The square had become a storm. Half the voices cried Clara’s name in defiance of the scribe, the other half cursed her as a liar. Fists struck air, neighbors shouted in each other’s faces, and the guards shifted nervously at the edges of the crowd.Clara stood upon the fountain, her heart pounding in her chest. She had struck him, if only for a moment. She had seen the flicker of doubt ripple through the people. Yet it was fragile—too fragile. One wrong word, one spark, and the city would burn itself alive.Jonathan’s eyes darted to the far corner of the square. The cloaked figure he had glimpsed earlier was moving steadily toward the front of the crowd, weaving like a snake through the press of bodies. A prickle of unease crawled up his spine.The scribe lifted his hands for silence. His voice, when it came, was low but carried like a chant through the restless air.“You ask for truth. You ask for proof. Very well—proof you shall have.”He snapped his fingers.The cloaked figure step

The doors groaned like beasts under the assault. Each crash of a ram, each splintering crack, sent dust drifting from the beams above. Inside the council chamber, every soul felt the weight of doom pressing upon them.The guards held their shields tight, spears angled toward the entrance. Jonathan paced like a caged wolf, his hand never leaving the hilt of his blade. Clara’s father sat hunched at the council table, lips moving silently in prayer.Clara herself stood before the barred doors, every strike reverberating through her bones. Smoke seeped through the cracks around the frame, the stench of burning wood and pitch filling the chamber.“They’ll bring it down before the hour is done,” Jonathan said grimly, halting beside her. “They’ve got iron and fire both. Mercenaries lead them, not starving beggars. We’ll be overrun.”Clara met his eyes, steady though pale. “Then we hold until there is nothing left to hold with. If we yield now, everything we fought for dies.”Jonathan’s voice

The night was restless. Torches guttered in the square, and every street seemed to whisper of betrayal. Word had spread—by dawn, Clara would face the scribe in a council not behind closed doors, but before the people themselves.Jonathan had protested until his throat was raw. “You’re walking into his trap! He thrives on crowds, Clara. He feeds on their fear.”Clara sat at the council table, her fingers tracing the carved wood worn smooth by generations before her. Her face was pale, but her voice was calm. “No. Tomorrow, I drag him from the shadows he twists to his advantage. Lies live in darkness, Jonathan. We will force them into the light.”Her father, frail in his chair, coughed softly. “But child, if the people side with him…”Clara looked at him, her eyes steady though her hands trembled beneath the table. “Then let them. Better an honest fall than a rule founded on deceit.”Jonathan slammed his fist onto the table. “And if you fall, the city falls with you!”Clara stood. “Then

The council hall was thick with smoke, the scent of torches mingling with the stench of sweat and fear. The great oak doors had been barred, yet even through the stone walls Clara could hear the murmurs of the crowd outside. They had not gone home. They lingered like vultures, waiting to see whether the serpent they had cast down would be slain—or spared.The scribe sat shackled in the center of the chamber. His cloak hung in tatters, his lip split, one eye swollen shut. Yet even broken, he carried himself with an unsettling calm. His silence was louder than his speeches had ever been.Jonathan paced like a caged lion, every stride punctuated by the ring of his boots. “He is poison. Leave him alive, and his venom will spread again. The people themselves dragged him down—if we strike now, we prove them right to rise against him.”Clara’s father leaned heavily upon his staff, his voice weary. “And if we kill him, we prove his words true—that we rule with fear, that we silence all who op

The roar of the crowd rose like a tide, swelling until it seemed the very stones of the square trembled beneath their feet. Men shouted for bread, women for justice, children cried without knowing why. The air was thick with anger, fear, and something more dangerous still—uncertainty.On the platform, Clara’s heart hammered against her ribs, but her face did not betray it. She had chosen this path. If the city was to endure, it must not be through decrees whispered in chambers, but through the hearts of its people.The scribe raised his bound hands, his voice cutting cleanly through the din. “You see? They are with me! They are with truth!”A roar answered him. Yet just as loud, others cried for Clara, for Michael, for hope. The sound clashed, a storm of voices tearing at the air.Jonathan leaned close, his words sharp and low. “End this now, Clara. One order and the guards will silence them. If the crowd spills into blood, there may be no city left to save.”Clara shook her head, her