"The reports lied," Bishop Eran snapped, cutting him off. "The northern cell failed to take control. The remains were not secured, and the ritual was interrupted. That power that should have been ours by now had been lost."
He clenched his gloved fist tightly and brought it down on the table with a dull thud. "Damn it!
"All those planning and countless resources..After all this... and it’s still a failure."
A murmur rippled through the room. Tension rose like steam off a forge.
Bishop Eran’s lips twisted in disdain as he muttered a na with venom. "Veydrins..No especially Kaell... That dog. He interfered again."
The na silenced the rest.
One of the older mbers, a man with a torn scar across his face, grumbled, "I heard Kael cut down four of our enforcers with no help. He’s a demon on the field."
"Demon or not," Bishop Eran said, wiping his mouth and spitting to the side, "he’s only one man. But now, because of him—and that botched northern ss—the Duchy has turned its full eye toward us."
He paused, and a flicker of sothing darker flashed across his eyes.
"And if Kael is involved... then so are the followers of Peru."
The room went still again. So n swallowed hard. Others exchanged uneasy glances.
Bishop Eran folded his arms, tone lower now. "They’ve already begun the hunt. I received word last night. That faction wants blood, and if we make noise now, we’ll be surrounded on both sides."
A younger man from the far end, no older than twenty, raised a hand nervously.
"Your Grace... how did we know about the dragon remains in the northern mines in the first place? I an... who told us sothing so ancient existed there?"
Everyone turned. The Bishop’s gaze snapped to the boy.
A deep silence followed.
He walked slowly toward him. The air chilled as his boots echoed against the stone.
"That," he said slowly, eyes like steel, "is a secret of the higher circle. You are not permitted to question it."
He leaned closer. "You will do your duty. You will remain silent. And you will keep your hands clean, unless I say otherwise. Understood?"
The young man bowed his head quickly. "Y-Yes, Your Grace."
Bishop Eran turned back to the table. "From now on, we lay low. No unnecessary movent. Stay in the shadows. Burn all scrolls that carry nas and routes. Hide our stock. Mask our symbols. If even one of you is caught and speaks, you will doom us all."
He looked over his followers, eyes burning with suppressed fury.
"We may have lost the North. But this isn’t over. Not by a long shot. They want war? We’ll give them silently.They fear what they can’t find."
He pointed to the door. "Now go. Prepare the seals. Guard the exits. If a knight walks through that tunnel..." he paused, letting the mont hang, "...then may he never walk back out."
And with that, the eting ended—its final words ringing like iron bars sealing shut.
....
Dreklin, once a quiet mining town nestled between the cold Veydrin hills, was now shrouded under an air of dread. The clang of hooves, the shuffle of armored boots, and the occasional ring of steel against steel echoed through its narrow streets.
The Veydrin Knights, clad in the dark-blue and silver of the Duchy, moved in disciplined formation. Their crests bore the crest of the Iron Oak—the symbol of justice in these lands. Sword at one side, chain-whip at the other, they carried orders not of rcy, but of cleansing.
Sir Aldric, captain of the fifth squad, turned to his n as they reached a small courtyard.
"Check every ho. Every cellar, every attic. No door stays closed. If they resist, you break it down. If they lie, you bring them to ."
"Yes, Sir!" his n barked in unison.
People watched from behind windows and cracked-open shutters, their eyes filled with worry—but not defiance. Dreklin’s citizens were used to hardship, but this... this felt different. This was not a routine patrol. This was a purge.
One old man, leaning against his cane, stepped out and raised a hand as the knights approached.
"Sir Knight," he called with a hoarse voice. "You searchin’ for the snake-worshippers, ain’t you?"
Aldric turned, slowing his pace.
"I am."
The man nodded and pointed with a trembling hand. "There’s a house by the western kiln. Hasn’t been lived in for years, but lights been seen at night. Sll of burnt at, too. Sothin’ ain’t right there."
Aldric gave a tight nod. "Thank you, elder. You’ve done your part."
As the knights passed, others stepped forward too. A woman in worn robes ca up with a small scroll in hand.
"My husband works at the mines... he overheard two n talking about ’rituals’ and ’dragons’ in the tunnels beneath the old shaft. Said it didn’t sound right."
Aldric took the scroll and handed it to his scribe. "Noted. Keep your husband close for questioning."
Whispers spread fast, and soon the townsfolk began pointing at alleys, buildings, suspicious movents they’d noticed for months but never thought to report. The Serpent Gang, long hidden in the cracks of the city, had no more shadows left.
At a smithy, one of the knights knocked twice on the heavy door.
"By order of the Duchy, open this door."
The blacksmith, a barrel-chested man covered in soot, opened up and wiped his hands on a cloth.
"You’ll find no snakes here, Sir Knight. But if you need a place to sharpen your blades... the whetstone is yours."
Aldric gave a faint smile, rare in tis like these. "Appreciated."
From one end of Dreklin to the other, the cleansing continued. In the city square, a group of captured suspects—hoods over their heads, wrists bound—were lined up in front of a burning pit. One of the knights threw in a bundle of robes stitched with the Serpent sigil. Flas leapt into the night air.
Lord Commander Grant himself rode in soon after, dressed in full ceremonial armor. His horse’s hooves struck the stones like thunder as he made his way to the center.
He raised his voice, loud and firm.
"By decree of the Duke and the ruling court, the Serpent Gang is hereby outlawed in the Duchy of Veydrin. Those who shelter them will be considered traitors. Those who aid in their capture will be rewarded with coin and favor."
Cheers mixed with silence. Hope tangled with fear.
A man stepped forward from the crowd, a butcher with blood on his apron and a hardened look in his eye.
"I lost my son to those bastards," he growled. "He got caught up in their poison... thought they were speakin’ of freedom. I’ll help. I know where so of them et. I want to see them bleed."
Commander Grant nodded. "Your aid will be noted. And your vengeance—delivered."
As the sun set behind the hills of Veydrin, smoke from torches and burning insignias rose into the sky. The hunt was not over—but the net was closing.
And in the dark places of the world, the Serpent Gang would soon feel the fangs of the law.
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