did he even believe in the sharp words he was spewing off? Or was this a man acting in bad faith, pushing his own agenda?
“Weare the mortal majority! What good does their paltry magick even serve the rest of us? Why should representatives of less thanfive percentof the population speak on our behalf? Why should access to the elements mean that these privileged pricks should own our land, dictate our laws? Why were they even chosen to lead us in the first place?”
He made fair points in that regard, I had to admit, but the more this man spoke, the less I trusted the authenticity of his intentions.
“It’s not right!” An older woman seated close to the speaker cried out. “Damn theseaetherwhores. Damn them to the Abyss!”
“Indeed,” the speaker acknowledged. “Damn them all. And my friends, we could remain passive. We could wait for these bloodlines to die, for Resonance to fade out from history, making equals of us all. It’s bound to happen. But only time will tell if that takes decades, or centuries. And so I ask this of you all:Why wait?”
Despite my growing discomfort, I continued to scan the room, moving about unseen to get a closer look at certain people’s reactions. Expressions were grim as the man carried on, counting off various grievances against the Mirkovic family in particular. I could tell that at least half of the crowd was entirelyon board with the message of this speaker, but others seemed more skeptical. They had yet to be radicalized.
That told me that whatever this movement was, it was relatively new.
But so were the disappearances.
My ears pricked up when the sighing croon of a mourning dove traveled through the air, setting me on high alert. That cadence was familiar—and little gray bird, it was not. There were no doves in the awnings of this building. That was a signal from Jeremiah. The Pyrhhan guards were coming.
At the signal, Hans made a quiet exit. Jeremiah followed suit shortly after, neither of my men drawing any attention to themselves as they crept out. I quickly followed, despite the urge to hang back and observe how this crowd might react to an interruption from local law enforcement. It was more important that my men and I weren’t implicated here. We were technically outside of our jurisdiction, and the Lord of Embers would not stand for our interference… particularly not if I was involved.
Still, we had plenty of information to work with, troubling as it may be—with several leads to follow. This was a successful mission, and I made note to thank Tessa Kallys for the tip.
Once I was about half a kilometer out, I glanced back towards the Dogwood Inn and saw several of the Pyrhhan guardsmen ushering the crowd out. Their body language was stern, yet polite… Friendly, even. They were enforcing curfew, not stomping out the flickering embers of a resistance movement.
The Pyrhhan Guard had no idea what had been taking place in their own godsdamned backyard.
Useless bastards.
“So the speaker was definitely from Vindyrst,” Hans began once the three of us met up, returning to our horses. “And he’s clearly got some ulterior motives for riling up commoners in Pyrhhas.”
“Wait. Vindyrstian? Are you certain?” I asked.
Not that I doubted my lieutenant’s observations, but I was fairly skilled at picking up on regional accents... and the speaker had none to speak of.
“At least ninety percent sure. His belt buckle was Vindyrst steel—low grade leatherwork, I recognized it as part of a uniform set for the miners up in Squaller’s Peak. And when he counted off those grievances, he started with his thumb. Pyrhhans start counting on their forefingers.”
Two excellent observations. I felt a small swell of pride, the way I always did whenever the guards of my cadre reminded me why I had chosen them.
“That all tracks, then,” I replied. “Some of the attendees were murmuring about tensions in Vindyrst, specifically. The speaker could have been the source.”
“Bran Halsigg,” Jeremiah added. “That’s the name of the speaker, according to one of the guests. But he wasn’t part of the group of protestors we spoke to. I didn’t recognize his face.”
Nor had I—and he was a fairly recognizable fellow, what with the strong brows and the broken nose, not to mention the commanding presence. We would have noticed him before.
“Me neither,” Hans agreed. “He definitely wasn’t in the throng that harassed the Mirkovics.”
“We’ll need eyes on him, then,” I murmured, just loud enough to be heard over the stomps of our horses. “Run a background check through both our Archives, and the Pyrhhan Census. I want him followed, starting tomorrow.”
“Do you think this could be related to the disappearances?” Jeremiah asked.
It seemed damn near undeniable at this point. The motive was clearly there—escalating resentment towards Resonance, specifically towards Conduits, and the politically elite, which were often one and the same in Atlas.
But onlyonePyrhhan citizen had been abducted, as far as I was aware. Imogen Gillespie—a sixteen year old Fire Conduit, and an active attendee of the Studium—taken from her home during a break between academic quarters. And she came from a common family. The Gillespies were well off, if I remembered correctly, and their family was well-connected. But they weren’t official members in the court of the House of Embers.
The Jerricks boy had been lastseenin Pyrhhas, but he wasn’t Pyrhhan. He was from Vindyrst.