Requiem

The rainy season spared no one. A ceaseless deluge washed the streets clean of dust — and often of people too. The air was raw and thick and filled the lungs. Two cloaked figures cut through the mist. The closer they drew to the abandoned barn, the clearer the voices inside became. Anna kept an eye on Antonin as he walked confidently ahead. “You must go,” his words had said. “This is our chance to take what’s ours. To seize freedom. Your chance.” He had sounded so certain, so persuasive - and there was no arguing with him. Only what kind of freedom did a rebellion truly offer? Two burly wizards stood at the barn’s entrance, hands clasped behind their backs like sentries. They stood as if carved from wood, obediently guarding the door. Anna caught up to Antonin and followed his lead as he drew back his hood. One of the guards stepped forward, blocking their way. “Nick,” Antonin nodded to the man. Nick inclined his head and shifted aside. There was something odd in the way he looked at Antonin as if they were no strangers. Nick took his post again, flicked his wand in a brisk motion, and the barn door swung open. Antonin laid a hand on Anna’s shoulder and guided her inside. “Do you know him?” Anna leaned close, her voice barely above a whisper. Antonin glanced from the soldiers behind them to the girl at his side. “I do. Come on,” he replied, and his hand eased away from her shoulder. The muted glow from hovering spheres along the walls and over the barn’s centre lit the gathered crowd. Wizards and witches had bunched themselves into a semicircle. A murmur ran through them: here it was nervous and fearful, there it rose into excitement. Antonin threaded through the mass, nudging people aside to make space. “Sorry,” Anna muttered as she squeezed between two young men. Now standing in the second row, she peered over Antonin’s shoulder. In the very centre of the barn stood a man of middle years. The first lines at the corners of his eyes didn’t hide the boyish light within them. He looked like a man on fire with an idea; like someone caught in the delicious hush before something enormous happens. The feeling - like a kettle bubbling at full tilt - trapped her, slowed her breath and made the world tilt: this felt important. She rose on tiptoe and leaned toward Antonin’s ear. “Who's that?” she whispered. Antonin turned his head toward her and murmured, “Xander.” Putting an arm round her shoulders, he nudged her forward so she was standing beside him. And there he was: Xander, right in front of her. Dark hair slicked back from his brow, catching the light. A careless stubble shadowed his cheeks. He was neat, composed, and had the sort of quiet strength the guards at the gate possessed. A handful of young wizards stood behind him: some lounging on haystacks, others scanning the crowd with a lazy eye. Anna had heard the name before; Antonin had mentioned him only in passing, never quite giving any detail. Xander lifted a hand and the murmur cut off. The crowd fell silent and every gaze swung towards him. He did not hurry into his speech. There was no need; he already had their attention. His hand dropped and he folded his fingers behind his back, stepping forward with measured calm. His eyes skimmed faces as if greeting each person individually. “I won’t keep you long,” he began, folding his shoulders and standing straighter than his frame needed. “We know why we’ve come here. You know.” His voice echoed from the rafters, each word clear and deliberate, slow and plain. “You, your children, your parents, your brothers and sisters,” he paused and swept his gaze over the rear ranks, “your friends… have suffered for too long. Power has corrupted the Council, and it has forgotten you. It has thrown you out like mangy curs to the roadside of life’s feast: the Upper City feasts while you make do with scraps.” Xander’s tone cut the air like cold steel. No matter how he spoke, there was a tranquillity about him. The silence that followed was heavy, taut. A chill ran down Anna’s spine and she shivered. Some averted their eyes, others nodded in bitter agreement. No one objected. His words hooked themselves in. Complaints buried for years crawled out, ugly and painful. Xander stepped nearer. “You are here because the wizards of Kaelmond are ready for change.” A pause. A step forward. The same fired-up look burning in his gaze, burrowing into each person’s soul. For a second their eyes met and Anna felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. There was something intimate in that meeting - in the way so many shoulders, bowed by circumstance, straightened at the offered hope of change. “The Council’s rule has outlived itself. Your time has come. Time to decide,” he inclined his head, “to choose and to govern.” A faint smile flickered on Xander’s lips. “We cannot promise you easy change. We cannot guarantee your safety. But we can promise one thing - your voice will be heard. Together we will return power to the people; together we shall build a new future.” Xander folded his hands behind his back and retreated a step. His speech was done, but his bearing remained the same: proud, chest open. The way he carried himself was eerily familiar to Anna; each movement precise, each step quiet. The embarrassed hush broke. From somewhere in the crowd came a shout. “What do you expect us to do then? Storm the Council? They’ll chain us and strip us of the Source!” a young lad cried, hurling himself through the press toward the front. Xander remained unshaken and bobbed his head in acknowledgment as the boy passed. “Change is not instant, friends. Taking the Council by force is not the path we advocate. First we must spread our truth. Wake those still sleeping,” the man said, sweeping his hands and scanning the front rows. “Wake everyone. Share it with your neighbours, your friends, your colleagues. A united front - that is our first necessity and the only shield against the Council’s oppression.” “Half of us go days without food or work, and you smother our open wounds with syrup,” a woman to Anna’s left growled. “We understand,” Xander cut in sharply, stopping the whistles and shouts that had bolstered the woman. “We can offer work to those in need.” At that his gaze snapped toward Anna. She flinched, the sharp, intent attention pulling her back from the haze of emotion. Antonin stepped forth from the crowd. He moved with the same steady surety he always had - no fluster, no bafflement - and Anna felt frozen. Something inside her collapsed and a coldness crept through the shoulder where Antonin had stood a moment before. “Anyone needing work may apply to Mr Bannerman.” Apply to Mr Bannerman. Mr Bannerman. Her mouth went dry and the barn shrank suddenly; strangers’ shoulders felt as if they were pressing in, caging her. She refused to believe he had not told her, had not shared, had not warned. Mr Bannerman basked in the light of the crowd as though he belonged there; Anna felt sick. She stared at him, drilling him with her eyes, pleading for him to look back, to explain, to give the smallest hint of truth. The wizards around her shifted and brushed shoulders; voices swelled into an indistinct roar. Above it all in her head rang her own thoughts - full of outrage and disappointment. “Friends, please, do not crowd...” fragments of exhortation barely reached her. She edged toward the exit in small, careful steps, squeezing through the bodies. The barn doors yawned ahead, beckoning. Her throat tightened with each step, a pressure building until the noise became unbearable like a fly buzzing incessantly at the rim of her mind. The door burst open with a crack under her shoulder and a harsh curse spilled out from the street beyond. “For God’s sake!” someone growled on the other side, and the door was shoved back into her. “S-sorry-” she couldn’t even finish when the heavy door slammed into her again. Recovering as if slapped, Anna clutched the doorway and peered at the man outside. “Sorry!” she called louder, deliberately, pushing the door back. The sentry, Nick, as Antonin had called him, glanced at her with a sour look but did nothing. He let her step aside and gave the door a toe with his boot. Hands shoved deep into the pockets of her coat, Anna hurried away from the barn. The wind pushed at her back as if intent on driving her from that cursed place, blowing useless thoughts clear. One turn and another - narrow alleys carried her away from the outskirts. Rounding a corner she froze for a moment: a silhouette loomed at the alley’s far end, half-hidden in the gloom. Her hand darted out of her pocket beneath her coat. Fingers closed on the haft of the wand tucked under her hip and only then did her body obey, hurrying forward. She tried not to look, to let her curiosity pass by as though there were nobody there. But some small inquisitive thing inside her leapt out. She stole a glance at the stranger. Their eyes met and he stepped back from the wall. At the very instant her hand tightened about the wand, he passed by. She quickened her pace and begged herself not to look back. Every rustle and slap of soles echoed hollowly. She might have found the alley an escape if not for the hand that suddenly seized her and hauled her roughly round the corner. “Hush.” The familiar hiss of a voice close to her ear made her gasp; a breath escaped. Behind her stood Theo, grasping her forearms tight. Anna shrugged and tried to wrench free of his hold but he loosened only one hand and lifted a finger imperiously to his lips. “Just around the corner,” his lips moved without sound. He let his fingers fall and both of them. driven by that indelicate curiosity people never quite manage to suppress, peered cautiously. The man Anna had seen earlier stood in the middle of the alley, dim light from a second-floor window catching his face. Opposite him was someone hooded in a dark, not-quite-black cloak - it was hard to make out more. “I can't hear anything,” Anna whispered, pressing against the wooden wall. Theo’s lips made a sharp sound and he tapped her shoulder lightly. He pointed to his chest, then jabbed a finger toward the pair in the lane. Her gaze slid back to the strangers and, squinting, she peered closely at the man. Suddenly everything clicked. “Magistrarium,” she breathed, turning to Theo. He nodded with deliberate certainty. The small badge, now glinting in the window’s light , was sewn on the stranger’s chest, right over his heart. A circle crossed by the letter M: each of the Council’s wardens wore that mark like a brand. “And with him...” Theo cut off as footsteps sounded round the corner. Startled, Anna grabbed Theo’s arm and pulled him away from the alley. The steps got nearer. He flung them both behind an empty, sodden table that by day doubled as a hawker’s stall. They drew their chins in and strained to catch the fragments of speech. “For the umpteenth time I tell you...” a hoarse, ornate voice dropped into an unintelligible whisper then burst out again. “Everything lines up! You are too...” “There is no cause to suppose...” replied a younger voice, clipped, severe, disdainful. “We observe… names and ranks…” Anna watched Theo’s face, lit only by a moonshine flicker in his eyes. The voices receded, leaving the inevitable aftertaste of secrecy. “That voice…” she murmured, brows knitting with confusion. Theo glanced between the disappearing figures and her. “That’s the one you’re looking for. So that you know, he was there. In the barn.” A cool wind whipped Anna’s hair; the cold stone of the ruined balcony under her palms held her to the world in pieces, preventing her from utterly falling away. She watched tall trees sway over the river that sliced the Kaelmond outskirts from the dense southern woods and their hamlets. Theo stood beside her, drawing on something that gave off a sweet, tart smoke. “It’s just larch,” he said softly, breaking the quiet. Anna glanced at the small roll in his hand but said nothing. The silence didn’t last long. “Did you know?” A heavy breath chilled her chest. Theo settled beside her and looked out at the whispering treetops across the river. She shook her head. “And you?” “I suspected,” Theo exhaled, the smouldering tip in his hand throwing a faint violet glow into the dusk. “I talk sometimes with the boys from the refuge. They speak of all sorts. And, for the record, your friend’s held in high regard down there.” “What does that mean?” Anna forced a nervous smile and turned her head toward him. “He slips little gifts to the needy for odd jobs that no one else will touch,” Theo said, raising an eyebrow and looking meaningfully into her eyes. “You met him that way?” she asked. Theo nodded and blew smoke outwards. “What do you actually know about him?” he asked suddenly. The question hit home. She didn’t want to rush an answer and didn’t need to — the reply hung in the air like a sad bell. Anna leaned forward, her head in her hands, slumping over the railing. “He doesn’t like to talk. He says questions cost too much; sometimes it’s better not to know the answers. See? You can’t blame him for that. It’s true. Everyone knows that.” “Where is he from?” Theo interrupted, wagging a finger. “From the North. His parents moved here when he was fifteen, maybe thereabouts,” she recited, flat as if reading. “And where are they now?” The second question snapped out as quickly as the first. “They…,” Anna breathed and then looked away, scanning the river, glancing at Theo. “It seems they were condemned for use of Dark magic and experiments with the Source.” “So his madness is hereditary, then?” Theo teased. “Enough,” she snapped, and let out a laugh that was more like a cough, catching Theo’s contagious grin. She nudged him with her shoulder and turned her back on the railing, leaning her hips against it. “He’s not as bad as he seems.” “Oh yes... he only arranges arson, organizes disappearances of wizards, joins the New Order, and doesn’t keep you informed,” Theo said, cocking his head and studying her. “That’s all we know for sure, because we’ve been part of it or seen it ourselves. Though I still don’t get what you’re doing in his company.” He flicked the stub of his cigarette over the balcony and faced her. “Got anyone better in mind?” she asked, a sly smile tugging at her mouth. Theo’s face remained grave, and the corners of her mouth dropped. “You’re not from here. Are you...” he began. “Theo…” She threw her head back and held up a hand to stop him. “Come on then, you never tell a soul! Is it a sad story? I could shed a tear.” His hand circled her wrist and gently steered it aside. “Maybe I did ask around a bit. You know I grew up on the streets. I know everyone down here. Nobody remembers you as a toddler and I don’t either. Tell me, your secret’ll go with me to-” “Listen.” Anna straightened and edged away a little to reinstate a safe distance, not letting him finish. “If you mean money or a house, we’re not so different.” “More,” he pressed. Theo was direct, blunt, leaving no pause for thought. “My parents owned mines in the north-east, but… it didn’t work out.” “It didn’t work out?” “We had to sell,” she said. Answers came one after another as if the questions were a tap she’d finally turned on. “And then?” “What ‘then’? I was a child. I don’t remem—” “So the money vanished? Your parents don’t live here?” he pushed. “No. Father lives over the river. By the Gloam Lake to the southeast.” “And your mother?” At the word her smile froze. She drew it tight, mechanically, a skin stretched over a hollow. “My mother’s dead.” It sounded absurd, almost ridiculous, the phrase slipping out awkwardly through the smile. She stood perfectly still, breath held and eyes on Theo’s face. He froze too. An awkward, thick silence hung between them. Theo’s hand rose and wrapped gently around her shoulders. He leaned on the railing beside her and looked down. “I see,” he said softly and pulled her close. No more questions came. Silence spoke louder than words.