knife trick (1)

It was nearly eleven o'clock by the time Damian and his entourage left the Palace. 

As usual, they took one of the residence's three cars—long, sleek automobiles that required a Priest to drive. Unlike the heavy rattling of trams or long-distance trains, cars were almost entirely silent, save for the gentle hum of the powerful Cinder that allowed the car to operate.

Normally, one of the residence's Priests would volunteer to be the driver, since operating any form of machinery required a consistent output of the Angel's Blessing. But since Lynn was accompanying them this morning, it was she who sat in the driver's seat, her hands on the wheel and a crimson light flickering between her fingers.

Damian sat in the back of the car, his attention unusually distracted. His gaze drifted from the briefing documents in his lap and towards the scenery passing by outside.

The city of Rosweiss was largely designed around a sense of community, with wide boulevards and open plazas. Dozens of parks and natural retreats lined the edges of the River Rose, and Damian saw many children and young families out and about, enjoying the gentle sunlight of early winter. 

For the most part, cars were a luxury that few could afford, chiefly because they took an experienced Priest to operate; the streets were thus lined with market stalls and filled with foot traffic.

Trams slowly rattled down the middle of the streets, serving as the main transport method for Rosweiss's population. Damian watched as a dozen or so people disembarked a nearby tram, each passenger stepping out onto the stone-paved street.

Soon, winter would freeze the River Rose, and the city would hold Firelight—the annual celebration of the Angel of the Flame, dedicated to staving off the darkest night of the year, said to be haunted by the Deep's shadows.

"Keep your wits 'bout you, Your Highness," rumbled a low, deep voice. "We're 'bout to enter Tenebrae."

Dominic sat in the passenger seat and directed his words back at the Crown Prince.

The Head of Security was a tall, broad-set man with swarthy skin and black dreadlocks. The man wore his customary black sunglasses, and despite having lowered the car seat as much as possible, his head still grazed the roof.

"Dominic, what do you make of the attacks last night?" 

Dominic snorted, his wide lips curving downwards.

"It's suspicious. Nothin' I like worse than hearing 'bout blood being spilled between the churches. Best case, it was just some drunk idiots getting into it, but…from what I heard, the Apostles attacked first."

That lined up with the newspaper reports—but five dead members of the Flame marked a rather sharp escalation in the city's problems. Rosweiss wasn't without a police force, of course; there was a rather capable group under the employ of Rosweiss Metropolitan Police who sorted out the usual crimes and protections across the city. But the RMP usually avoided anything directly involving conflict between the churches, trusting their respective clergy to figure out a solution themselves.

Damian turned his thoughts over and posed his question slowly. 

"Are you suggesting the Apostles attacked those people? I thought the Apostles were under the Collective's direct command?"

"In theory. But the Apostles ain't quite Priests, see. It's better to think of the Apostles like the Flameguard—more actively involved, representin' the church, but serving a different master.  That's the Ninth Seat's job."

"You know, I really don't appreciate being likened to those monsters," Lynn interjected. "The Flameguard are loyal representatives of the Order and defenders of the Crown. Our duties extend to both equally."

Dominic snorted again. "Easy to say until you have to make a decision."

Before Lynn could open her mouth again to argue, Damian leaned forward to cut her off.

"Dom, you said the Apostles are led by the Ninth Seat? But the papers are reporting that the Ninth Seat has been missing for several days now."

Dominic ran a hand over his smooth-shaven cheeks. 

"Ninth Seat went missin' a few days ago, and the High Table are keepin' hush about the whole thing. It all lines up, but there ain't nothin' we can do 'bout it. Let's just keep our heads down, and get the hell outta Tenebrae soon as we can. Place gives me the creeps."

Damian was inclined to agree. 

Whatever machinations were at work within the Collective and the High Table, it was unlikely he could solve them himself. Even so, this meeting presented a rather unique opportunity to gain valuable information—a chance that Damian wasn't about to pass up so easily.

He leaned back in his seat, suddenly aware of the changes taking place outside the car's windows.

The presence of the Deep wasn't something that began sharply, but instead slowly bled into the rest of the city. First, the trams stopped running; then the streets become narrower, and the crowds thinner. The Flame-blessed lamps were replaced by gas-fitted ones, duller and dirtier than their counterparts. 

And then, finally, the road itself ended, forcing Lynn to pull the car over to the side. 

From here, they would need to continue on-foot.

There wasn't a particularly well-defined point at which Tenebrae began, but Hunter's Lane was widely agreed upon as the demarcation line. The street had once been the center of Rosweiss' trade, hundreds of years ago, before the Starfall. Now, it was nothing more than a cobblestone lane barely wide enough for half a dozen people, overshadowed by two- and three-story buildings that clustered together overhead.

The party of three exited the car, each casting a nervous glance around in their own way. 

As Crown Prince, Damian had authority over all parts of the kingdom, down to every last street. Yet, here in Tenebrae, the Collective held significant sway over its populace; and the High Table acted like a local council. 

Even worse, the ideological differences between the Deep and the Flame meant that the Crown—and its strong links to the Holy Order of the Flame—caused significant friction between the residents of Tenebrae and the rest of Rosweiss. 

Even here, on the border between the smaller district and the rest of the city, Damian saw a few shopfronts with signs saying "No Flame," and pictograms of a flame with a red cross over it. Passersby viewed the car with obvious suspicion, and when they finally recognized the royal livery of Damian's jacket, they opted to keep a wide berth rather than stare with adoration.

You and the Flame aren't welcome here, seemed to be the message.

"Stay close," Dominic rumbled, walking just a few feet behind Damian. At nearly seven feet, he towered over the Crown Prince, his presence acting like an invisible barrier. 

Lynn walked in front of them both, dressed in the ornamental chainmail and metal greaves the Flameguard wore on their missions. She took a pair of gloves from her waist and pulled them on, the leather inscribed with a variety of runes intended to bolster her connection to the Flame.

The party headed down Hunter's Lane, then onto a slightly wider street that led towards the centre of Tenebrae. Market vendors hawked their goods from small shops carved out between buildings, while overhead, patrons ate and talked at cafés. Were it not for the tight confines of the streets, or the pervasive darkness that clung stubbornly to the shadows, Damian might've thought he was anywhere else in Rosweiss.

But the uncomfortable sensation that gnawed at his heart—his tenuous connection to the Flame rebelling at the presence of the Deep—reminded him exactly where he was.

After another few minutes walking, the group came out into a small plaza with a graffiti-covered water fountain and a few wooden benches. A handful of children were playing soccer, a dog barking energetically at the ball, but when the kids caught sight of Dominic, they scampered down a nearby lane, their hound in tow.

The plaza was left silent, deserted except for Damian's party—

—and a man sitting alone on a bench in front of the fountain.