Silver and Silence

Geza was starting to crack.

Leadership? Gone. Commandatee? Dead in the Hennekas mess. The night rider? Ghosted like a bad Tinder date. And Shæz? Out chasing war dreams somewhere with Fien and the bear cavalry. The generals were holding endless closed-door meetings that smelled more like panic than planning. People called Geza "the people's city"—but now? Now the people wanted someone to actually run the damn thing.

No more ideals. No more committee crap. They needed a leader. A face. A voice. Someone to point at when things went to hell and say, "Yep, that's our guy."

Enter: the Noble of Belsa. A quiet dude, honestly. No big speeches. No grand entrances. Just a good man with good timing—and even better bloodlines. He came from the Belsa Carrot, a mixed Denefremim–Ozelean family. Geza had iced the Belsas out of politics a while back for that exact reason. Too Ozelean for the purists. Too quiet for the fanatics. Basically: too decent for the system.

But decency has a way of making a comeback when everyone else is either dead or hiding.

The Noble—most didn't even know his real name—had this... aura. Not magic, not charisma. Just realness. He fixed streets. Helped elders. Said hi to kids. He wasn't perfect, but in a city crawling with egos and scars, he was enough.

And when the generals took a vote, the people held their breath. Then came the smoke signal. Geza had a their first governor.

And the kicker? The Belsas were everywhere now—working class, guards, traders, builders. Kicking them out hadn't worked. They just stayed. And with the wars brewing, the generals finally figured it out: locals weren't enough anymore. They needed everyone. Even the Ozelean-mixed kids they used to spit at in the market.

Now, somewhere just past noon, the Noble of Belsa sat in his open little office. No throne. No guards. Just a desk, a cracked mug of bitterroot tea, and a stack of maps.

That's when Ella and Max walked in. Max had mud on his boots and zero fucks left to give. Ella looked tired, eyes dark and glowing, like she'd just fought a ghost and maybe won. Barely.

"Greetings, my governor," they said together, not in sync, but with just enough honor to get a respectful nod.

The Noble looked up, smiled faintly. "Miteon girl," he said. "What brings you here?"

She stepped forward. No wings today. Just words.

"The Shams," she said, "are organizing. An army. Something big's coming."

Now, that alone—saying "Shams" out loud like it was normal conversation—would've gotten most people laughed out the door. Half of Senedro didn't even believe in Shams. Thought they were bedtime stories or desert hallucinations. Little whispers from Dalab where people drank too much and forgot their meds.

But the Noble didn't laugh. He blinked slowly. Studied her. Glanced at Max, who gave a shrug like, yeah, this is my Tuesday now. The room went quiet for a beat.

Then: "What do you want me to do about it, sweet?" the Noble asked, voice calm, almost too gentle. Like he was asking if she wanted honey in her tea instead of telling him the end times were coming.

Ella straightened. "I want a militia. Backed by Geza. Supplies. Maps. Something. Anything."

The Noble leaned back. Exhaled.

"I've got bears running in the east. Shæz off chasing shadows. Fien raising hell in Dalab. And you… you bring me ghost stories."

"They're not stories," she snapped.

Max stepped up beside her, hands in his pockets. "Governor, look. I've seen them. Shams. Real ones. They're like… if sin had a baby with a lightning storm."

"Cute," the Noble said dryly.

"They're organizing, man. That's new. That's terrifying."

The governor sighed. Picked up his mug. Took a slow sip.

Then: "Fine."

Ella blinked. "Wait—fine?"

"You get ten warriors. Light armor and pure silver swords. And only if you bring back proof. Something physical. One fang. One feather. I don't care."

"Done," she said before he could breathe.

Max smiled. "I like this guy."

The Noble of Belsa didn't smile back. But his eyes? Yeah. They were lit. Like maybe he did believe the stories. And maybe, just maybe, he knew the war had already started.

It somehow felt unfair—no, not just unfair, kinda fucked up, actually.

Looking for proof of Shams with just ten warriors? That wasn't a scouting mission, that was a slow, poetic way to die. But Ella and Max didn't complain. Not really. The governor could've laughed them out the room or tossed them to the streets like spoiled bread. But he hadn't. He listened. That alone felt like a damn miracle in Geza these days. So they left his office not exactly skipping, but... lighter. Hope wasn't dead. Just limping a little.

And the gear? Solid. They were handed pure silver swords—real ones, not the cheap knockoff silver-dipped crap the street vendors pushed. These were old weapons. Sacred. Heavy. Sharpened with the kind of care you only gave to things meant to kill something not-quite-alive.

Rumor said silver worked on Shams. Maybe. Maybe not. But it was the best shot they had. And hell, it looked badass.

The governor had also sent them with ten hand-picked Belsa warriors. All of them serious, quiet types. Horseback riders. Broad shoulders. Eyes like they'd seen shit and walked away from it. These weren't newbies—they were survivors. And they were loyal. Not to Ella, not yet—but to the Noble of Belsa. And that was enough.

Why Belsa soldiers? Simple. Nobody else in Geza wanted to even say the word "Sham," let alone go out hunting one. The Miteons didn't believe in tales, the Denefremims were prideful, and the other creatures… well, yeah, they were still not welcome at the war table. Using Belsas kept it quiet. Contained. Less panic, less politics.

They loaded up with supplies—enough food, water, salves, and cloth to last thirty days on the road. No cannons, no banners, no announcements. This wasn't about glory. This was about proof. Something the governor could wave in a meeting and say, "See? Told you so."

So they set off. The Eyes of Senedro—rode up front, her sword sheathed but close, her senses even closer. The wind was sharp. Dry. The kind of breeze that carried whispers if you listened hard enough.

Max was just behind her, chewing on a root he claimed calmed his nerves. Probably bullshit, but it made him look casual, which weirdly helped the morale of the group.

They left Geza by the southern gate just after sunrise, before the city had fully woken up. No parade, no farewell. Just ten horses, two leaders, and a whole lot of instinct.

Ella didn't have a map. Not really. She had dreams. Glimpses. Fleeting visions from the spiritual realm she'd seen back when she dove in too deep and nearly didn't come back. She saw flashes—a ruined temple under blood-orange skies. Shadows moving like thoughts. Eyes. Always eyes.

She wasn't sure if the images were real or just trauma doing donuts in her brain. But she felt where to go.

Somewhere north. Near the edge of the broken lands where Senedro's maps faded into guesswork and ghost stories. Where old spirits still whispered in half-forgotten tongues. Where Shams were more than rumors.

"We're heading toward the west of the split Ridge," she said one night as they made camp under a crooked rock arch.

The Belsa soldiers didn't say much. Just nodded and kept their weapons close. Professionals. Probably thought Ella was nuts, but none of them said it out loud. Yet.

Ella stared into the flames that night, her mind drifting. Was this a suicide run? Maybe. But something about this mission felt right. Like the kind of dangerous that matters. Like destiny was watching.

She reached into her satchel, pulling out a small charm—a broken star pendant once worn by a Shæz.

She looked at Max and he smiled, tired but solid. "Hey"

And in the silence that followed, the wind whispered again.

Something was watching them already.