Grand Cathedral, District 1
The stained-glass windows of the cathedral glowed with the colors of dawn, casting sacred reds and blues across the marble floor like the blood and breath of angels. The air was thick with incense, and the distant chant of praying priests echoed softly through the vaulted halls.
Then came the pounding of boots, frantic, uncoordinated, desperate.
A cathedral guard burst into the corridor like a man chased by demons. His armor clanked as he ran, face flushed, breath ragged. Down the corridor, a cluster of military officers stood in quiet discussion. At their center: General Boyce, tall, imposing, with eyes like forged steel.
Beside him stood Commander Elvric, the stone-faced leader of District 2's forces, and Violet, his youngest commander, a sharp-witted woman with a voice soft as petals and eyes that hid razors.
The guard skidded to a halt, panting hard. He fell to one knee with a dramatic thud.
"Th–thank the heavens… Commander!" he gasped. "There's been a sighting…the fugitive, Mark the Messenger…he was seen in District 2!"
The words hit like a hammer. Elvric's mouth tightened into a thin line. Boyce's eyes widened.
"Where is he now?" Boyce asked, voice low but heavy with command.
"He's heading to District 4," the guard replied, gulping air. "It appears he's planning to reach the Forest of Shadows through the Great Gate!"
Elvric's face darkened. "How the hell does an eighteen-year-old outrun an entire city's guard?"
"They said he rode like a demon, sir," the guard replied. "Vice Commander Lamsjaw is setting up preparations to raise a Red Signal."
The moment the phrase left his mouth, the cathedral fell into stunned silence.
Even the distant chants seemed to falter.
Red Signal.
A signal that hadn't been raised for years. Not since during the rebellion of the revolutionary Absalom. Who attempted to assassinate the Pope and Archbishop Salas at the same time. It was reserved for national emergencies, traitors, or… war.
Boyce blinked once. Then his tone shifted, sharpened, cut through the stillness.
"Prepare the horses! Raise the Red Signal across the sky. I want all command units ready—we leave for District 4 immediately!"
"Yes, sir!" the guard barked and sprinted off, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.
Boots clattered against stone as the officers moved to follow the order, tension rising like a tide.
Violet walked alongside Boyce, her hands clasped behind her back. Her voice, as always, was gentle—like a whisper just before thunder.
"General… what do you think he's looking for there?"
Boyce didn't answer.
"Mark could've escaped cleanly," she continued. "No one would've found him if he'd just gone to ground. But he chose District 2. That's not a random decision."
Boyce kept walking.
Violet's tone shifted slightly, quieter but sharper. "Isn't that… Absalom's hometown?"
Boyce froze.
The name hung in the air like a blade waiting to drop.
He turned slowly to face her. His expression is unreadable.
"And what is that supposed to mean?" he asked, voice colder now.
"It means," Violet said, unfazed, "there's a lot going on that we aren't being told."
They locked eyes. Her calm gaze against his calculating one. A silent tension passed between them, of loyalty tested, of truths half-known.
Boyce exhaled slowly through his nose, as if trying to blow away the thoughts clinging to his mind. Then he turned.
"Commander Elvric," he barked. "Take your men to District 4. Shut down every route. Nobody leaves. Nobody enters."
Elvric saluted and disappeared down the corridor, already calling orders.
Boyce turned to the other commander.
"Commander Izen! You go to the Great Gate. Lock it down. No exceptions."
Izen saluted and ran.
Finally, Boyce looked back at Violet. For a moment, his eyes lingered, not in doubt, but with the kind of silent acknowledgement one gives a piece on a chessboard that might soon tip the game.
"You're with me," he said.
She nodded, her hand already on the hilt of her curved dagger.
Together, they turned and left the cathedral, the sound of alarm bells beginning to ring far in the distance.
Above the city, the sky began to change. From the tallest spire of the cathedral, a flare of crimson light rose into the heavens—long, searing, unmistakable.
The Red Signal had been lit.
And across all of Mediva, people looked up and knew:
Something big had just begun.
——————————
A tavern somewhere in District 1
The tavern was loud and full of life. Wooden beams lined the ceiling, with lanterns hanging down, casting a warm, flickering glow. The air smelled of roasted meat, spilled ale, and smoke. People crowded every table, soldiers, travelers, and townsfolk—laughing, drinking, and swapping stories.
In the center, a bard sat on a stool, playing a lute. Her voice rose above the noise, smooth and clear, catching everyone's attention. She wore a deep green cloak, and her songs filled the room with emotion, some soft and sad, others lively and bold.
It was the kind of place where stories began, where friends were made or lost, and where danger could be hiding in the next toast.
In the far corner, shadowed and quiet, sat a man.
He slouched low on a bench, a massive black bag still strapped over his shoulder like he hadn't bothered to take it off since arriving. His brown dreadlocks hung in loose cords around his weathered face. He wore a simple white shirt, sweat-stained and creased, tucked into black trousers that had seen better days. His boots were muddy, unlaced.
His name was Beckmann, and he was drunk.
Not just tipsy, but full-on soaked in beer and sorrow. His tankard was empty, his eyes glassy, and yet he stared ahead like he was waiting for something to catch fire.
A voice broke through the noise.
"Oi, old man. Don't tell me you're drunk already."
Beckmann blinked, slowly turning his bleary gaze toward the speaker. Standing across from him was a younger man, lean, sharp-eyed, dressed like a fellow messenger, a red bag slung across his shoulder.
The boy radiated energy like a fuse that had just been lit.
"Aoijin, is that you?" Beckmann slurred, a grin spreading across his face like spilled ale. "You're lookin' go—"
"Shut it, Beckmann," someone muttered from a nearby table, clearly used to his rambling.
"Go to hell, you fat, old pig!" Beckmann barked back without even turning to look.
Aoijin laughed and dropped into the seat opposite him, brushing road dust from his sleeves. His eyes, however, were alert like a scout waiting for the sky to fall.
"They just raised the Red Signal," Aoijin said, voice quieter now, more serious. "Mark's name is flying through the streets. Looks like he's become a legend overnight."
Beckmann threw his head back and let out a laugh so loud it briefly silenced the bard. A few heads turned, but most quickly lost interest, just another drunk with too many opinions.
"A legend, huh?" Beckmann said between chuckles. "He's the son of a damn legend, alright. Matthew of Xec—that man was a storm back then. Never met anyone like him. Seems the kid's got his father's fire."
Aoijin leaned forward, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. "You knew his father?"
Beckmann waved a lazy hand. "Not well, but enough. Matthew was the kind of man who'd punch a bishop and charm his daughter in the same breath. The Church feared him, and the people worshipped him. Then one day, poof, vanished like smoke in the wind."
He took another swig of nothing and frowned at his empty mug.
"Mark's different, though. Smarter. Quieter. That kid knows the whole of Mediva like the back of his little hand. They can light all the Red Signals they want, but catching him? Hah! That's like trying to snatch lightning."
Aoijin crossed his arms. "So you really think he'll escape the whole city? The guards, the hunters, the walls, everything?"
But Beckmann didn't answer. His eyes had wandered behind Aoijin—fixated on the curves of the tavern maid passing by. She balanced a tray of mugs with the grace of a dancer, and her hips swayed with practiced charm.
Beckmann's gaze followed her like a ship chasing the tide.
Aoijin noticed, and his lip curled.
"Oi, you old fool. You're disgusting, you know that?"
Beckmann snapped out of it, grinning shamelessly. "Don't be so uptight, Aoijin. God gave us eyes for a reason."
"You're lucky he didn't sew yours shut," Aoijin muttered, shaking his head.
Beckmann leaned back, propping his feet on the table with a heavy thud. From his bag, he pulled a beaten tin case, flipped it open, and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it lazily using the candle on their table.
He took a drag, exhaled slowly, and stared into the ceiling like it held some kind of prophecy.
"I've met all kinds of people," he murmured, more to himself than to Aoijin. "Kings, killers, saints. But that kid… Mark… he's something else. Can't say what he's planning. But whatever it is—it's gonna change something."
Aoijin leaned back as well, his brow furrowed, the Red Signal still glowing in his mind like a wound across the sky.
Outside, the wind howled faintly, brushing past the shutters as if whispering secrets no one could hear.