Chapter 2: Seeds of Discord

The tavern was as dim as it had ever been, the flickering lanterns casting long shadows on the wooden walls. The scent of spilled ale and sweat clung to the air, mixing with the faint stench of the night's cold breeze that seeped through the cracks in the window. The usual ruckus of laughter and rough talk filled the room, but Valen sat quietly in the far corner, watching.

His fingers absently traced the rim of a tankard, but his eyes—his eyes were sharp, scanning each person in the room as though he were a hawk, seeing things no one else would notice. The Black Scar gang was a mess of bruises, dirt, and weapons—men and women too hungry for power to realize they were already being led by a fool.

Bastien, the gang's leader, was sitting at the far end of the room, his rough hands wrapped around a mug. His mouth was full of boastful words, but there was something in his eyes—a dullness that only a blind man could miss. Bastien was no longer the leader he once was, if he ever truly was. He had stopped leading with strategy and started leading with brute force.

Valen's lips curled in a slight, controlled smirk.

Later that evening, Valen found himself walking the crooked path toward the warehouse district, Jarek by his side. The clinking of coins from their latest heist was tucked away in their pockets, and the wind howled through the narrow alleyways like the spirits of those unlucky enough to wander here.

"So, what now?" Jarek grunted, his voice rough from too much drink. He had a thick neck and a scowl that never seemed to leave his face, but there was a restlessness about him tonight. Valen could see it in the way Jarek's eyes darted around, looking for something he wasn't sure how to find.

Valen kept his pace slow and steady, the soft thud of boots against wet stone the only sound between them. "We could keep doing this. Keep hitting convoys, taking what we can. But…" Valen paused, letting the silence hang in the air, "I'm not interested in scraps."

Jarek shot him a sideways glance. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the real power," Valen continued, his voice calm, as though he were discussing something trivial. "The wealth that the nobles hoard, the power they've built behind their walls. That's what we could have."

Jarek's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, the leather of his glove creaking as he tightened his grip. "You're talking about something big. Too big. Bastien wouldn't—"

"Bastien doesn't think big. He doesn't see what's right in front of him," Valen cut in smoothly. "He thinks that beating people and taking their coins is the way to get ahead. But what if we could take more than just the streets? What if we could take the city? The whole damn kingdom?"

Jarek stopped walking, turning to face Valen. There was a spark in his eyes now, something more than simple skepticism. "You're insane."

Valen's expression was unreadable. "Am I? Or am I just seeing the truth that no one else has the guts to say?"

Jarek was quiet for a long moment. The wind whipped through the alley, carrying with it the faint echoes of distant footsteps. Then, without another word, Jarek nodded, his expression hardening. "I'll think about it."

Valen simply nodded in return, watching as Jarek trudged away, his boots heavy on the cobblestones. He had already planted the seed, and it was only a matter of time before it began to sprout.

The next few days were a blur of routine, yet Valen's mind was always working, always turning. He knew that to bring down Bastien, he needed more than just a few disgruntled members. He needed to create a rift—something deep and lasting—so that the very foundation of the Black Scar would begin to crumble from the inside.

That night, after a particularly rough job where they had to escape a rival gang's territory, Valen found himself with Mira, the sly, sharp-tongued woman who had a reputation for knowing everyone's business. She was sitting at the far end of the tavern, alone, a tankard of ale in front of her, the moonlight shining through the window casting a cold glow on her sharp features.

Valen slid into the seat across from her without a word, his movements deliberate. She looked up from her drink, her eyes glinting with suspicion. "What do you want?" she asked, her voice low and cool, but Valen could see the curiosity in her gaze.

"I'm thinking about the future," Valen said, his tone thoughtful, almost contemplative. He leaned back slightly, eyeing the room as though the conversation were of no importance. "About what we deserve, you know?"

Mira raised an eyebrow. "What's this now? You've been hanging around Jarek too much."

Valen smirked. "Maybe. But he's not wrong, is he? We do the dirty work, we get the scraps. And Bastien gets all the glory."

Mira's lips twitched, the smallest hint of a smile forming. "You're not the first to complain about that. You think we can just take the whole damn city?"

Valen's eyes locked onto hers, his gaze steady, calculating. "I think we could do better. I think we could make it ours. We could run this town, Mira. But we need someone who's got the brains to make it happen."

Mira didn't laugh. She didn't scoff. Instead, she leaned in a little, her voice dropping even lower. "You're talking about taking Bastien's spot."

"I'm talking about taking everything. And with the right people, we could. We deserve more than this life of scraps, Mira. You know it. I know it."

Mira studied him for a long time, and for the briefest moment, Valen saw the flicker of ambition in her eyes. But then she looked away, taking a sip of her drink. "You've got guts, I'll give you that."

Valen's smile was cold, almost imperceptible. "It's not about guts. It's about knowing what we're worth."

Mira didn't respond. She didn't need to. The words had been planted, and they would grow, even if she didn't want them to.

The following days were filled with hushed conversations in dark corners, subtle glances exchanged behind Bastien's back, and small gestures of support from those who had begun to see the cracks in his leadership. Valen wasn't rushing. He knew that, in time, the pressure would build. The dissent would rise, quiet at first, but inevitable.

And when the time was right, when the gang was weak enough, he would strike. But that time wasn't yet.