Part 3
The next day, Lina was undercover among the troops, maintaining her identity as Aira, the brave paladin who accompanied the Bow Hero.
She sat beside Luna on one of the benches in the southern barracks, where soldiers usually gathered to drink something cheap and forget the mounting tension.
"Did you hear about Junya?" Luna asked, frowning. "Balliard's completely lost it."
"Yeah… I'm pretty sure the power's gone to his head," Lina replied calmly. "Junya's no traitor."
A soldier approached with a wooden mug in hand and a hollow stare.
"You were right, Aira. That psychopath Balliard doesn't plan to surrender. He wants to fight that thing, whatever it is!"
More soldiers gathered around upon hearing that, forming a small circle dense with murmurs and unease.
"I want to desert…" one of them whispered. "But with that barrier up, we can't escape. It's like the city's become a cage."
"I wouldn't be surprised if someone close to him stabbed him in the back," Lina said, crossing her arms, as if voicing the truth everyone thought but no one dared say.
Luna jolted at her words.
"Don't say stuff like that, Aira! You could be sent to the guillotine…"
Lina met her eyes with firm resolve.
"Why? For saying what everyone's thinking? Did you see that thing… that dragon? If we don't do something, we won't survive the week."
The group fell into silence. Then, the whispers began. Quiet. Suppressed. As if the fear was no longer aimed at the dragon… but at their own commanders.
A silent revolution had begun to take root in the barracks. And Lina had only needed to plant a single phrase.
Meanwhile, Selka played the piano delicately in the noblemen's social club. Her fingers slid over the keys as if casting a spell in music.
Beside her, a glass of wine rested on the piano, as still as her expression. She played with the grace of a concert pianist and the presence of a queen.
Outside the club, chaos was tangible: hunger, fear, rage. The people flooded the streets, demanding answers. But inside… the nobles clung to their false sense of normalcy. Eating steaks. Drinking wine. Pretending they still had control.
Count Maurice Laverick, drunk and ruined, stumbled toward her.
"How long are you gonna keep playing, huh? Can't you see the city's going to hell?"
She didn't answer. Didn't even look at him.
"Hic… If you were my woman, you wouldn't act so strong or powerful. I'd break you like a dry twig. The only reason you feel important is that little Duchess title of yours..."
"You're nothing more than some delusional woman with airs."
"I bet you got that title by crawling into some old noble's bed… like every other dumb woman in this hall," he spat, collapsing to his knees, clutching his glass of whisky like it was the only thing he still controlled.
Selka raised an eyebrow.
"Behold the most powerful man in Arkenfel," she murmured mockingly. "A drunk with no dignity."
She stood from the piano and walked slowly through the hall, wine glass in hand.
"Typical man—belittling what he can't possess. Like a child when his favorite toy gets taken away."
She stopped in front of him, feigning compassion.
"'Oh no, this woman ignores me… poor me… boo hoo…'" she whispered sarcastically, the smile never leaving her face.
Maurice trembled with rage, still on the floor.
"It's your fault the city's like this! Cowards eating meat while the people starve outside!"
"If not for your pathetic leadership, none of this would be happening!"
"Shut up, bitch! This is my city! Mine!"
She walked calmly to his table, with the elegance of someone preparing a final toast. She poured one last glass of wine.
"I'm only passing through," she said softly. "Look around you, Maurice… Everyone in this room is doomed because of you. And still, the only thing you can think about… is me."
"What a small, pitiful man."
Maurice staggered to his feet in fury and threw his glass at her, but it didn't even come close. It shattered halfway, crashing against the floor.
"You bitch! You whore!" he screamed, collapsing again, broken and trapped in his rage.
Selka approached with slow steps. She crouched, and without releasing her wine glass, held his face in one hand, forcing him to look her straight in the eyes.
"Say whatever you want… but not even in your wettest dreams would you be worthy of me."
She let go with disgust and rose with innate elegance.
"But don't worry. You'll get exactly what you deserve."
She turned to the rest of the nobles. No one dared speak.
"If any of you wants to leave this place alive… I'd say the best option is to offer up his head."
She paused, and as she began ascending to the second floor, she slid her fingers gracefully along the stairway railing.
"Though of course… that's just a suggestion," she added with a sharp smile, before vanishing into the shadows of the private rooms.
The silence was heavy as lead.
Every noble turned their eyes to Maurice Laverick.
For the first time, they didn't see their leader.
They saw their sentence.
And Selka—armed only with a glass of wine and a melody—had served them hatred on a silver platter.