No Publici Shall Talk

Mirak knew it was a mistake before the words left his lips. To scathingly admonish a noble of the Great Houses was foolish—a brazen act of defiance that had no place in the court of Koona. The blow came swiftly, the sharp crack of the guard's gauntleted hand striking his face echoing across the chamber.

No one stopped it.

Mirak staggered, blood dripping from the corner of his lip as he regained his footing. His head pounded with the force of the strike, but his gaze remained locked on Lord Stell, who leaned forward with a sneer that radiated condescension.

"No, let him go on," Stell said, his voice dripping with mockery. "As an ex-Publici, I'm sure you're accustomed to beatings. Perhaps my guard can jog your memory of what it's like."

Mirak did not rise to the bait again. The rage bubbling beneath the surface threatened to erupt, but he clamped his jaw shut. He wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his glove, his single hand trembling as he forced himself to stand tall.

"My opinion remains the same," he said coldly, his voice carrying across the room despite the metallic taste of blood on his tongue. "The mine I was in was mismanaged. Death was as common an occurrence as the arrival of new Publici. It is a cycle of waste and cruelty." He held up his wrist, the gleaming shackle of a former Publici still locked around his arm. "I am proof of it."

Ustea, the dark-haired Didact, leaned forward on her silver throne, her crimson eyes gleaming with an inscrutable expression. "We will offer you another chance, Lord Stell," she said, her voice sharp yet measured. "More Publici will be provided. However, we expect the output of resin to rise by a quarter. You will also ensure the safety of the minor nobles under your care. Any further… failures will not be tolerated."

"I am grateful, my Didacts," Stell replied smoothly, bowing his head in submission.

Mirak bit down hard on his lip, barely keeping his fury contained. The Didacts had given Stell exactly what he wanted—more Publici to exploit, more lives to throw into the grinding maw of the mines. The reality of the court hit him like a hammer. Resin was too important, the lifeblood of Koona, and the Didacts would not hesitate to feed the machine no matter the cost in lives.

Mirak's fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. A single punch—just one—would have been so satisfying, even if it ended with him bleeding on the floor again. His knuckles itched with the desire for retribution, but he forced his hands to relax. Stell wasn't worth it. Not here, not now.

The chamber moved on, the voices of the nobles buzzing with renewed energy as Ustea cut off further arguments. "Next to speak is Lady Mallum," she announced.

Lady Mallum rose from her blackwood throne, her imposing figure commanding attention. Her gown, dyed in deep blues and black to match the seas her house ruled, clung to her muscular frame, emphasizing her presence. She wasted no time.

"My harbor was sabotaged last week," she said, her voice sharp as steel.

A ripple of whispers spread through the chamber. Sabotage was no light matter. For a noble of a Great House to speak of it so openly meant she believed it to be a deliberate attack—and not a random act of destruction.

"Is that so?" Ustea asked, her full attention now on Mallum.

"Yes," Mallum replied curtly. "The few workers who were present that night spoke of men in white cloaks vanishing into the Lunar Storms. They also claimed there were two inspectors of House Resenka present at the scene."

At this, Lord Resenka—a rotund man dressed in robes of pale blue and white—rose with indignation. "Why would I burn your shipyards, Lady Mallum?" he asked, his tone filled with scorn. "What would I gain from such an act? Your harbors bring in the imported food that sustains the people of Koona. To harm them would be to harm the city itself."

Mallum growled, her voice carrying the force of the sea she governed. "Do not speak to me as if I am some child, Resenka. Without my harbors, your house would hold the city's food supply hostage. Do not pretend you wouldn't jump at the chance to charge higher prices."

"Lady Mallum," Ustea interjected sharply, her voice brooking no argument.

Mallum caught herself, her jaw tightening as she sat back down. "Apologies, Didact."

Resenka, emboldened, flourished his hand. "Your temper is as invigorating as ever, Mallum," he said with a smirk. "A charming flaw in an otherwise—"

"Warnings given to others are best heeded," Eth interrupted in his soft, melodic voice. Though quiet, his words cut through Resenka's remark like a blade.

The upper pews of the court began to stir with hushed voices. Whispers of "Revenant" and "saboteurs" filled the air. The name itself—the Revenant—was spoken with trepidation, an acknowledgment of the infamous thieves' guild that haunted the shadows of Koona. Few dared to speak the name too loudly, for it carried weight even in these hallowed halls.

"It is upsetting to hear of your losses, Lady Mallum," Eth said, his tone almost sympathetic.

"Yes," Mallum replied. "I request that the Thrones of Silver find those responsible for this attack and their allies."

Her words carried more than a plea. They carried an accusation—a challenge directed at the other Great Houses. She believed the sabotage was the work of one of them, and she wasn't afraid to say so.

Eth nodded thoughtfully. "The Ten danced in the streets once more, casting glances in all corners of the capital. Fret not, for justice comes to all in time."

Lady Mallum grunted, unsatisfied. "Justice will not rebuild my docks. I need resources, not platitudes."

It was Sanni who spoke next, her voice smooth and deliberate. "House Fell would gladly offer its support… for certain advantages in the future, of course."

Mallum's lips curled into a sneer. "I did not ask for your help, Lady Fell."

Sanni tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "No, but I offer it all the same. We were allies once before. Perhaps it is time to mend old wounds."

Mallum turned to the Didacts, ignoring Sanni's comment. Yet the tension between the two women hung heavy in the air, a silent battle of wills.

The Didacts remained silent, their expressions inscrutable. It was Ithobaal Hesteran, the banker lord, who broke the stalemate. He stood with his usual practiced elegance, his red and white robes pristine. "I too am moved by your plight, Lady Mallum," he said smoothly. "House Hesteran offers its aid, though I would ask for a decrease in the cost of the materials we purchase from you in return."

Mallum's laughter was bitter. "I trust you even less than Lady Fell, Hesteran. At least the Fell are pretty when they stab you in the back."

Hesteran inclined his head, smiling faintly. "It is in my nature. I am a banker, after all."

As the debates dragged on, Mirak stood quietly behind Sanni, his lip throbbing from the earlier strike. He let the voices of the court wash over him, their barbed words and calculated negotiations little more than noise.

But inside, he burned.

The mines. The caves. The endless darkness. The clinking of chains and the screams of Publici crushed beneath the weight of collapsing rock. It all returned to him in vivid detail, clawing at the edges of his mind.

Sanni's voice pulled him back to the present as they left the throne room. She spun on her heel, her expression sharp. "You spoke out of turn," she hissed, jabbing a finger into his chest.

Mirak wiped the dried blood from his lip and met her glare. "I know."

"Do you have the faintest idea what they will say now? That House Fell cannot even control its hired help? That we are too soft, too lax?" She prodded him again, her frustration palpable.