The alleys of Lower Thalyss smelled of smoke, ale, and quiet desperation.
It was a different world here. Beyond the marble halls, beyond the polished facades of noble houses. The real city pulsed beneath the stone like a hidden artery — rough, dangerous, and forgotten by the gods.
Aelric liked it here.
Bren led the way, broad shoulders cutting through the narrow streets. Rhea drifted in the shadows, her cloak blending with the dark.
They reached the meeting point — an old, abandoned bathhouse, crumbling under centuries of neglect. But tonight, its cracked pillars and broken statues hid more than decay.
Inside, nearly two dozen figures waited. Faces worn by hard lives. Scarred mercenaries. Faded noble heirs. Riftborn laborers. Forgotten soldiers. All bound by one thing: quiet defiance.
Aelric stepped forward. The room stilled.
"You all know why you're here," Aelric began, his voice calm but steady, carrying across the worn stone. "You've seen the rot. You've bled for a kingdom that treats you as less than human. You've buried friends beneath banners of gods who never answered."
A murmur rippled through the room — bitter agreement.
Aelric continued, eyes sharp. "I'm not promising miracles. I'm not promising glory. But I am promising a choice."
He held up the pendant — the phoenix feather gleaming faintly. A symbol now — quiet rebellion made tangible.
"They control the laws. The temples. The System itself. But they've forgotten something…" His gaze swept across them, voice growing colder.
"They've forgotten fear."
A hushed silence fell.
"We don't strike yet," Aelric continued. "We build. We whisper. We turn their weapons against them. Quietly. Patiently."
A scarred woman near the back — eyes sharp, tattoo curling up her neck — spoke, "And when they notice?"
Aelric smiled faintly. "They already have."
A low ripple of dark amusement followed. Fear, yes — but also hunger. These people were desperate. Angry. Ready.
"We don't kneel," Aelric finished. "We don't beg the gods for scraps. We carve our own place in this world."
Slowly, hands lifted — not clenched fists of open rebellion, not yet — but subtle, quiet acknowledgment.
The first embers.
Bren cracked his knuckles approvingly. Rhea's expression softened — pride hidden behind her usual steel.
The Quiet Rebellion had begun.
Not with swords. Not yet.
But with whispered names. Hidden alliances.
And the quiet promise of fire beneath the throne.
...
The Thalyss Noble Archives were a fortress disguised as a library.
Towering stone walls, wrought-iron gates etched with divine wards, and patrols of armored sentries. It wasn't merely history the elites protected—it was leverage. Secrets. Lineage. The strings by which power was quietly pulled.
And tonight, Aelric intended to steal some of those strings.
"Tell me again," Bren muttered, adjusting the rough cloak that masked his bulk, "why I'm not just punching our way in."
"Because punching leaves evidence," Rhea replied dryly, slipping into the shadows ahead. "And we need subtle."
Aelric smiled faintly as they approached the side entrance. "Besides, when we punch, we'll aim for the throne. Not a door."
The street was quiet. The moon veiled behind clouds. Perfect conditions.
Their contact, a slender woman with ink-stained hands and sharp eyes, waited by the locked servant's gate. Her name was Isolde — former scribe, now quietly sympathetic to Aelric's cause.
"Three guards inside the west wing," Isolde whispered, passing Aelric a crude sketch of the archive's layout. "Patrols rotate every six minutes. The records on noble contracts—family oaths, land titles—they're kept in the lower vault."
Aelric's fingers brushed the sketch. "The divine seals?"
Isolde's lips twisted into a grin. "Complicated. But I left… a few imperfections."
Rhea's eyes gleamed with quiet approval.
With practiced ease, they slipped through the gate, into the dim, cold corridors beyond. Stone echoed underfoot. The scent of parchment and dust filled the air.
Every step was calculated. Every shadow embraced.
Aelric led them down winding hallways, ducking into alcoves as armored guards passed. His heart raced — not with fear, but with the electric thrill of controlled risk.
At the lower vault, they paused.
An iron door inscribed with holy symbols blocked their path. Rhea examined the markings. "Standard divine warding. Trigger it wrong… and the gods know we're here."
"Good thing I'm not standard," Aelric replied, placing his hand to the seal.
The magic prickled against his skin. The System's energy writhed, sensing his presence—expecting divine alignment. Expecting obedience.
But Aelric was neither.
With focused will, he pushed. The energy recoiled—confused. His existence… an anomaly. The ward hesitated.
Rhea's eyes widened as the symbols flickered—then dulled.
"You're getting better at that," she muttered.
Inside, rows of locked cabinets and scroll cases stretched into the shadows.
Bren moved to guard the entrance. Rhea and Aelric worked swiftly, locating the noble contracts—parchments binding entire families to ancient divine pacts.
Among them, Aelric found what he sought—evidence of House Morgrave's manipulation. Dozens of false oaths, altered bloodlines, fraudulent divine favor.
"Enough to shake the council," Rhea whispered.
"Enough to fracture them," Aelric corrected, carefully stowing the documents.
The exit was smooth. The guards, oblivious.
By the time the archives realized what was missing, the rebellion would already have its first weapon.
Not a blade. Not yet.
But truth, sharp enough to draw blood.
As they slipped back into the city, Aelric's eyes burned with quiet certainty.
The seeds of defiance were planted.
And soon?
They would bloom.