[Imperial Records 7707]
Six cloaked figures weave through Fellhaven's maze of streets, their movements steady despite the chaos surrounding them. The mega-slums of Vulemaark, Fellhaven’s capital city, press in from all sides—every wall patched together with rusted tin, broken stone, and wood gone soft with rot. Thick. Drowning. Stacked upon one another like an ant's nest. Trash litters the gutters. Empty bottles. Burnt cloth. They overlap haphazardly, creating a labyrinth where sunlight struggles to reach the bottom.
The stench is overwhelming. Piss and shit and sweat and rot. The collective reek of thousands, hundreds of thousands living atop one another with no sewers to speak of. Five large men and one smaller woman navigate this human hive, their brown robes brushing against walls slick with substances best left unexamined.
The Kingdom of Fellhaven sprawls around them, rotten to its core. King Franco Blackthorn sits upon his throne, but everyone knows he's just the biggest predator in this desperate city. His family's hand reach into every dirty business, every transaction, squeezing coin from misery with fear and efficiency.
The smallest figure stops suddenly, her hand against a wall to steady herself. She pulls back her hood, wiping sweat from her brow. Surprised by the oppressive heat trapped between these crowded structures. The others halt their advance, forming a loose protective circle around her.
"Breathe," one of them murmurs. "We're nearly there."
She nods, tilting her face upward where, by some architectural accident, a gap between rooftops reveals a slice of blue sky. Sunlight filters down in a narrow beam, illuminating dancing dust and the stark reality of their surroundings. Children splash in gutters thick with waste—water that should never touch bare skin. Yet they laugh, their faces alight with the simple joy of play despite everything. It’s beautiful. And it hurts.
A few paces away, a woman with hollow eyes fucks a man against a wall, her passion is mechanical as she stares into middle distance. Nearby, a skeletal figure with trembling hands exchanges the last of his possessions for a vial of cloudy liquid from a hard-eyed dealer. Empty bottles and broken glass crunch underfoot around the taverns, the waste of desperate people seeking a mental and emotional escape. “This substance abuse has destroyed this place.”
The woman lowers her gaze, turning to take in the full measure of the desperation surrounding them. Her eyes meet those of a man leaning against a doorway. His face splits into a grin, revealing blackened teeth. He pushes off from the wall and approaches, already fumbling with the front of his trousers.
"Lookin’ for work, pretty one?" he calls, voice slurring. "Got somethin’ nice for that mouth o’ yours. Might even spare a copper if y’ do it proper." His cock emerges, limp and unwashed, as he closes the distance.
Before he takes another step, one of the larger figures moves between them with surprising speed for his size. His hood falls back slightly, revealing a face like carved stone framed by a thick, deep brown beard. Eyes cold as winter stare out from his hooded shadows.
"Step away," Vadicus says, his voice quiet but carrying an unmistakable promise of death. The drunk falters, squinting up at the mountain of a man before him. Some primal instinct for self-preservation penetrates his muddled mind. Violence stands before him. He tucks himself away with clumsy fingers and backs up, mumbling incoherently.“Didn’ mean nothin’. Jus’ talkin’, tha’s all.” He slurs.
Vadicus doesn't respond, doesn't move, just watches, his face unmoving, those eyes colder than the steel he’s ready to draw. The man stumbles away and disappears down an adjacent alley. "You alright?" Vadicus asks, turning slightly toward the woman while keeping an eye on a group of younger men. Gang men.
She nods, pulling her hood closer. "I'm fine. Let's keep moving."
As they prepare to continue, Vadicus notices a figure observing them from an alley beside a food bank. An elf, slender and still, watches with unsettling intensity. Their eyes meet briefly. The elf makes no attempt to hide his interest, deliberately committing their faces to memory before melting away through the crowd. "We're being watched," Vadicus murmurs to the others, his lips barely moving. "Elven eyes. South."
The head of their group, Cassian, a broad-shouldered, rugged man with a concealed leather wrapped staff, nods almost imperceptibly. "It’s Expected. Let’s keep moving. This way." They slowly resume their journey through the warren, more cautious now. The woman walks at the center of their formation, unhurried and sure. Above them, the sliver of sky narrows as they press deeper into Fellhaven's rotting heart.
Cassian leans toward the woman, voice dropping to a near-whisper. "The people here are desperate. So, it's best we remain discreet," he explains, as he notices the woman examining her attire, uncomfortable. "Desperate people can do desperate things." Vadicus adds to the group, his voice barely grazing their ears as he whispers. "The elves have definitely spotted us, they will send word," he murmurs, eyes tracking the space where the observer had stood moments before. "Their minds forget little. Sharing information between one another as if all tied to the same web." The woman nods, her face tightening. She adjusts her hood, ensuring it conceals her features.
Vadicus rejoins them, his large frame blocking out what little light filters down from above. His voice is quiet, resonant with certainty rather than fear. "They already know we're here," he states, glancing toward the rooftops where occasional flashes of movement catch his trained eye. "The Imperium has probably known for days now."
Cassian tilts his head slightly, gauging the sun's position through reflections against the walls. His mind works. His eyes narrow, working the angles—place, time, route. He measures how long they have before they arrive, before the streets become even more dangerous for them than they already are. "Best not linger," he concludes, hand briefly gripping the concealed staff.
The woman draws a deep breath, steeling herself. She tugs her hood forward until her face disappears completely within its shadow. Her posture changes subtly—shoulders squaring, spine straightening. "Lead on," she commands, her voice soft but carrying undeniable authority.
The group reforms around her, a protective formation that appears casual to untrained eyes but positions each member strategically. They move swiftly again through the streets of poverty, past hollow-eyed residents who barely register their passing.
They increase their pace, footfalls nearly silent despite the debris littering the ground. The maze of alleys grows narrower still, the stench more concentrated. Occasionally, they pass scenes that would break lesser souls—a man convulsing from withdrawal while his family watches him die helplessly; two gang members carving territory markers into the screaming chest of a rival; a mother bartering her child to a well-dressed merchant whose smile suggests unchecked desires.
They continue, reaching a congested fork in the road where a weathered tavern wedges between two narrow streets. The atmosphere stills around them. Conversations drop to whispers. People move with exaggerated slowness, eyes downcast or darting nervously. This is not mere poverty—this is fear, thick enough to taste.
The cloaked figures slow their approach. Gang members lounge along both sides of the pathway, displaying their affiliations proudly through elaborate tattoos that spiral across shaved heads and scarred faces. They're lean, hungry-looking men with unbreaking eyes and hands that never stray far from concealed weapons. Despite being outnumbered ten to one, the cloaked party maintains its steady pace.
No elves here. Not one. Their absence speaks volumes about who truly rules this particular corner of Fellhaven.
Three shirtless men rise from their perches near the tavern entrance. Their torsos bear a canvas of scars and ink—stories of horrific violence and allegiance written across their skin. They step forward, blocking the path of the robed travelers. "Who the fuck are you?" the middle one demands, a jagged scar pulling his lip into a permanent sneer. "You lost?" "Don't see many of them robes around here," another adds, circling slightly to the right, hand resting on a blade tucked into his waistband.
One of the cloaked figures steps forward, hands raised in a gesture of peace. Despite his height advantage over the gang members, his posture communicates no threat. "Show your faces," the third gang member growls, "Do it now!" The figure at the front lowers his hood carefully. Light brown hair frames a handsome rugged face with sun-kissed skin. Cassian—sharp-eyed despite his disarming smile. "We mean no harm," he says, hands still raised. "We're not from around here, just travelers. We’ve heard great things about the wine."
At Cassian's cue, the others lower their hoods as well. Each reveals a face hardened by experience—men who look carved from stone rather than born of flesh. Last is the woman, whose mature beauty carries an unmistakable aura of command. She says nothing, but her fearless gaze sweeps across the area, missing nothing.
The gang members exchange glances, reassessing. Their eyes catch glints of metal beneath the robes—not weapons, but coins. The calculation is immediate and transparent: these strangers bring money to spend, money that will soon belong to them. "Well, why didn't you say so?" The leader's face splits into a mocking smile. He performs an exaggerated bow, arm sweeping toward the door. "We always welcome distant travellers. Please, drink till your hearts content."
The group approaches the entrance, Cassian at the front. Where any sensible traveler would show fear, these strangers display only measured alertness. They see everything—the watchers at the corners, the signals passed between gang members, the cluster of huddled guards.
Heat and damp assault them as they enter. The tavern is too warm, the air close and wet with sweat and spilled alcohol. Inside sits the true wealth of the neighborhood—gang members draped in gold chains and gemmed rings, wearing finery that starkly contrasts with the squalor outside. The value adorning these men would feed the entire block for months. Half-drunk criminals lounge at tables, weapons displayed openly—knives, custom-made brass knuckles, serrated blades. Their ownership of this space is absolute.
Cassian enters first, then the woman, followed by Vadicus and Halorn. Cassian walks with his staff wrapped carefully in leather cloth. The final two companions remain outside, positioning themselves casually in the sun, seemingly taking in the air. One begins breaking apart stored bread, offering pieces to the street children who approach cautiously but with glee. Despite their size, they blend into the background with practiced ease.
Inside, the group claims a corner table where they can view the entire room. The woman sits in the center, flanked by Cassian, Vadicus, and then Halorn—a protective formation disguised as casual seating.
She leans slightly toward Cassian, tension visible only in the set of her shoulders. "Cassian..." she whispers, her voice barely audible over the tavern's noise, "Are you sure this is the place?" "Yes, Your Grace," he responds, eyes never ceasing their careful scan of the room.
A bloated man with an open shirt approaches their table, sweat glistening on his chest despite the early hour. The tavern keeper reeks of sour wine and onions. His breath arrives before he does. "Hear you're here for the wine," he grunts, wiping greasy hands on a rag tucked into his waistband. "You know which one in particular?"
Vadicus turns to him, offering a smile that doesn't quite reach his vigilant eyes. "Bring us your best," he replies smoothly, his voice pitched to project-friendly interest rather than challenge. The tavern keeper snorts, eyeing them with unconcealed suspicion before shuffling away to fulfill their order. Around them, conversations continue, but the weight of attention toward them has sharpened. Every pair of eyes watches with predatory interest, already measuring the profit these strangers might yield.
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
The minutes pass in casual, yet calculated observation. Cassian places his wrapped staff carefully against the edge of the table, angling it for quick access. Vadicus scratches his beard, lowering his voice. "We can hide from the people, but these elves... There is little they do not notice. And their networks spread information faster than fire in dry grass.” He nods to himself, looking at the other men. “They've likely known about your presence here for days now, your Grace.""They're harmless though," Halorn adds with a reassuring smile.
The woman surveys the room with meticulous attention. Her eyes pause on a collection of faded paintings hanging on the far wall—an unexpected touch of sentiment in this den of scum. Seven portraits, crude but recognisable, displayed with surprising care. Octavia studies each painted face. The boys, good-looking but bear faces of a dead stare. Their innocence already broken. The girls share a dark beauty, save for one—the youngest, a small girl no older than seven. Her hair is stark white against the others' raven black.
Her gaze is broken by gang members staring at her with unconcealed interest, their looks carrying multiple intentions. She doesn't flinch, meeting each look with unwavering steadiness. "What of our odds here, in this place?" she whispers, the question directed at all three men. They exchange quick glances before Cassian answers, his confidence genuine despite their obvious disadvantage. "You're in safe hands, your Grace." His smile is easy, his posture relaxed—a performance for watching eyes.
The tavern keeper returns, slamming a dark bottle onto their table alongside a stack of pristine crystal cups. He lingers, studying them with poorly disguised curiosity. “The paintings…” the woman asks the tavern keeper, “Who are they?” The keepers eyes flick noticing her interest, his voice a quiet rumble. "That’s King Blackthorn’s children," he murmurs, nodding toward the paintings. "Three sons, four daughters. His pride here in Vulemaark." His eyes look back and around the table, "Where you from, then?" he asks, attempting a friendly tone that his predatory eyes betray.
Cassian looks up, his smile calculated. "We are Olympian." The fat man's eyes widen with genuine surprise. "Oh! You're them new folk!" He points sloppily, voice pitched with childlike excitement that reveals an underdeveloped mind. "First Olympians I've ever met."
His gaze shifts to Octavia, lingering on her mature beauty—the gentle wave of her dark hair, the depth of her brown eyes, the dignified set of her jaw. The stare lasts too long, becoming an assessment rather than an observation. "Your whores are lovely looking?" he states bluntly.
The table goes utterly still. Tension holds the moment, the air between them. Cassian's knuckles whiten around his concealed staff. Vadicus slowly raises his eyes to meet the tavern keeper's, his expression primordial, feral. No words pass his lips, but the promise of violence radiates from him like heat from flame.
The fat man unconsciously licks his lips, a nervous habit betraying his dawning recognition of danger. But the woman reaches and touches Vadicus's arm, her fingers gentle but commanding. "It's alright," she murmurs, the calm in her voice genuine.
She turns to the tavern keeper, her expression sharpening into something regal and cutting. She doesn’t need guards to deal with this swine. "Another bottle, if you please." A tight, forced smile appears on her face as she adds, "We're going to need it." She offers a hollow laugh that fools no one but provides the man an escape route.
He takes it, licking his lips again before shambling away, casting nervous glances back at their table. "We're being sized up," Vadicus whispers once the man is out of earshot, noticing the glances from the surrounding tables. His massive hands rest flat on the table, ready to push up at a moment's notice.
Cassian nods slightly. "Just wait." His fingers tap once against his staff. "They’re coming."
Around them, conversations have quieted. The gang members' initial disinterest has evolved into focused curiosity. Some whisper to one another, others openly stare. A few have shifted positions to better monitor the strangers. The atmosphere thickens with unspoken threat. Gang members rise from their tables, attention honing in on the Olympian strangers. The distance between tables shrinks as men casually reposition themselves closer, weapons no longer concealed but held loosely in preparation.
Then—commotion outside. A sharp bark of command. Boots on stone. Conversations inside halt mid-sentence. Every head turns toward the entrance. The door swings open with practiced control. Men in formal black attire enter first—disciplined, recognised, dangerous. They scan the room with cold efficiency before flanking the doorway. Cassian gives a subtle nod to the others, his movement nearly imperceptible to anyone not watching for it. "He is here," he murmurs.
Then he enters. King Franco Blackthorn.
His suit is impeccably tailored, black and white, a stark contrast to the filthy surroundings. Thick gold rings adorn each finger, catching the dim light as he moves with calculated grace. His eyes are dead things—not cold but absent, as if the humanity behind them died long ago. The air around him vibrates with authority, an aura of absolute control that needs no announcement. His lieutenants move ahead, clearing a path toward a back room. They pass the Olympians' table without acknowledgment, though their peripheral awareness misses nothing.
The woman stands immediately, her movements fluid and decisive. Cassian and Vadicus rise beside her, their posture transitioning from casual to ceremonial guard. Halorn, the third companion, completes their protective formation.
"King Franco," her voice carries across the tavern, clear and commanding.
The room freezes, knowing what a command like that normally turns to. Every muscle tenses, every breath held. The offense of addressing Fellhavens Overlord directly, of summoning him like a common servant, hangs in the air like smoke.
Franco stops but doesn't immediately turn. His shoulders tighten beneath the expensive fabric of his suit. When he finally faces her, his expression carries quiet fury, the kind that doesn't need volume to communicate lethal intent. But despite all this, she meets his gaze unflinchingly. "My name is Octavia.” She doesn't rush her words, giving each syllable its proper weight.
“Queen of Olympia."
Franco's eyes narrow slightly, assessing this woman who dares speak to him as an equal. His fingers tense then relax, the rings glinting as his hands make small adjustments. "I came to see you directly, unannounced. The way you prefer it. They way you respect it." Octavia continues, maintaining the steady confidence of her tone despite the tangible hostility surrounding them. "Olympia is new to these lands. And I have come to ask—ruler to ruler—that you keep your substances from crossing into our home."
A ripple of disbelief passes through the watching crowd. Some exchange glances, hands tightening on weapons. Franco's men shift their stance, disrespect consuming their attitudes. Octavia draws a deep breath, and with the slightest softening of her expression, adds, "And In return, we offer you wheat. Food. Enough to help feed your nation."
Franco's face remains impassive for a long moment. The silence stretches painfully thin. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, almost gentle—the whisper of a knife against stone. "My apologies, Your Grace," he says, each word precisely measured, "but who the fuck do you think you're talking to?"
The psychotic softness of his tone raises the hair on the back of every neck in the room. It's the voice of a man who has spoken the same way while watching men being dismembered alive—untroubled, curious, detached.
His eyes never leave Octavia. His mind works, calmly calculating how to destroy her—what method would bring the most satisfaction, the most pain. Cassian shifts his weight almost imperceptibly. Vadicus's right hand drops slightly closer to his concealed weapon. Halorn's breathing changes rhythm, preparing. They read the space with acute accuracy. Each carving a path through every man in the room.
Franco shakes his head with subtle disbelief, lips curve into something resembling a smile, but there's no warmth in it—only venom. His eyes remain dead, calculating. The kind of eyes that have watched countless men, women, and children suffer and felt nothing. "You come into my city..." he says, each word precise and measured, "my home... and demand these things?" His gaze sweeps the room, ensuring every gang member witnesses his control, his dominance. A performance of power.
He turns back to Octavia, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Queen from distant lands of Olympia. You forget where you are, where you stand… In the wolf's den. It is here where royalty dies, Octavia. Sometimes loudly." He leans forward slightly. "Sometimes quietly."
The Queen doesn't blink, doesn't flinch. Her posture remains royal even in this pit of vipers. Franco raises his hand, beckoning toward the back room. "Duke," he calls. A mountain of a man emerges from the shadows. His butcher's apron bears dark stains that have never seen soap. Duke's face is a blank canvas, devoid of emotion or thought—a walking weapon awaiting instruction. He approaches slowly, deliberately, his massive frame blocking the dim light as he nears.
Franco leans in, whispering instructions in Duke's ear. The butcher's expression shifts subtly—emptiness giving way to cruel anticipation. Duke nods once and moves toward Octavia, extending a meaty hand toward her face.
The Queen remains still, chin high, eyes defiant.
Vadicus slowly positions himself between them but then suddenly moves like lightning—faster than anyone his size should be capable of moving. His hand flashes to his side, retrieving a concealed dagger with practiced precision. In one fluid motion, he catches Duke's extended wrist and drives the blade straight through his palm, pinning it to the wooden table with a sickening thud.
Duke's scream rattles the glasses on nearby tables. Deep, guttural, primal. Blood pools around the embedded blade, soaking into the porous wood. The tavern erupts. Gang members leap to their feet, weapons appearing in hands that were empty moments before. Steel glints in the dim light. Death hangs in the air, waiting to claim its due.
Cassian moves with practiced calm, unwrapping the leather from his staff. The fabric falls away, revealing an Olympian spear—gleaming, lethal, sacred. He drives the spearhead into the table with thunderous force, the earsplitting crack of splintering wood cutting through Duke's howls, stilling the tavern. The weapon quivers inches from Duke's face, its message unmistakable: the next thrust ends your life.
Duke's screams die in his throat as he stares cross-eyed at the blade. Understanding dawns in his dull eyes—how close death has come.
Robes fall to the floor around the table. Red Olympian plumes shine in the tavern's murky light. Vadicus and Halorn draw their swords with synchronised precision, the metallic rasp filling the room. Outside, the other two Olympians hear the thunderous crack of unmistakable Olympian steel. They smile, keeping a friendly tone, but move silently to block escape routes, their casual demeanor replaced by the focused readiness of trained killers.
Inside, gang members surround them, twenty to one, weapons drawn. They're eager, hungry for blood and glory, unaware they're facing their own extinction. The air crackles with tension, the moment stretched thin as a wire.
Then—the tavern door swings open. Harsh daylight floods in, cutting through the gloom like a blade. "I do hope I'm not interrupting."
The voice is cultured, refined, utterly out of place in this den of filth. It belongs to Helion, the Emperor's personal advisor. He stands in the doorway, immaculate in his formal attire, not a hair out of place. Behind him, Imperial Guards and Elven Sentinels file in silently, their expressions cold, emotionless and professional.
The gang members retreat like roaches from light. Weapons disappear. Eyes drop to the floor. The fear is palpable—these men who terrorize the streets cower before the Emperor's representative like scolded children. "They’ve arrived." Cassian whispers to Octavia, his words barely audible.
Helion approaches with measured steps, offering a slight bow to Octavia. "Queen Octavia.” The moment stills for a second. “You lost?” Helion continues, looking around, understanding the scene perfectly. His eyes miss nothing. “The Emperor has called for your presence, Your Grace." Queen Octavia nods, briefly glancing at Cassian. Regal even here. "Lead on," she commands, rather than accepts.
She exits gracefully, with her guards forming a protective formation around her. Outside, Octavia catches glimpses of other cloaked Olympians positioned strategically across rooftops and in shadowed doorways, blending into the crowd. Hundreds of them. They nod subtly as she passes—a silent army, hidden in plain sight, ready to descend upon Fellhaven at a moment's notice. Prepared to raze the city to the ground—for her. Their Queen.
Inside the tavern, Helion turns to King Franco, his voice genuine. "I heard the news. About your daughter," Helion whispers, voice like silk, pitched for Franco's ears alone. "I trust she will be found soon." For just a moment, Franco's mask slips. The dead eyes flash with something raw and human—grief, fear, a father's desperation. Then it's gone, sealed behind the ruthless fa?ade he wears like armor.
"The concern of the Imperium is..." Franco pauses, searching for words that won't betray him, "noted." Helion nods, understanding passing between them. Even between enemies, some lines are respected. Some pain recognised.
Helion turns to Duke, who remains pinned to the table, whimpering pitifully. Blood continues to pool around the dagger transfixing his hand. Helion's expression shows nothing but mild distaste, as if looking at something unpleasant stuck to his shoe. "Clean this place up," he says, the casual tone belying the command beneath. He turns to follow the Olympians, stepping carefully to avoid soiling his immaculate shoes on the filthy floor.
Duke lowers his head in respect, or perhaps in shame. The gang members stand frozen, unaware how close they've come to annihilation. They wait until Helion's footsteps fade before daring to move again.
Outside, Queen Octavia takes in the sight of Fellhaven as it continues its desperate existence, blind to how close it came to witnessing Olympian justice firsthand.