"Lieutenant Talon! Ergency flare—central market!"
The office door slamd open as a breathless officer in a dark navy-blue uniform rushed inside, his boots leaving scuffed trails on the polished floor.
Lieutenant Talon’s eyes snapped up from the paperwork he was reviewing. His chair scraped back as he stood, voice sharp. "What happened? Speak clearly."
The officer took a quick breath, chest rising. "Sir, a red flare was fired—standard distress signal for officer down. Location is confird as the central market. Visual confirmation from three patrols."
Talon’s face hardened imdiately, the atmosphere in the room shifting.
"Which unit was assigned to that patrol zone?" he asked, already striding toward the door.
"Team Three, sir. Jareth, Renford, Mikel, Thom, and Rourke."
Talon froze for a half-second. Not because of doubt—but because he knew exactly what this ant.
They engaged first yesterday. First arrest of the Iron Shield mbers. First ssage. "Damn it..." he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
He turned back to the officer. "Sound the alarm. Mobilize all active-duty personnel within range. Use ssenger birds—send urgent dispatches to Stations B and C. Let them know we may be dealing with a targeted retaliation."
"Yes, sir!"
The officer saluted sharply and dashed out of the room. Monts later, the sharp clang of the alarm bell echoed through the halls of Station A—deep, urgent, and relentless.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Inside the barracks, ss hall, training yard—wherever they were—every officer froze for a breath, then sprang into motion.
Boots thundered against stone as dozens of officers grabbed their batons, and reinforced gear. Straps were tightened. Cloaks thrown over shoulders. The air buzzed with tension, discipline, and barely contained adrenaline.
The officer who rang the bell sprinted to the aviary and unlatched a caged kestrel. In practiced motions, he rolled a tiny parchnt into a brass capsule and latched it to the bird’s leg. With a flick of his arm, the ssenger bird took flight, banking east—toward Station B.
At the sa ti, a second bird was prepared for Station C.
Lieutenant Talon stood at the front of the gathering hall now, having buckled on his gears, his expression grim.
"Officers of Station A!" he called, voice sharp and steady, rising above the chaos. "We have a red flare—officer down. Location: central market."
The murmurs ceased imdiately.
"This is not training. This is not a drill. You all swore to protect Iron Hearth, and today, that vow will be tested. Team Three was deployed to that zone. Jareth. Renford. Mikel. Thom. Rourke."
Faces hardened. So glanced at empty bunks. Others clenched their fists.
Talon continued. "We don’t know the full situation yet, but assu the worst-case scenario. Gang retaliation is likely. Prepare for hostile confrontation. No civilians are to be hard. Priority: secure the scene, extract survivors, neutralize threats."
He paused, tone like sharpened steel. "Seven officers remain here—hold the Station and maintain control. The rest of you, deploy imdiately. Mission priorities: secure the periter, extract survivors, eliminate hostiles, enforce order. Go. Assist your comrades. That’s an order."
A unified, thunderous response erupted from the assembled officers.
"YES, SIR!"
With that, the doors to Station A burst open, and the navy-blue wave of law swept into the streets—charging toward the central market.
As the officers charged through the streets, their dark navy uniforms cutting through the crowd like a tide of purpose, heads began to turn. One or two glances quickly beca dozens. rchants paused mid-sale. Shoppers stepped back, confusion etched across their faces.
"What’s going on?" a butcher whispered to his apprentice.
"Why are so many of them running at once?" murmured an old woman, clutching her basket tighter.
Around twenty officers, ard and focused, were sprinting down the main avenue—toward the central square. Their sudden, coordinated movent wasn’t sothing the people had seen before. In the past, the old city watch shuffled lazily in pairs at best. This? This was sothing else. Disciplined. Urgent. Serious.
Of course, most of the onlookers had no idea what was happening since it was happening inside the market.
However, when the officers reached the edge of the central square, the chaos they had prepared for was nowhere to be seen.
No clashing blades. No hostile gang mbers. No sounds of resistance.
Just silence.
And then—they saw them.
Five bodies sprawled across the blood-soaked cobblestones.
The officers froze, the charge faltering mid-step. Their boots skidded to a halt as the tallic stench of blood hit them. Gasps escaped lips. Soone dropped their baton. Another officer fell to their knees.
There, lying lifeless in pools of crimson, were the n from Station A—Jareth, Renford, Rourke, Thom... and Mikel.
Their dark navy-blue uniforms were torn and stained, the insignias of justice now soaked in tragedy. Their weapons lay scattered, unused. Eyes that once carried fire and resolve were now glassy and still.
Lieutenant Talon stood at the front of the group, breath caught in his throat. His gaze locked on Jareth’s lifeless form—the young man who had passed the officer’s trials with pride, who had stood tall beneath the banner of King Arthur Tesla. Who had believed, with a stubborn and sincere heart, that they could change Iron Hearth for the better.
Now he lay crumpled in blood-soaked stone, his baton fallen from his hand, his navy-blue uniform torn and dirtied.
Talon’s fists clenched so tightly that his gloves creaked. His jaw tightened.
"Secure the periter," he said, his voice rough, barely holding back the storm behind his eyes. "Cover the bodies... and start questioning the witnesses. Anyone who saw what happened—I want every detail. Don’t miss a single one."
The officers spread out quickly, urgency in their steps, sorrow in their hearts. They approached vendors, shoppers, children still clinging to their parents’ cloaks—but the answers didn’t co.
Most of the onlookers avoided their gaze. So turned away altogether, pretending not to have seen. A fruit-seller shook his head wordlessly, eyes fixed on the ground. A young mother clutched her daughter to her chest and backed away without a word. The silence that t the officers wasn’t just grief—it was fear.
They had seen five trained, uniford officers cut down in broad daylight.
They had seen a mage, cloaked in casual cruelty, tear through them like parchnt.
If even the ones sent by the king—clad in official colors and ard with authority—could be butchered like that... what could ordinary people do? To speak now, they feared, might an retaliation from Iron Shield. To answer the officers’ questions could paint a target on their backs.
Talon watched the hesitation, the silence. His heart sank.
But not all turned away.
An older man, his hands trembling, stepped forward from the crowd. His voice was hoarse. "I... I saw them. The officers. They fought brave to help but the tall one... with the earth magic... he was a monster. But they didn’t run. Not even when it was hopeless."
Another voice chid in—young, hesitant. A boy no older than twenty. "One of them fired a red flare into the sky. Before he died. I saw it. He didn’t want to go down without letting others know."
And then a few more—vendors, travelers, even a couple of workers from the nearby smithy—nodded, slowly coming forward. Sharing fragnts. Descriptions. The flare. The stone magic. The man who called himself Tannus.
It wasn’t everyone. Most still stayed silent, too afraid to speak.
But it was enough.
Enough to give Talon sothing to work with.
Enough to light the first flicker of resistance.
He turned toward the center of the market, eyes burning with unspoken promises. "They think this will break us," he muttered under his breath. "But this—this is where it begins."
He would not let Jareth’s sacrifice fade into dust. He would not let fear win.
Not today. Not ever.
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