NONE SO VILE

08: We The People

Albedo, Rennaire, 1802.

Lord Minister Joachim La Valette stopped in the street, throwing his feathered arms up in exasperation. “By God man, what now!?" He exclaimed. “You make me wait out here much longer, and I'm going to freeze my beak off."

Leon grinned, staring at a corner bakery that had caught his eye. Even out here in the street he could smell the freshly baked bread, practically feel the warmth radiating off the ovens within. People came and went, their loaves and pastries wrapped up tight and nestled beneath their arms, a gaggle of hungry street urchins swarming in the gutters outside, hoping for crumbs thrown their way.

“Winter is closer every day, Minister," Leon replied, waving his eyebrows at Joachim. The crane only tutted, and Leon shrugged. “The attitude of the city is harsh now, imagine what happens when things get colder, and the crops are leaner?"

“They can hardly get worse," Joachim replied, spinning on the spot as he realised Leon wasn't following him anytime soon. Abolitionist symbols were slathered in paint along the alleyway bricks, papers declaring the King a traitor glued up against the shuttered windows of bankrupt businesses. “Did you hear about La Tour de Sel? The rabble have made camp outside for nearly a week now, protesting, so they say. Not to mention the effigies, the vandals, the bloody newsletters."

“Jacques!" Leon snapped his fingers and the rat appeared, ears perked up.

“Leon!" Joachim whined. “You may have a fur coat but I assure you feathers are somewhat finer. Besides, if we make Monsieur Bartolomé wait any longer, he might change his mind… or die of old fucking age."

“Yes, General?" Jacques asked, pointedly ignoring the whinging crane.

“That bakery." Leon pointed it out, passing his family ring over to the rat. “I want you to go there and authorise a letter of commerce. I will pay for every order they give out for the rest of the day."

Jacques paused, as if worried he was being tricked.

“Did I just hear you right?" Joachim asked, stepping up. “Leon, dear boy, I must counsel you; one charitable act is not likely to make a difference in this climate. Put it from your mind, and instead come hear what Bartolomé has to say."

“Are you sure, General?" Jacques asked.

Leon nodded. “Of course. Make sure they know it came from me, and make sure they talk about it, yes? Take your time, come find me at Bartolomé's manor when you're done."

Jacques nodded sharply, spinning on his heel and rushing out to the bakery.

“Are you trying to become some sort of peasant saint, Leon?" Joachim asked, as the two of them headed deeper into the city. The breeze tugged at Leon's fur, the early overcast sky somehow blinding overhead. The buildings on this side of the city were squeezed close together, forming nasty little wind tunnels that whistled and howled as the air burst through like a stampeding herd of beasts.

“Not a saint, merely a decent man," Leon replied, shaking his head. “You spend too long in that palace, Joachim. The people out here are real people, they need to be heard, and they deserve to feel like there is someone who understands them. Think of it like this–" He pointed to a blacksmith as they passed by, sparks flying in the air, the orange glow illuminating the wolf's weathered face. “–without these people, there is no Rennaire. We must put our egos aside and remember that you and I, indeed all of the nobility, produce nothing real, nothing substantial. What good is a General without an army, or a mason without stone?"

“You are going to enjoy speaking with Monsieur Bartolomé," Joachim said, sighing. “I fear introducing you two is like introducing fire to bramble."

Besides, the commoners talk more than you think, Joachim. Word will get around.

As the two wound their way through the disjointed alleyways, crossing bridges and stalls, Leon found himself studying the minister. His motivations were a true mystery, at odds with himself. On one paw, Joachim seemed to despise the poor of Rennaire, but on the other, he was the only nobleman Leon had met that spoke of allowing them to vote. Our goals are aligned for now, Minister, Leon thought warily. But I do not trust you further than I can throw you.

Joachim could sense the way the winds were changing, and was adjusting his course appropriately. He does not believe in the cause. He has no love for the common people. You must never forget that, no matter how much he talks about national reform.

Joachim had been painfully coy about this Bartolomé character, and the closer they got, the more Leon's trepidation grew. As they crossed another dried up canal, approaching a large manor, he couldn't shake the feeling they were doing something wrong.

“If you want real change, you must speak to Bartolomé," Joachim had said. “Tell nobody of our meeting, and we will leave the palace shortly after dawn." Jacques and Cosette had cautioned him against it, but something had to change. The city was collapsing on itself, and the King was growing more distant by the day.

Not to mention dear Émeric. He pictured the baby jaguar, innocent in his crib, that damning halo hovering inches from his head. Something had to change, and he knew any plea to the King would fall on deaf ears, at least so long as that gluttonous Cardinal Loïc was still in power.

No. Leon would not allow them to take his nephew – Cosette had lost enough.

A voice for the people. A childhood for my nephew. Rights for all men. It sounded so simple, all he had to do was convince the King to completely remake the entire country.

The guards outside the manor recognised Joachim immediately, ushering the two men through the outer wall and into the shaded compound with ease. They found themselves in a tight compound, a sanded horse rink filling up the centre, a single rider awkwardly trotting about in circles.

“Is that him then?" Leon asked, gesturing to a well-dressed badger standing at the edge of the rink. The badger's whiskers twitched, but his steely eyes remained focused on the bumbling young man in the rink, who was busy trying to convince the horse to let him steer it.

Joachim laughed, clucking as he threw his head back. “Oh my, no! That is his butler, Leon." The crane raised a feather arm, pointing to the bumbling young man on the horse. “That is Monsieur Bartolomé." Leon's face fell as he watched the tall goat fall from the saddle into the dirt, kicking up a huge cloud of dust.

“My Lord!" Called the butler, stiffening his posture as he announced. “Your guests have arrived."

The goat's head shot up and he beamed, clambering to his feet and patting the horse once on the neck. Leaving the beast to its own devices, Bartolomé came prancing over. Leon watched in horror. Joachim had been secretive, but he had promised Leon a thinker – a brilliant young mind poised at the forefront of the enlightenment movement, leading men forward with ideas that far outstripped his years.

This man was a dandy, dressed in a mustard-yellow tailcoat with a crimson vest beneath it. He had high brown leather boots over his breeches that nearly reached his knees, and for some reason, several rings dangling off his horns.

“That man is a leading thinker of philosophies?" Leon asked, glaring at Joachim.

The crane waved him off. “I told you he was a bohemian."

“Welcome Joachim! And you!" Bartolomé threw both arms up at Leon, eyes gleaming. “You must be this infamous General, Leon Valoisier!" The goat spoke with a slight flourish in his accent, like someone who had grown up in a western nation like Felise or Audanne. He lunged forward, seizing Leon's paw over the rink fence and shaking vigorously. “An absolute pleasure to meet you monsieur, oh yes, indeed it is my great fortune!"

“Are you learning to ride a horse, Bartolomé?" Joachim asked, cocking his head as the butler expertly wrangled the beast. “What happened to writing your great masterwork?"

“Oh it is puttering along, yes-yes," Bartolomé said, waving a paw. “But I do declare this a rather useful skill too. Minds need rest, Lord Joachim, such rest. The coming days are going to be dark and full of confusion–" he winked at Leon, “–and there may come a time when the people need someone to… guide them, a man on a horse, if you will, oh yes."

“And you plan to be that man," Leon said flatly. He was having a hard time believing this man even existed, let alone that he could lead anyone to anything except madness.

“Indeed!" Bartolomé did a little twirl, giggling. “But like any man on a horse, I am in need of a good sword, and my dear boy Leon, you are just the piece of metal I have been dreaming to forge!"

“What?"

Bartolomé swung back on the fence. “How much has dear Joachim told you?"

“Clearly not enough," the jaguar growled, eyeing the crane.

“If I told you everything, you might not have come."

Leon grunted, already feeling this was a waste of time. “He told me you were a man interested in putting forth a better future for our country, and her people. That you were a thinker. A…" He tried not to glare at the mustard coloured coat. “...learned man, in philosophy and sociology."

“Indeed I am! You look surprised, but no wonder, it is a shocking thing to witness a true child of enlightenment, no? Now-now, I assume you are familiar with the basic abolitionist rhetoric?" Bartolomé waved a paw in the air. “A nation is not the land it is built upon, but rather of the people which make it up, yes?"

“Kings do not think that way."

“And yet it is so," the goat's demeanour had shifted now. He was less playful, more serious. “You are suspicious of me, General, good, oh yes. Allow me to summarise my thesis to you with three salient points–"

The goat breathed in, leaning forward.

“First. The Will of the People." He grinned. “You have seen the city. The people demand to be heard, and if they are not they will eventually burn this city to the ground. They want a say in who rules them, and in how they do it."

“That is what you have been saying, is it not?" Joachim asked, nudging him.

“Second!" Bartolomé held up a finger. “Incompatibility. Good men deserve to be treated with equality, they deserve their liberty, their fraternity. People are arrested without cause, the commoners grow hungry while their rulers grow fat. The current system of absolute power wielded by a single man is incompatible with this mentality."

“Joachim…" Leon took a step back, his stomach turning. This conversation was beginning to feel… illegal.

“Just listen, General."

Bartolomé went on. “Third. Treason. The King's actions thus far are tantamount to treason of the nation's interests. How much money do we still send to Cielwen every year? Why, if it wasn't for your own intervention, I am certain we would have Losaile and Danegard suckling at our withered teat this very moment."

“You are the one talking treason," Leon replied, fists clenched. “This conversation is treason. Against the King, against the One God of all Men who sanctioned him."

Bartolomé chuffed. “I do not believe in God, Leon."

“You wanted change," Joachim said, stepping closer. “This is change."

“Change, yes, but not madness!" Leon exclaimed. “In Kiberland, they have a constitution that limits the monarch to–"

“Opium for the masses, nothing more!" Bartolomé exclaimed, slamming his fists down on the little fence surrounding his horse rink. “What they did in Kiberland was only because they smelt what was coming. They threw their populace a bone, and the masses ate it up.

“My thesis must be distributed to the people. I have a proposition of remaking the government, with or without the King. We the people demand a voice, we demand equality, and we demand justice!"

“I agree, but not–"

“Like this?" Joachim asked, leaning in. “Then how, Leon? You plan to ask the King nicely? You plan to tell the Stone Queen herself that she can't have her summer palace? Let me tell you this; do you know that for the past nine months, Paul Vardé has been seizing the assets from the lower gentry to help prop up the nation's treasury? Illegal arrests, illegal seizure of property, all because that fat cunt can't stop eating cakes!"

Leon's heart sank. “I knew there was corruption… but…"

“That filthy lizard, Alabaster, making a mockery of our own people as the King dances to him like a puppet! And Cardinal Loïc?" Joachim pushed. “The head of the damned Church, using donations to buy whores and wine to fill his mansion! Not to mention every other one of them, corrupt, traitors, all of them!"

Bartolomé leered over his fence. “Something must be done."

Joachim clenched his fist. “Something will be done."

“What you are talking about…" Leon shook his head. “It has never been done! I want to fix this country, I believe in it, but Joachim… not like this."

“How then?" The crane asked. “We can do this. The people adore you Leon, the army adores you. Like you said to me outside that bakery, those people are Rennaire, and if they follow you there is nothing the King can do about it."

“People will get hurt," Leon said. His mouth was dry, he felt like he was losing his mind. “Deposing the King? Do you realise how much chaos that will bring?"

“It will be fast," Joachim promised. “Like cauterising a wound. Your marshals will use the army to assume control, the King will be tried, and before anyone realises what has happened we will be in control."

“Listen to yourself!" Leon exclaimed. “We swore oaths of loyalty, and you propose this?"

“You won't say it," Bartolomé added. “Dancing around the word. Why? Are you afraid of making it real, General?"

“I'm not afraid of anything!" Leon snapped. “I want change, but I also want what is best for this country!"

“So say it," the goat whispered, grinning. “Revolution."

“I should arrest you," Leon replied, hackles on his neck rising. His fist found the hilt of his sabre, curling around the grip. “I should cut you both down right now, for betraying this country."

“Phillipe has betrayed this country, Leon," Joachim replied. “You know it as well as we do, otherwise you would have arrested us already."

What will the King do when he finds out about Émeric? The image of the jaguar cub with his tiny, ominous halo burned in Leon's mind. Cosette had told him she would flee the city, and Leon had begged her to stay. Do you really think you can convince the Cardinal he should just give up on an Angel? The King is already looking for a reason to hang you, defying the Church would just tie the knot for him.

Bartolomé's words made sense. The points of his thesis were not wrong, especially when aided with Joachim's revelations about Paul Vardé and the other nobility.

But what they're talking about… Leon swallowed the dry lump in his throat. It had never been done, not since the days of Kazmar the Great… and the world had changed a great deal since then.

“We can build a better world," Joachim whispered. “A country free of dictates from the Crown, the Church, and other nations."

“No Gods, No Kings," said Bartolomé, slowly emphasising each word. “Only man."

Leon's fist shook on his sword hilt. He had to turn them in. Had to. There was no other option. Joachim was not an innocent man, and he had no doubt this Bartolomé was not either.

He was inches from drawing the sword when the door to the courtyard burst open. The three of them whirled to see Jacques come running over, the rat out of breath, clutching a scrap of paper in one shaking paw.

“Jacques, what is this?" Leon asked, as the rat almost collided with him. He shoved the paper into Leon's paws – hastily written orders.

“La Tour de Sel," Jacques gasped. “Last night, armed commoners burst through the gates and seized control of the prison. They have killed the Warden at least, and possibly more. Monsieur Alabaster… is inside, I believe. The city guard is there but they are requesting a military presence!"

“You see what happens, Leon?" Bartolomé asked, throwing his head back and laughing. “It begins already!"

“No!" Leon roared. “Not like this!" The commoners were angry, he understood that. But if they stayed this course they'd be hanged to a man. It would be a bloodbath, and the divide between King and people would eclipse everything else.

I will unite this country, Leon told himself, trying to control his breathing. I will bring peace, order, and justice.

“There is a better way," he said to Bartolomé, releasing his grip on the sword. “People need a voice, then they can be reasoned with. I am going to show you."

“I hope to be proven wrong, General," the goat replied. “But I know there is only one way forward, and it is paved with corpses."

It was bedlam outside the prison. Leon had left Joachim behind, practically sprinting through the streets with Jacques in his wake. Inside he was worried about the people, but also exalted with the chance to do something real. If he could defuse this situation, prevent loss of life or property, then the King would finally see he wasn't a threat.

We're lost in the woods, and the only way we're getting out is by working together. The King wants what is best, he's just blinded to the people.

Several city guards tried to stop him as he reached the soldiers blockade, but Jacques quickly corrected them on their manners, and the men snapped out salutes as Leon passed by. He was not the only General in Albedo, but he was the most experienced, the most famous, and the closest. Men ran every which way, crouching down behind some wagons which were propped up as barricades.

Two ranks of city guards stood at the front, the first row knelt down, eighteen smooth-bore muskets aimed towards the prison gates. There were thirty or forty metres of no-man's-land, and then the peasants' own defensive perimeter. Leon could hardly see for all the people, but from what he could tell the commoners had knocked the gates down when they first stormed the gaol, and now closed off the only entrance to the compound with an overturned carriage and other garbage they'd found. The tower itself – La Tour de Sel – stood ominously behind the frightened commoners, blotting out the sky.

He pushed through the milling guards, head on swivel as he tried to find who the hell was supposed to be in charge here. As he went, he caught snippets of conversation as the guards discussed their next move.

“–been camped up all bloody night, just wait, they'll get hungry!"

“I say we go in there, how many guns could they have?"

“And that's if they know how to use 'em!"

“Hang the bastards!"

Men spat, swore, and scowled.

This is how a city tears itself apart, Leon thought, the hackles on his neck standing tall. He had to seize control, find a way to disarm and de-escalate the situation before it got even worse.

“General Valoisier!" Leon sighed as he recognised Paul Vardé, the lion waving stupidly towards him. Unfortunately, he seemed to be standing next to a robust fox giving out orders, and Leon had no choice but to approach. Paul Vardé was so excited by the action he practically fell over as he bowed. “Allow me… if you please… to introduce Captain Jean-Luc, head of this… this ward… and its guards." He bowed again, for some reason, nearly spilling the powdered wig from his head.

Ignoring the minister, Leon gave the Captain a sharp nod. “Captain, pleasure."

“Finally!" The fox grumbled, scowling. “Someone to bloody rip this farce into shape! Bloody rabble, bloody upstarts, can't wait to hang the lot of 'em."

“Alright then," Leon muttered, staring over the barricade down at the gates. “Let us not get ahead of ourselves here. These are our brothers and sisters, people of Rennaire like you or me. Surely we can come to an understanding, do we know what they want?"

“Same thing every lout does," Captain Jean-Luc sneered. “All their friends released, an end to arrests, no more city guards! Ha!"

“Imagine, ridiculous," Paul Vardé added, shaking his head.

“They've got hostages, the cowards," the Captain continued. “The Warden is dead I'm told, an accident so they claim, but there are others."

“And the King's lamplighter, Alabaster?"

“Such a loss," Vardé mumbled.

“I haven't seen that one," the Captain admitted. “Mostly prison guards. Men with families. Cowards." He tugged up his trousers, putting his back to La Tour de Sel and staring Leon down. “I shall speak plainly, General, I've a mind to storm those gates, bum-rush the lazy sods before they know what has hit them. They've stolen some guns from the tower's armoury, but I doubt they can use a musket with any sense of urgency."

“If you charge in there, Captain," Leon said through gritted teeth. “You will lose men, they will lose men, and nobody will come out well. What we need is a peaceful disarmament, and amnesty for them all."

“Amnesty!?" Captain Jean-Luc sputtered. “They're traitors, General!"

“They're scared."

Paul Vardé cleared his throat, leaning back smugly as if he'd all the answers hidden under his terrible wig. “I say we simply burn the rats out. Go full consequence, you can stay in the kiln… or you can come out and surrender."

Leon blinked at the lion, they looked at the giant prison tower. “Minister," he said slowly. “Has it occurred to you that La Tour de Sel is made of stone? What do you intend to set light to?"

“Oh… no-no…." Vardé waved his paws about. “I don't mean that… to say literally just… it's just an idea, that is all, you can… you can take it."

“Yes, thank you…" Leon shook his head, turning back to Captain Jean-Luc. “Has anyone tried to speak with them?"

“Not a man can get close, General," the Captain replied. “The moment anyone approaches, the fools start throwing bricks, even letting off shots. Thank God none of them are a half-decent shot, or someone might have been hurt."

“I see." Leon tried to imagine the scene inside – men that had seized a furious moment and were now being forced to deal with the repercussions. They probably realised they were dead men walking, and were planning on holding out as long as possible, praying for some kind of miracle.

“You had better do something, General," Paul Vardé added, unhelpfully. “The King will be very eager to see how you perform here."

“And does he know who caused this situation?" Leon asked the lion. “These men are angry because their brothers, their sons, keep being arrested under false pretence. Heard anything about that, Minister?"

Vardé's face fell instantly, and he leaned in to whisper. “Has Alabaster spoken to you? He speaks only lies, Leon, I hear the King even means to do away with him soon, if you could believe it!"

“Alabaster?" Leon shook his head. He'd had enough of this useless man. “Look, Paul, please get away. This is a military matter, not a financial policy, understood?"

“Well, I just–"

“I will have you whipped, man," Leon growled. The lion shrunk back, shaking his head and muttering as he puttered off.

Why bring up Alabaster? Leon glanced at the tower. What do you know, lamplighter? As much as he despised the dragon, it sounded like they should have a conversation.

“When shall we attack, General?" Jean-Luc asked, seemingly more comfortable now someone else had come along to take charge of the situation.

Or take the fall if it goes wrong, Leon thought. He left the command stage, instead stepping down to the side of the ranked men by the front.

“SOLDIERS OF RENNAIRE!" He bellowed in his most commanding voice. They were not soldiers really, only city guards, but the effect was the same, jostling them all and stiffening their backs. “YOU WILL LISTEN TO ME NOW!"

Down by the prison gates, something was thrown out into no-man's-land, glass smashing to a rise of cries. Leon flinched as a single shot rang out, a cloud of black powder smoke filling the air.

“WHO FIRED!?" He screamed, not caring for his own safety as he stepped in front of the ranked men. “Nobody is to fire without my express order!"

He scanned their formation, eyes settling on a shaking young fox, slowly lowering his musket.

“Captain!" Leon roared, signalling Jean-Luc and pointing the fox. “Take this boy and have him lashed!"

The fox swallowed, looking around as if someone would help. “B-but mon–"

“IT IS GENERAL!" Leon screamed at him. He was sick and tired of everyone being so eager for death. Hadn't he seen enough of that in Losaile, why did nobody want to resolve things peacefully? “GO!"

He watched the fox be disarmed and dragged off, straightening his back before the rank of guards.

“HEAR ME! Those are our brothers in there!" Leon bellowed, pointing to the prison blockade. “Breadmakers, blacksmiths, and stonemasons. We will not sentence them to death for the crime of seeking justice! In EIGHT minutes, your sergeant will call to fire. Do NOT injure your fellow man down there! Your shots will go over their heads, your shots will draw their fire! UNDERSTOOD?!"

The guards saluted, and Leon gave a sharp look to their sergeant, who nodded confidently. Satisfied, he stepped away, snapping his fingers at a second squad of guards standing by, ready to charge in if things started to get nasty.

“You men, with me," he barked, dragging them away from the prison, retreating deeper into the streets.

“Your name," Leon demanded of their sergeant, an older otter jogging to keep up with his pace.

“Sergeant Rale, General," the otter replied. He had a young man's voice and build, but the lines on his face told Leon he'd seen a few nasty situations in his day. “It is a pleasure to… meet you General, I read all of your accounts during the war with Danegard!"

“Alright Rale, that's good. Now, you keep your men organised, they are to do what I say when I say it, understood? We want to disarm these people, not execute them."

“Yes, General!" The otter tried to snap out a pithy salute, the gesture lost in their little run as the men circled around.

Leon dropped to a crouch, drawing his officer's sword and keeping it close to his body, peering around a corner and into the street. He saw the prison stand-off from the south side now, and from this far out, neither faction looked any different.

Scared men, trying to do what's right. That's all any of us are at the end of the day. The Church told it differently, but Leon had always doubted there were noble titles in heaven. The peasants inside the prison had made a mistake, and if they could be reasoned with, talked down from the precipice, then Leon could use that to show the King a path forward. A path without bloodshed.

“Sergeant Rale, fix bayonets," he said, without looking back. “And give me a pistol."

“Yes, General!" The otter barked out the commands, dropping his sidearm into Leon's waiting paw. The jaguar tucked it in his belt, shifting his weight as he stared down the street.

Peace. Peace in this nation at any cost. This was what men like Bartolomé would have the streets descend into – mob rule. Leon despised the thought. His mind was filled with images of what could be, of all Albedo razed to the ground, of the streets collapsing into the Undercity, of blood pouring from every home.

In Leon's new Rennaire, it would be the rich who suffered. Dragged down from their ivory towers, their wealth spread out to those who needed it most. The King will listen. After this, he will hear me, he has to.

Eight minutes passed.

In the street, the first volley went off, the shots flying over the heads of the commoners just as Leon had instructed. Frightened, the rioters reacted, firing back in a random motley of disorganised potshots. As the final shot died, Leon started counting in his head.

An experienced company of soldiers could fire and load four musket rounds a minute in the heat of battle. It took dedication, practice, and relentless drills to burn that kind of muscle-memory into their heads – reloading a smooth-bore musket was a relatively simple task, but there were many steps, and it had to be done calmly and smoothly for everything to work.

These were peasants armed with stolen guns. They had no coordination, no proper training, and at best a few veterans retired from the military in their number. Leon guessed they would struggle to get off one shot a minute.

“Now, to me!" He cried, dashing out from cover as the guards behind bumbled to their feet, taken by surprise. They were certainly no General's Waistcoat, but they would do for now. Leon needed numbers, not killers.

The commoners saw them approaching down the side, a cry of alarm sounding up as the disorganised rioters began to panic. Leon ducked as bricks were hurled into the street. One smashed into the ground before breaking in half and spraying up into the leg of a guard. The man cried out but continued his charge.

“Put down your arms!" Leon cried, but his voice was lost to the cacophony. There was only one way to stop this from becoming an atrocity – he had to take control of the situation.

Leon reached the makeshift barricade, one of the commoner's shoving a makeshift spear out towards him. He dodged the sluggish stab, grabbing the shaft and snapping the wood with the blade of his sword. The burnt ruins of the wagon had plenty of holes to poke through, and Leon had to be careful as he stabbed into each peephole, just trying to force the men back.

“OVER! OVER!" He bellowed to his guards, taking hold of the overturned wagon wheel and hefting himself up. The men were hesitant, but Sergeant Rale did his best to force them to start climbing.

Leon parried a swipe from a wolf with an axe, kicking the man back so he fell into the crowd. Someone drew an ancient-looking musket on him from the crowd, and in one smooth motion Leon brandished his pistol and shot the man dead.

“STOP!" He cried, swiping again at the commoners below, his detachment of guards finally joining him on the barricade, their muskets aimed down at the swarming commoners. “ENOUGH!"

An air of silence suddenly overtook them all, the deafening cries dying out all at once. The commoners stared up, wide-eyed at the line of guardsmen aiming down at them.

Fish in a barrel. Leon saw reality start to hit them, the back ranks slowly creeping away. The dream was over. The glorious salvation of all their unjustly arrested friends had failed, and no doubt each man was certain he'd be hanged. They looked to him, recognition in some of their faces, abject horror in the rest. One night of madness, finally brought to heel with sudden clarity.

“AMNESTY!" Leon cried. “AMNESTY NOW, FOR ANY MAN THAT SURRENDERS TO ME THIS MOMENT!"

A nervous murmur rippled through the people. Was it a trick? Surely they couldn't get off that easily. Men exchanged suspicious looks, and Leon noticed a few paws tightening around their stolen weapons.

“We have had enough violence!" He called out. “For those of you who do not know me, I am General Valoisier, hero of Zolfreun! I am here to tell you if you lay down your arms peacefully, there will be no repercussions! We can end this, right now!"

“LIAR!" A tall fox from the back cried. He was unarmed, but dressed in a long coat draped in an abolitionist flag, a tricorn sitting loosely on his head. “ALL NOBILITY ARE LIARS!"

“I am one of you!" Leon replied. “An enlisted man, a General on merit! I feel your pains, and I shall take them to the King myself! But I cannot have them listen if you give in to your anger!"

“General," Sergeant Rale whispered. “Should we fire a warning shot?"

“Absolutely not!" Leon hissed. “You'd throw oil onto my fire right after I put it out?"

Am I the only one interested in stopping this?

“Things are bad now!" He cried out to the people below him. “Times are lean. You feel the King does not hear you. But I hear you, and I can be your voice to the Crown!"

“And if the Crown doesn't listen to you, monsieur!?" The flag-wearing fox cried again, laughing. “What then? Will you say please?"

Leon's brows tightened, and he levelled his sword, the tip aimed right at the man. “Do I not look like a serious person to you, monsieur? I am the greatest General in this nation, the King will hear me. I swear!"

He saw nodding faces, smiles, relaxed postures.

“Can my men come down?" Leon asked them, addressing every man at once. “Will you peacefully surrender to us, and go home to your families?"

“HE LIES!" The fox cried, but already men were lowering their weapons. The fight was gone from them, the momentum lost.

Leon smiled, sheathing his sword as he descended from the overturned carriage, the crowd opening up to allow him and his men forward. The commoners laid down their weapons, stepping away to collapse, many in tears.

“Did the King really tell you they could have amnesty?" Sergeant Rale whispered to him. “Is that why this took so long?"

“Yes," Leon lied. He would make it so. “Hanging these men will only make things in the city worse."

He stopped before the fox with the flag. Behind them, his men gingerly took the weapons from the rioters, moving them aside so the guards could start clearing the barricades.

“And you, monsieur?" Leon asked. “Will you surrender to me, or must we duel?"

The fox studied him, suspicious. “What is your game, General?"

“I only want what's best for this country and the people that inhabit it."

“One of your men was here," the fox added. “The necromancer. You think he is what's best for Rennaire?"

“Alabaster." Leon nodded. “Is he alive?"

The fox glanced back at the tower behind them. “I do not know if you can call whatever is happening up there alive, General, but the people could not harm him. That is your nightmare to deal with."

Leon could not lie and say that a part of him was disappointed the dragon was still alive. But I need to know what he learned about Paul Vardé.

“What is your name, monsieur?"

The fox spat. “I am the Speaker. My old name does not matter. All that matters is our cause."

“And what is that cause?"

“Freeing the people of Rennaire. From tyranny, from injustice, and from the cowardice of lesser men. This is not my movement, General, understand I am merely the Speaker." The fox sighed, pulling his hat down and holding it before himself. “But I suppose I must surrender. For what it is worth, General Valoisier, I do not believe your claims of amnesty, but I hope to be proven wrong. This nation needs decent men."

“Thank you," Leon clapped the man on the shoulder, taking the pistol from his paws and leaving to enter the prison itself.

Inside the city guards had already taken control. It seemed the majority of the commoners had all been amassed outside, but those that were huddled within the prison had now stood down, giving up their weapons as they sat against the wall. There was no way to tell who was a freed prisoner and who was an invader, but Leon had no plan to find out. He would let every man free, damn what the King said. The people needed kindness, after all – you could only tighten a leash so much before you choked the dog.

“General," Captain Jean-Luc appeared at Leon's side, an ill expression on his square features. “I must ask you. The King's mystic…"

“Alabaster, yes," Leon's mouth went sour. “What of him?"

The Captain sighed. “I believe he is located upstairs, sequestered in a room. None of my men will go there, they say it is unholy."

“Unholy? Do you lead men, or mice, Captain?" Leon shook his head. “For fuck's sake. I'll do it myself."

“Thank you Gen–" Leon shoved the fox aside, storming up the steps, the metal clanging beneath his boots.

A part of him actually looked forward to arguing with the dragon. No doubt he would claim that every peasant deserved a hanging, that there was no authority without cruelty or some other nonsense. It was almost a relief knowing he could let out his frustrations on the mystic.

Unholy. Leon shook his head. There is nothing mystic about Alabaster Rafiq, Leon thought. It was all carefully curated rumours designed to give him influence. The man was manipulative, not magical. Magic comes from Angels, from the blood of God. There is no…

His thoughts went quiet as he reached Alabaster's floor. Leon swallowed a dry lump, his heart pounding in his ears.

“What in God's name?" He whispered, stepping forward, boot sticking to something slimy.

Now he realised why the guards had called it unholy, and Leon couldn't blame them. In front of him stood a closed door, looking more like a bullet wound on a soldier's gut than a piece of architecture. Red tendrils swarmed across it, foul stinking goo dripping from the bricks and piling by the floor. The only word that Leon had to describe it was infested.

He stepped forwards, drawing his sword, every instinct in his body screaming at him to stop, to go back, run. He pressed on, reaching out to turn the slick handle, hinges creaking as the door swung open to reveal the dim cellblock.

The oil lamps had died sometime during the night, and the only light was the overcast haze streaming through a single window at the end. Alabaster sat beneath the window, covered head-to-toe in gore, one arm suspended in a makeshift sling fashioned from his own torn robes. Eldritch mounds rippled across the bricks, and numerous dismembered bodies surrounded the lamplighter, their own innards long dried out.

“Come no closer, General," Alabaster croaked, his voice dry. “It has been… a long night."

“What is the meaning of this horror, Alabaster?" Leon asked, stepping forward. He'd be damned if this bastard dictated what he did. “What have you done?"

“What I had to," the dragon snarled. “As always. Fear kept them at bay, better for all our sakes. You think they would have been kind to someone like me?" He gave a dry, slow laugh. “I have always been complicit in this regime's crimes, and the people know it. Don't pretend the commoners would have any mercy, they are no less prejudiced than any nobleman. All they see is cold blood, and hard scales." He raised his arm, chuckling softly. “But can I blame them?"

“You're coming with me," Leon said. “The people surrendered to me. This is over."

“Well done, General."

Leon frowned. “You don't sound very surprised."

Alabaster shoved himself to his feet, grunting softly. “You want me to give you a medal, Valoisier? Tch. Not much surprises me anymore."

“Time to go," Leon said, moving forwards to grab the lamplighter.

“I said come no closer!" Alabaster snapped.

The edge in his voice gave Leon pause, and he was about to ask why when something slithered down from the roof. His mind floundered trying to explain it, and the nearest counterpart he could reach was centipede – though even an insect was too close to nature to be an adequate comparison. Whatever Alabaster had kept up here, it was like nothing in nature.

Built out of bodies, the thing descended unnaturally, a heaving mass rolling down the wall on interlocking joints, each limb moving independently of the others. It was maybe three times the size of a man, a mangled patchwork of corpses and limbs, an abomination with no clear front or end, only a crawl of disembodied paws, fingers, and eyes.

“May the One God look away from me," Leon whispered, so stricken the idea of drawing his sword did not even occur to him. He looked upon something that he felt certain in his bones should not exist. No part of it seemed connected to any other part seamlessly, like a piece of trickery made real before him. From within it echoed a nauseating chthonic hum, almost a growl, barely audible but easy to feel, vile notes that plucked at the strings of Leon's muscle.

“My golem," Alabaster muttered, pushing up to his feet. He sighed as the creature crossed over the hall between them, falling apart as it did so. Ethereal stitching came loose, the unlife bleeding from the limbs. Leon blinked, staring now at a jumbled mess of dismembered bodies before him. He couldn't even hold in his mind what it had just been only moments earlier, like a child unable to see the monster – once it was revealed to be old laundry.

“Was that… was that real?" He gasped, tongue so dry it scraped along his teeth. Foolishly, Leon's eyes went over Alabaster's head, as if he might have missed a halo there once before.

The dragon approached slowly, half-limping. “I am no Angel, General, in any sense of the word. Something had to put the fear of hell into those men, or they would have strung me up with the other guards of this damned tower."

“What trickery?" Leon asked, his stomach turning. “What heresy? By God's vengeful stare, what are you, Alabaster?"

The dragon shrugged. “I am what I need to be, Leon. Fear kept the peasants at bay, and I only ever harmed those that would harm me first. That fear was a powerful tool, it kept me alive." He paused. “Do you think the King will fear his own people, after what transpired here?"

Leon rubbed at his neck, the hackles still standing. “You mean the riot? I pray he has better judgement."

You really are a necromancer. He felt himself staring at the dragon, scouring his smooth, blood-smeared scales as if seeing them again for the first time. The hard eyes. The sharp teeth. Everything they said about you… it was true.

“He should," Alabaster muttered. “Things are only going to get worse. You can only kick a hungry dog for so long before it bites back."

“Do not forget that you are part of that regime," Leon snapped, anger rising in him. The arrogance of this man was astounding. “I see you for what you are."

“Do you truly?" Alabaster stared at him, apparently done sharing his thoughts. Leon held his cold, red glare for a moment, refusing to be the one who looked away first. What is your game?

“Enough. I want to be out of this accursed room."

Leon shook his head, leading the injured mystic out of the bloodied hall and down the prison steps. The guards and prisoners shied away from him as they went, and Leon couldn't blame them.

“How did you accomplish this, Leon?" Alabaster asked, surveying the courtyard. The commoners were all sitting down now, cordoned off in little groups. Several guards worked at the barricade, pulling it apart to let everyone through.

“I spoke to them like they were people," Leon replied, strolling through the prison lobby. “And offered amnesty for any man who surrendered to me."

Alabaster laughed, stopping in the doorway before the outer compound. “Amnesty? The King truly allowed that?"

“He will, when I explain–" Leon paused as something changed in the air. A current ran through his stomach, static building up, the furs along his entire body prickling.

He looked towards the front of the compound, where guards were still busy pulling the makeshift barricade apart. Is that… Recognition clicked into place a second too late.

Thunder cracked directly overhead, ear-splittingly loud, a bolt of lightning shooting down in a single pillar, striking the makeshift barricade. The wood of the carriage was instantly fused into glass, exploding outwards in a hail of razor-sharp shrapnel.

“Back, fool!" Alabaster cried, seizing Leon and dragging him back into the tower as the shockwave blew forward. Outside screams filled the air as a wall of glass shards smashed against La Tour de Sel's limestone walls, shredding anyone caught in the open.

“Get off me, damn you!" Leon snarled, shoving the lamplighter back as he returned to the doorway, blinking through the clearing dust.

It was a slaughter. All over the compound people had fallen to the ground, covering their head as tiny pieces of glass and wood had delivered a hundred tiny cuts in their hide. Those unlucky enough to be caught near the blast had their paws wrapped around the smoking stumps at the end of their thighs, wailing so loud their lungs gave out.

“Why?" Leon muttered. “No, no, no-no-no–no–"

A xolo, stripped to the waist, walked through the newly-blown hole in the gate. His skin was black as oil, simple yellow patterns running across his chest and shoulders, a glowing black halo hovering inches over his head. Leon recognised him immediately, anyone would.

Lazare Toussaint, the twenty-third Angel.

“STOP!" Leon cried, his heart in his throat, voice lost to a wall of screams and crackling electricity. It was no use, the people who were unharmed enough to walk tried to run, but Lazare tensed, turning his body into a living conductor as lightning flowed through him, jack-knifing through the open air to rip great chunks out of the salted earth of the prison, leaving behind bloodied flowers of rubble and glass.

Leon fell to his knees, tears running down his face, helpless as he watched the desolation. Lazare grinned as he did it, eager to kill as all Angels were, indiscriminately slaughtering guards and peasants alike, men who had surrendered peacefully to Leon not twenty minutes earlier.

“G-General…" Sergeant Rale came stumbling over, a forearm-sized chunk of glass wedged in his gut. His mouth flapped uselessly, expression vacant. “W-Why?" He mumbled, collapsing face-first into the dirt.

What did I do wrong? Leon thought, frozen in place as the horror unfolded. All around him people died in agony, his own body refusing to move him, unable to look away as Rennaire's Angel continued to rip people apart with glee, the thunderclaps deafening overhead, the blinding streaks of light lashing the ground as massive puffs of dirt and smoke sprayed into the air. I saved them. I fixed this. Why? Why would they send Lazare after people who had already surrendered?

This is an execution. Anger curled Leon's paws into fists. There was no reason Lazare couldn't stop, but he didn't want to. He was just like the rest of them, filled with nothing but contempt for anyone he perceived as less than. One more symptom of a rotten system. The whole country was sick with that kind of cancer, down to the very core.

“Bastard," he muttered, teeth grinding in his jaw. “Bastards, all of them."

“You see, General?" Alabaster said, stepping beside him. “You see how far kindness will get you in this country?"

“I promised them amnesty," he whispered, watching as groups were blown to pieces, crawling across the ground, crying for mercy. Lazare laughed. “The King will hear about this… I'll tell him… this is a travesty, an atrocity, using an Angel on our own people!?"

Alabaster spun on him, seizing him by the collar. “You fucking fool!" He cried. “Who do you think ordered this? Who else could!?" He scoffed. “You're an idealistic child, Leon Valoisier, and I'd wager you'll be dead before the year ends. Pity, I almost started to think you would actually do something." Alabaster shoved him back, wincing as he rolled his arm, returning inside the prison while he waited out Lazare's attack.

He was right. That was your mistake, Leon realised. You thought the Crown was negligent. You thought the nobility was self-obsessed. They aren't. They know all about the suffering, and they are glad for it. The King isn't ignoring his people. He hates them.

There was only one way to stop this, Leon thought, finally pushing to his feet. He hated it, but Joachim and Bartolomé were right. An Angel used on their own people? This was treason. It was wrong.

He laid a paw on his sword, fingers curling around the hilt.

There is only one way to finally bring peace to Rennaire. It was the same way he'd brought peace to the stand-off earlier, the same way he'd brought peace to the war with Losaile and Danegard.

By seizing control.