Bruges kept its head down.
Low walls patched with whatever people could find. Four watchtowers, two leaning a little bit outward. A square with a brick well and a winch that complained with every turn, horses clattered down the middle, a few carriages dragging behind. Lamps with greened brass throats. Flags cut into awnings, their colors and origin long forgotten. Coal and spice in the air. On good days the wind slid over the roofs and kept going. Today, it stayed.
A man who didn't seem from around crossed the square.
Mid-twenties, short blond hair, a coat too fine for the dust and a small pair of brass-rimmed spectacles perched neatly on his nose. At his collar hung an insignia — gold and black — marking him as an officer of the Bureau, that quiet organization whose agents appeared and vanished across the world like ghosts.
He drew curious eyes as he passed through the market. Outsiders were common enough in Bruges, but Bureau officers — rarely. They carried a kind of chill with them, a reminder that somewhere beyond all this carnage, beyond the red sands and the hollowed world — law still watched.
A sign creaked just across the market square: The Falling Mermaid. He went in.
The tavern reeked of alcohol and old smoke. He set his gloves on the counter and asked for a dark brew.
"So," the barkeep said, cleaning a glass with a strip of cloth, "what brings a Bureau officer to Bruges? We've done nothing worth you guys attention."
"Nothing official at the moment," the man said. Quiet voice. Clean edges. "I'm just here to confirm a rumor that's been going around lately."
"And what rumor would that be? Maybe I can help with that — but it'll cost you. Every bit of information comes with a price."
"That a man out this way commands monsters. Not one or two, but packs of them. He goes by the name Scarface."
The name dropped through the room like horror itself. Conversations died down, heads turned towards his direction. Even the lute in the corner missed a note and stopped trying. That name carried power.
At the back, a drunk set his mug down too hard. Foam ran over his fingers. "Scarface," he said — half laugh, half prayer. "I know him. Everyone does. His reputation walks faster than he does."
The Bureau man looked at him over the rim of his spectacles. He didn't speak right away — just studied the drunk's face, the tremor in his hand, the sour stink of fear and ale.
Then, flat:" Start with where."
It wasn't a question. It was an order —the kind that left no room for a lie.
The drunk blinked, throat working. "S–South," he said. "Past the red sands. Out by the ridge road. He doesn't ride like a raider — no shouting, no war cries. Hygrons in front. Men and women behind and you hear the ground before you see them."
Conrad leaned forward, elbows on the table, his voice measured. "How many?"
"Enough," the drunk said. "Enough to take what he wants and leave what he needs."
The agent's tone didn't change. "And what does he need?"
The drunk laughed once short and broken. "A story. "He took a shaky breath. "He left me alive, you see. He looked straight at me — like he'd already decided hours before. Then he smiled…"
The man's eyes went glassy. "That grin — plastered across his face. Mean. Fixed. I started shaking and couldn't stop. Up close he feels… bigger , bigger than he should. Cold and Patient. He enjoyed it."
Conrad didn't look away. "What did he say?"
The drunk's voice went soft. "Every conquest needs a witness. Then he rode off. I've been telling his story since then", he swallowed hard.
I see, Conrad said while sliding few coins across the counter. "For the drink," he said, then added, "and for the warning."
He stood, wore his gloves, and looked at the drunk one last time. The man's eyes darted everywhere but at him.
"Thank you," Conrad said quietly. "You've done enough."
The drunk nodded — or maybe just trembled. The agent turned and left.
*************************
Outside, Bruges had dimmed. The lamps along the square flickered under a faint pressure in the air — as if the wind had begun to think for itself. The chatter from the tavern spilled out and scattered quickly, carried off by a strange hush that settled over the town.
Then came the first sound. thump
A low tremor, somewhere deep beneath the ground. The kind that isn't heard first — but felt. Pots and culinary rattled on their shelves. The iron hinges of the tavern door gave a nervous creak.
Conrad paused mid-step, head tilting slightly. His eyes followed the dust drifting down from the roof tiles.
Another pulse followed, louder, closer. The ground seemed to remember it was alive.
He stepped to the edge of the square. The horses tethered near the well began to stamp and pull at their reins, their eyes rolling white. The air carried a scent — not smoke, not rain — something older, like heated stone.
From the ridge beyond the southern wall came a faint, rhythmic pounding. like thunder, like drums. It moved with purpose.
Conrad's hand slipped into his coat, pulling free a small brass device — the kind the Bureau used to listen to the world's heartbeat. Its thin glass core shimmered, vibrating before the sound even reached it. A single needle quivered wildly, pointing south.
He looked up. The wind shifted — slow and deliberate — like something vast exhaling across the plains.
The nearest watchtower groaned as its bell-line began to hum against the wind. The note trembled, uncertain, then fell silent.
A boy ran across the street, shouting for his mother. Windows slammed. Somewhere, a dog began to bark — and didn't stop.
The air thickened. You could taste the static. Conrad turned toward the horizon.
Far beyond the walls, under a bruised sky, a red haze began to rise. Dust. Sand. And the unmistakable shape of movement — too heavy, too even — rolling toward Bruges.
He raised his communicator and pressed the stud. "Field Agent Conrad reporting to Bureau Command," he said, voice steady despite the pulse under his feet. "Contact confirmed. Hygrons movement inbound from the southern ridge. Civilian evacuation advised."
Static hissed. Then silence. No answer.
He exhaled once, long and slow. "Typical."
The rumbling deepened — a rhythm now, steady, measured, and vast. The heartbeat of the land itself.
Conrad turned his collar up and stepped toward the eastern gate. His shadow stretched long across the cobblestones, splitting under the flickering lamplight.
Behind him, the drunk stumbled out of the tavern, staring south with eyes too wide. "He's coming," he whispered to no one. "That monster is coming."
The wind shifted again. It carried with it the faint echo of carnage and destruction yet to come.
And then, as if the world itself drew a breath to watch, everything went still.