Shadows Beneath the Crown

John shoved his way onto the crowded dock, boots splashing through the puddles left by Okadia’s endless drizzle. His jaw clenched, he pressed a battered photo of Michael into the Ferryman’s cold, outstretched hand. The undead merchant’s empty eyes lingered on the image, then flicked up to John.

“You want passage, detective? The king’s men are watching.”

Behind them, the Baron’s carriage screeched to a halt on the slick cobbles. The elven noble’s sharp gaze swept the throng, then landed on a hunched, bearded dwarf arguing with the royal guards. The craftsman’s voice trembled as he pleaded,

“I need more time! The taxes are impossible!”

John ignored the chaos, but his instincts screamed at him, every move visible, every word dangerous. The Ferryman grunted, nodding toward the plank leading onto his boat.

“Decide quickly. No one lingers here after sunset.”

Thunder rumbled as the king’s banner snapped overhead, ink-black against the storm-lit sky.

John waded through the surf, his boots sinking into the dark, wet sand. When he turned, the horizon was empty; the ferryman and his vessel had vanished into the mist. Pacing toward the village, John studied the photograph of Michael, squinting at the faint background details. He found an unlocked dwelling and stepped inside, shivering as he shook the rain from his coat. A shadow stirred in the corner, and the craftsman, Thrain, stood up from his workbench with a sharp, surprised intake of breath.

John kept his hands raised, palms open, signaling peace as he met the dwarf's anxious gaze.

"No. Don’t worry. I’m new around here, just need a place to wait out the rain."

Thrain’s eyes narrowed, his grip on the mallet easing only slightly as he assessed the risk.

"Well, I’ll have to question you later. For now, just hide in the cellar, if all you really want is shelter."

The dwarf nodded toward a heavy iron ring set into the floorboards, his eyes flicking to the window where the storm battered the glass.

John gripped the cold iron ring and pulled. The heavy wooden trapdoor creaked open, releasing a musty scent of damp earth and sawdust. He scrambled down into the darkness as the door thudded shut above him. Silence pressed in, broken only by the muffled, steady pacing of the dwarf overhead.

From beneath the floorboards, John hears Thrain’s muffled, desperate pleas. The workshop floor vibrates as heavy, armored boots stomp across the planks. The Baron’s voice booms with cold authority, cutting through the air above. Wood splinters under the soldiers’ assault as they tear through the workshop, their spears scraping the walls in a rhythmic, terrifying search for hidden wealth.

Dust motes swirl in the thin shafts of light slicing through the floorboards. John holds his breath, knuckles whitening as he clutches his knees. Directly above, the floor creaks beneath a heavy boot’s weight. Suddenly, a spear tip bursts through the wood, missing his shoulder by inches.

John scrambled backward, his boots slipping on the wet earth. He raised his palms, eyes fixed on the soldier’s gleaming steel.

"Easy now pal, I don’t wanna fight ya,"

he declared, his voice steady despite the jagged hole in the floor above. Varkas stood over the opening, his shadow swallowing the light.

The spearhead cut through the thick, humid air of the cellar, slicing the sleeve of John's coat and embedding itself deep into the packed earth. Dust burst upward from the impact, filling the cramped space with choking grit. Thrain let out a stifled cry from above as heavy boots thundered across the floorboards, the Baron's soldiers swarming the opening.

The cellar erupted into turmoil as the spear tip tore through the floorboards, pinning John’s coat to the dirt. Kaelen dropped through the jagged hole, landing low with a serrated blade drawn. The air thickened with the sharp, metallic scent of imminent violence. The only escape lay blocked by the looming silhouettes of the Baron’s men.

John’s pistol cracked sharply, the blast booming through the cramped cellar. Kaelen collapsed, the shot precise and final. Silence fell, broken only by the ringing in John’s ears. The Baron recoiled, fury contorting his features as he jabbed a shaking finger at the trembling Thrain.

“Firearms… smuggling weapons from the mainland eh? YOU DIRTY RAT,”

he bellowed, raising his cane to strike. John stepped forward, seizing the Baron’s wrist with a grip like iron.

“I thought you were government officials, and yet you’re operating like a criminal gang,”

John growled, eyes flicking to the soldiers still standing.

“If you wanna start a fight with someone, start with me, not him.”