#12. City of shattered banners
The city of Virelia was a wound that had refused to heal.
Once a symbol of unity between the northern highlands and the sun-scorched south, it now stood fractured, split by walls, barricades, and banners that fluttered from every tower and rooftop.
Kael and the others approached under the veil of night, cloaks pulled tight, hoods drawn low.
From the cliffs above the city, Lyra could see fires burning in every quarter. Not from celebration, but division.
"Four factions," Darion muttered, scanning with his spyglass. "Each claiming control of the city. Each one ready to slit the other's throat for it."
"And we just walked into the middle of their powder keg," Oma said.
Kael didn't speak. His eyes were fixed on the heart of Virelia where the once neutral Hall of Balance now bore a crimson flag, its scales torn down, replaced by the snarling crest of the Iron Hand, one of the factions rumored to have risen after the Flamebound King's death.
They entered through the merchant district, past shuttered stalls and corpses slumped in corners. The smell of rot was heavy, and the guards that watched from rooftops did not look like peacekeepers they looked like scavengers.
"This place is going to tear itself apart," Lyra said.
"No," Kael murmured. "Someone already started tearing it. We're just here to see who benefits from the mess."
They found refuge in a half burned inn run by a neutral sympathizer, a weathered woman named Aelin Mora, who remembered Kael's father from the old wars.
"You've got blood on your face and fire in your name," she said when she opened the door, letting them in. "That'll get you killed in Virelia these days."
Kael lowered his hood. "Better than being forgotten."
Inside, the air was thick with smoke and tension. Aelin's inn was a place for whispers, mercenaries, spies, and broken lords all passed through her tables. Oma and Darion kept their eyes open, watching everyone who walked by.
"They all know," Lyra whispered to Kael as they sat in the back corner. "They know we killed the king."
"Then we should act like it," Oma said sharply. "Walk tall, not skulking in corners."
Kael didn't agree. Not here. Not yet.
By the next day, the city's state became clearer.
The Iron Hand ruled the central quarter brutal enforcers and ex-soldiers turned warlords. They had claimed the Hall of Balance and held it like a trophy.
The Crescent Blades, once protectors of the city, now guarded only their own enclave in the western wing. They were the last of Virelia's noble houses, clinging to their fading honor.
In the east, the Thorned Veil, a faction of assassins and former spies, manipulated trade routes and controlled whispers more than weapons. Their faces were unseen. Their reach was everywhere.
And in the southern ruins, a growing sect known as the Children of Flame worshipped the dead Flamebound King believing his death had unleashed a curse on the world. They were fanatical, and they were multiplying.
"It's madness," Darion said, laying down the crude map he'd gathered. "None of them want peace. They just want to own the ashes."
Oma traced a finger across the map. "The Crescent Blades might talk. The rest won't. Especially not the Iron Hand. Their leader Commander Vesk, is said to have served the Flamebound King in secret. He won't tolerate us here."
Lyra's expression tightened. "Then maybe it's time we stopped tolerating him."
Kael didn't answer. He stared at the Hall of Balance, now visible through a cracked window. He remembered standing in its marble halls as a child. Now it was draped in blood-red flags and patrolled by thugs.
"We need allies," he finally said. "If we're going to stop Eren, we need to hold ground somewhere. This city is fractured but it's still powerful. If we can unite even two factions, we might be able to stabilize the region."
Oma gave him a sharp look. "That's politics. You hate politics."
"Not as much as I hate watching people burn."
Later that night, they split up to make contact.
Lyra and Darion went west to speak with the Crescent Blades. Their leader, Lady Thessa, received them with suspicion.
"You come here smelling of war and death," she said coldly. "Why should I believe you're different than the rest?"
Lyra didn't flinch. "Because we've already ended one tyrant. We're not here to take thrones. We're here to keep them from falling into the wrong hands again."
Meanwhile, Kael and Oma approached the Thorned Veil's whisper network. They didn't meet anyone face to face,only veiled messengers who asked riddles and left answers in coded slips of paper. Still, a message came back:
"We watched Eren leave through the shadowed gate. We know where he's going. But do you?"
Kael's fists clenched at the mention of Eren. So even here, the traitor's trail burned like embers in the wind.
By dawn, they regrouped. Tensions between them had grown. Lyra avoided Kael's eyes. Oma sharpened her dagger a little too forcefully. Darion's limp worsened, but he said nothing.
"Lady Thessa might offer a meeting," Lyra reported. "But she wants proof that we're not just another group of war-chasers."
"She'll get it," Kael said.
"How?" Oma asked. "Vesk controls the city's heart. We can't confront him directly, not with our numbers."
Kael looked around the room. "We don't need to win the city. We just need to remind them what unity looked like before Eren shattered it."
Lyra folded her arms. "And if Eren's already here?"
"Then he'll hear us coming," Kael replied.
Outside, the city groaned beneath its divisions. The banners of the four factions flapped in the rising wind, each a symbol of pride, violence, and fear.
But among the smoke and the broken towers, something else moved, hope, fragile and flickering.
Because the king was dead.
And now the real war had begun.