District 2
The city of kings, the alabaster dream carved into the cliffs, basked under the noonday sun like a god showing off. District 2 rose tier after tier, crowned with marble domes and dagger-like spires that seemed to duel the heavens. From the cascading ivy on noble balconies to the glittering canals below, every corner gleamed with the arrogance of old money.
At its peak stood the Grand Citadel—half cathedral, half fortress, and entirely intimidating. Bells tolled in measured waves, their echoes bouncing off stone and sea, as if reminding the city it was always being watched.
And then, chaos galloped through the gates.
A black horse tore down the polished streets with speed that bordered on absurd. Behind it, chaos followed: cathedral guards, panting horses, clanging swords, and the most theatrical chase District 2 had seen since Archbishop Salas slipped on a communion tray during last year's Holy Feast.
"Stop him!" a guard shouted with admirable commitment, though his horse clearly disagreed, choosing instead to swerve and toss him into a cabbage cart.
The rider in front leaned into the wind, his hood snapping back to reveal long dark hair brushing just above his eyebrows. His face was sharp, smirking, unmistakable matched the freshly plastered wanted posters fluttering on every wall he galloped past.
Mark of Xec.
Known throughout Mediva as the fastest messenger alive. Known by the Church as a slippery menace with a price on his head: fifty thousand silver pieces. Enough to make anyone in District 4 retire with two goats, a vineyard, and a wife who didn't question his past.
But Mark wasn't just a thief. Oh no, he had stolen The Book of History itself.
A myth to most, but a dangerously real relic to those who understood its power. Said to hold the entire history of Mediva, it chronicled the rise of Kael, the age of demons, the founding of Mediva, and secrets no one dared whisper aloud. And now it was in the hands of this man, Mark.
But its existence was just a myth, know one knows where it was, until now, only Mark and someone in the church knows about it.
The church said he stole a holy object.
As Mark swerved left down Scribe Alley, he narrowly missed an old woman balancing fish on her head.
"Watch it, you long-haired delinquent!"
"Apologies, madam! Gorgeous fish, by the way!" he called over his shoulder.
Far behind, the Cathedral guards redoubled their efforts, but the man now in charge of the chase was... less than inspiring.
Vice Commander Lamsjaw was a short man, round in body and somehow rounder in face. His nose, broad and bulbous, made him look less like an officer of justice and more like a turnip that had taken an oath.
"What is he doing here?!" Lamsjaw shrieked, jogging alongside his poor horse which had absolutely given up on the chase.
"Spotted him near Down Lane, sir. No idea what he was doing there."
"Chase him! Surround the square! Cut him off before he—"
"Sir! He just turned back!"
"Back? As in… here?!"
Before anyone could answer, a shadow swept over them. Lamsjaw looked up, and promptly regretted it.
Mark of Xec soared overhead, his black horse leaping from rooftop to rooftop like a demonic ballerina.
For a long, bewildered moment, no one said anything.
Then a guard beside Lamsjaw whispered in awe, "...He's so cool."
Lamsjaw slowly turned to the speaker, squinting, his round nose twitching with rage. "What did you just say?"
"I—I didn't say anything! I said... he's a fool! A flying fool!"
Another guard burst out laughing.
"What! Are you laughing at my nose?!" Lamsjaw snapped, holding his face.
"No sir," the laughing guard said between wheezes. "Your... bravery. Yes. That."
A shout came from down the lane. "Vice Commander Lamsjaw! Mark's getting away!"
"Ahhh! After him!" Lamsjaw screamed, eyes bugging, arms flailing like a chicken in a thunderstorm.
The guards chased Mark until they hit the western wall and found nothing.
"Sir," a younger guard huffed, "we lost him."
"How?!"
"He slipped through the walls."
"The... walls?"
"Yes sir."
Lamsjaw pinched the bridge of his very large nose. "Tricky... very tricky. The whole of Mediva is enclosed by the Great Wall. Each district has two main gates connecting routes to the others, except District 1, which has three—north, east, and west, due to its circular structure—"
The guards stared blankly at him.
"District 1 north connects to District 2 east and District 3 west. The west connects to District 2 south and District 4—"
"Sir," one guard finally asked, "what are you saying?"
"He's heading to District 4!"
"Why?"
"To avoid our checkpoints. From District 4, he'll pass between its walls and the Great Wall, then exit through the Great Gate. His destination... is the Forest of Shadows."
A hush fell.
Then a snicker.
"Wow. I've never seen someone so ugly be that smart."
Lamsjaw spun like a startled badger. "Who said that?!"
Silence.
"Never mind. Send word to Lord William. Raise the Red Signal. Mark of Xec cannot leave Mediva."
He squinted at the horizon, where rooftops stretched into shadow.
"Because if he does... we'll never catch him again."
——————————
The Palace of District 2 loomed like a golden mountain carved by divine hands, more accurately, by obscene amounts of tax money. A massive square-shaped edifice of alabaster stone and shimmering spires, trimmed in gold that caught the light like blades, almost similar to the cathedral palace of District 1. It was both a statement of power and a shrine to wealth.
This was the domain of Lord William Johnboug, ruler of District 2. A man born into old blood and older money.
Inside, the palace was no less gaudy. The marble floors gleamed with a gloss that whispered of imported polish and overworked servants. Cathedral guards stood at attention along the corridors, their ceremonial spears polished to blinding silver.
But as Vice Commander Lamsjaw approached, each man relaxed into "at ease."
Not because of fear.
Because of family.
Lamsjaw, short and round as a teapot, walked with exaggerated confidence, his chin tilted upward to match the pride he felt in being both a military officer and a cousin, though distant to the lord himself. It was a connection he never let anyone forget, especially not the guards who now subtly nodded as he passed.
He marched straight to Lord William's chambers.
The two guards flanking the ornate gold door didn't so much as blink. One reached for the handle, the other gave a short bow, and together they opened the chamber with smooth precision.
A warm, almost dizzying floral fragrance wafted out, the kind found only in royal gardens or overpriced brothels. Lamsjaw stepped in and nearly slipped.
Everything was gold.
Gold vessels. Gold furniture. Gold-framed portraits of Lord William doing absurdly heroic things—slaying a demon with a spoon, wrestling a lion in a nightgown, kissing a maiden with the sun shining only on his head.
Even the floor was gold-tiled. Lamsjaw squinted. Was that a mural of Lord William defeating poverty with a flex of his arm?
And in the center of it all sat the man himself: Lord William, the poster boy for gluttony in a holy man's robes.
Fat, flushed, and smiling with the smugness of someone who had never been told "no" since birth, he reclined on a throne so gilded it probably had its own tax bracket. Around him lounged three half-dressed women, their hands lazily rubbing scented oils into his arms and shoulders.
Lamsjaw wrinkled his nose.
"I thought you were a Bishop?" he said, voice dry as desert dust.
It was a line he used often. And he knew exactly how much it annoyed William.
As expected, the lord's smile twitched.
"I was only given the title," William replied, waving the women off with a lazy flick of his hand. "It doesn't mean I have to act like one."
He sat up straighter, draping one gold-ringed hand over his belly like a satisfied snake. "So? What brings my favorite wart-nosed cousin to my chambers today?"
Lamsjaw ignored the insult like rain on a turtle shell.
"Mark the Messenger was here today," he said flatly.
William blinked. "Here? In this district?"
Silence.
Lamsjaw stared at him as if waiting for his brain to catch up.
"I need permission to raise a Red Signal."
That made the lord sit up.
"A Red Signal?" William's voice dropped. "Is it... that serious?"
Lamsjaw's eye twitched.
"Stop asking me stupid questions."
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Lord William's face darkened. "Know your place, fool. I may be your cousin, but I'm still your superior."
"And you," Lamsjaw said, rubbing his temple, "are a Bishop who bathes in women and gold."
William huffed. "Do what you like. Raise your Red Signal. Just—don't burn my district down. Gold's not fireproof."
The vice commander gave him a long, unreadable look. Then, without another word, he turned and stomped out, his short legs carrying him with surprising speed.
Behind him, Lord William slumped back into his throne, grumbling, "Next time, I'm choosing a different cousin."