Jaren stood still at the entrance of the High Hall. He didn’t move, except for the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the breastplate. His place was not at the Council table, but against the door: a shadow of iron, posted to watch over the Five.
The armor shone, the spear rose tall at his side. In his eyes, however, there was only boredom. A dense, layered boredom that clung to him every time he stepped into that chamber. Endless speeches, maps unrolled and rolled back up, veiled accusations and hypocritical smiles. Everything felt the same. Everything felt pointless.
Jaren had never understood why a man like him had to stand there, watching elegant figures trade empty words. But that was his duty: to be the barrier, the silent presence reminding everyone — inside or outside that room — that the Council was not undefended.
Beneath the helmet, his eyelids grew heavy. Every gesture of the councilors slid off him like water over steel. And yet, under the boredom, there simmered a thin thread of contempt. All that power, and not a single one of them could wield a blade.
Councilor Mael was speaking. And when Mael spoke, time slowed.
“Gentlemen… the matter of taxation on river ports is now unavoidable. Without a revision, we risk compromising the inland routes for the coming seasons.”
“Here we fucking go.”
Jaren let his eyes drift toward him, without moving a muscle. Mael gesticulated like an actor, his hands drawing circles in the air, his tone heavy, like he was announcing some looming tragedy.
“Yes, yes. Keep waving those hands, maybe you’ll pull a muscle and shut up.”
“We need a three-year plan…”
“Kill me now.”
The other councilors nodded gravely, with the empty stare of people who didn’t understand but didn’t want to admit it.
“Oh, the great fucking three-year plan. I’ve got one too: stand still, don’t yawn, survive until dinner. The end.”
Councilor Venra chimed in with her shrill voice:
“Mael is right. We must think of the future. The kingdom’s prosperity depends on the choices we make today.”
“Perfect. Here comes the chorus of extras. The kingdom’s prosperity, she says. How about the prosperity of my nap? That one actually depends on you assholes.”
Jaren remained perfectly motionless. But inside, he imagined himself screaming.
“You’re five adults who could decide wars, alliances, the fate of thousands… and here you are, arguing about the price of wooden boats. Bravo. Truly.”
But Mael pressed on:
“With a fairer taxation we can encourage…”
“Say ‘fairer taxation’ one more time and I swear I’ll jam this spear into the table. By accident, of course. Oops.”
The guard’s silence remained absolute. Eyes fixed. Spear unmoving. A symbol of discipline.
Inside, though, Jaren was counting cracks in the wall, wondering if it would be more dignified to throw himself out the window or endure another minute of ‘forward-looking planning.’
Suddenly, the doors of the High Hall burst open.
A young messenger stumbled in, gasping, his hair slick with sweat, his clothes covered in dust. Every step was like a desperate sprint across an invisible desert.
Jaren raised an eyebrow.
“Finally, some goddamn action. Welcome, kid.”
The messenger stopped before the table, bowing halfway.
“Lords… lords… the port… the port… it’s a disaster…”
Jaren raised a hand, calm and sharp.
“Stop. Breathe. One, two, three… good. Now speak like a man, not like a runaway horse. What’s happening at the port?”
The boy nodded, clutching the bundle of parchments in his trembling hands.
“In the last few hours, explosions have devastated much of the harbor. Several ships have burned or sunk. The crowd is fleeing, sailors are trying to save whoever they can. Some warehouses have collapsed. The situation is… critical.”
Jaren stared impassively. Inside, though, a shiver of excitement ran through him.
“Ah, finally some good old chaos.”
Eric sprang to his feet, slamming his fists on the table.
“I told you, damn it! Things were about to fall apart! We need an immediate damage report, a list of the missing! And a plan to restore order in the harbor—we can’t lose it!”
The councilors erupted.
“But who could have done this?” asked Melen, nervously.
“Summon the Duke of Tern!” demanded Veyla.
“And the Grand Regent? What do we tell him?” Madden pressed, more concerned with public opinion than with burning ships.
“Send every available man to conduct a full census,” Eric ordered. “Any surviving vessels must be secured at once!”
“Perhaps we should alert the neighboring cities,” Malryk suggested. “This may not be an isolated attack…”
“Or draft an official report immediately,” added another. “Every detail will matter when accusations start flying.”
Jaren folded his arms.
“They’re already thinking about covering their asses. The Republic doesn’t pay me enough for this.”
Eric clenched his jaw.
“The Cheva family… today was their launch. One of the most important families on the New World routes. If someone wanted to strike at our economy, or send a message, they chose well.”
Malryk nodded grimly. “You suspect the nobility? Or the neighboring city-states?”
“Exactly,” Eric replied. “Either a warning… or worse. We must consider both.”
The hall boiled with noise.
Eric’s jaw tightened.
“Fine. Then we start with the basics: account of the missing, material damages, and immediate protection for the most influential families. I want detailed reports on the alliances and rivalries among the nobility and the merchants. Now.”
“Great. Maybe they’ll beef up security at the port and call for reinforcements. If I’m lucky, they’ll transfer me out of this morgue.”
Finally, Eric raised his voice above the chaos:
“State of general alarm! Every seat of power in the Republic must be secured. No unauthorized entry. All guards on full alert!”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” Jaren cursed inwardly, gritting his teeth.
Malryk scribbled furiously. “I’ll have extra patrols sent around the Grand Regent’s Palace and the strategic warehouses.”
“Inform the influential families, the Chevas included,” Veyla added.
“No one must feel safe,” Cadden muttered darkly.
Jaren remained by the entrance, arms crossed.
He shifted one step to the side, exhaling inside his helmet.
“Oh joy… double shifts. Kill me now. Why the hell didn’t I become a fisherman?”