Keiser's eyes narrowed, recalling what he had already told them a day ago. The warning had been simple, but heavy enough to silence even Lenko's endless chatter.

After the mass, that's when it begins.

The first spark that would set the capital ablaze would be struck after the morning mass, the very one the princess herself would lead.

The memory pressed in, sharp and vivid. He hadn't learned this from rumor. Keiser hadn't lived it himself, he had only heard it spoken in fragments, pieced together from Olga's words.

When he had stood in the royal brigade, stationed around the palace walls in the name of protecting the king. Back then, threats against the capital had already been whispered, shadows creeping close, though no one knew when they would break open. What they did know, what had been spoken of in hushed tones, was that the Sixth Princess stood at the heart of it.

That knowledge had followed her like a shadow, even into the Gambit. In the great trial that was meant to test every contenders, she should have had the kingdom's love at her back. She was their saint, their miracle, the child blessed by gods themselves. Yet the truth of what had happened that day cut her support down to embers. Where the First Prince rallied the noble houses, she stood apart, doubted, distrusted, despite lasting until the final trial.

Keiser remembered the way Olga had said it, curt, clipped, as though the truth itself might cut her tongue if she spoke too freely. The riot, she explained, hadn't been born from drunken brawls or petty quarrels. It had ignited like fire catching dry timber, too sudden, too fierce, fueled by something deeper.

The riot had left scars that no blessing could soothe. Families lost, shops gutted, the streets echoing with the shouts of those who demanded what none of them could hold, the Dragon's Heart.

"It was instant. I didn't even notice, I should have known they'd target her." Olga's teeth ground audibly as she slammed her pint down on the rough wooden table. The froth leapt over the rim, splattering across her hand, but she didn't flinch. Her voice carried the kind of fury that left no room for shame.

They were in the pub, tucked into a corner beneath the dim sway of an oil lamp. The air was thick with smoke, stale ale, and the murmurs of men who spoke too low, too carefully, as if every word might be carried away and used against them. It was just after the second trial, the memory of blood still fresh, and the atmosphere reeked of unease.

Keiser leaned back, nursing his own drink beneath the concealment of his cloak. The fabric hung heavy over his shoulders, hood pulled low enough to shade most of his face. He had to. Even here, where ale loosened tongues and dulled blades of suspicion, eyes were always watching.

Faction lines had grown sharper since the first trial, and sharper still after the second. Even now, the hostility crackled like unseen sparks between tables. Knights, mercenaries, and nobles' men-at-arms had once drunk side by side in this very hall, now they eyed one another like wolves circling the same carcass. Every glance was a challenge, every laugh edged with something brittle.

Keiser could feel it, the fragility of the room, the way any wrong word might split it open. So he did the only thing he could think of, drank. Drank until the bitter taste dulled his mind, until the hum in his ears drowned out the undertone of tension.

The pub wasn't as crowded as it used to be. He remembered when it roared with knights fresh from training, their voices booming over bawdy songs and their mugs raised high. Now the benches sat emptier with every passing day. Most of the faces that once filled them were gone, claimed by the Gambit's bloody games. Even among the survivors, few had returned after the second trial.

The silence that filled their absence spoke louder than any toast.

And still Olga seethed, her voice cutting through the haze. She hadn't forgiven herself. She couldn't.

Keiser, hidden under his cloak, only watched. After all, every move, every shadow mattered now, and he knew better than to risk his neck so carelessly. But that day had been too much. The weight of it pressed down on him heavier than armor, and even the hood over his face could not hide the exhaustion etched into him.

Most of the knights they had fought beside, laughed with, trained with, bled with, were gone.

Names that once filled the barracks with shouts and boasts were now little more than echoes. It was only him and Olga left to remember them, to carry the memory of how those men and women had poured their blood, their sweat, their very souls into a kingdom that demanded everything and gave nothing in return. All of it, erased in an instant, swallowed by the madness of a trial no blade nor shield could ever truly prepare them for.

And what had the kingdom done with their sacrifice?

The people screamed. They cheered. They stamped their feet and raised their fists as if the slaughter were a festival, as if the sight of steel cutting into flesh was no different from a troupe of dancers spilling red paint upon a stage. They celebrated. They reveled in the gore, shouting for more, hungering to see hopefuls fall one after another like puppets whose strings were finally cut.

Keiser's stomach turned at the memory of their faces, bright, eager, hungry. The same faces that knights like him had once sworn to protect.

Children who had never seen battle, mothers who never had to flee from fire, merchants who had never thrown comrades over scorching fire. They were the ones kept safe from the kingdom's rot, sheltered behind walls built from the ashes of those who fought outside them.

And yet they were the ones who now demanded the bloodletting, who wished most fervently to watch it play out as entertainment.

It struck Keiser then, with a bitterness that tasted like ash, that the ones most shielded from hell were the same who craved most to see it. They wanted the spectacle without ever knowing the cost. They wanted to sip their wine and applaud as if lives were nothing more than counters in a game played for their amusement.

Even those who had once lived in the very soil protected by those knights, even they joined the chorus. As if they had forgotten that every breath they took in peace was bought by men and women who now lay as ashes, with no corpse to bury.

Keiser lowered his head, hiding his face deeper within the shadows of his cloak. His fingers curled around the rim of his cup, and he let the bitterness of the drink match the bitterness in his chest.

Olga was right to be furious, but Keiser's anger was quieter. It was the kind that sat like stone in his gut, unmoving, unbearable.

And still, the cheers of that day rang in his ears.

He would not allow such a day to unfold again.

It was a catalyst, unleashing the people's latent bloodlust and their insatiable craving for something they had been given freely, only to see it all vanish.

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