Whispers In The Smoke

The door shut with a deep, echoing thud, and silence fell upon the grand office.

Mayor Harlon stood motionless behind his desk, his forced smile melting the moment the lord was gone. Beads of sweat trickled down his temple as he slowly let out the breath he had been holding.

“By the gods…” he muttered, his fingers trembling as he reached for a silk handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. “That... that was not the same man I met before.”

He slumped into the velvet chair behind his ornate desk, still staring at the doors. The once comatose lord had returned but something about him had changed. The presence, the silence, the flames pulsing faintly from his neck… It wasn’t just unnatural, it was oppressive.

“And that butler…” Harlon gritted his teeth. “That stare. That damn stare…”

He could still feel it, like a cold dagger resting against his throat. That man had barely moved, barely spoken. But every fiber in Harlon’s spine had screamed that he was one wrong word away from never leaving his office alive.

The mayor clenched the edge of his desk, then took a breath and stood tall again. He dusted off his robes, forced himself to calm down.

“Can’t let myself be rattled,” he murmured. “This is still my town.”

He lifted his hand and snapped his fingers.

From the air behind him, a ripple shimmered in the space between bookshelves, and then, silently, a figure emerged. A woman clad in tight black cloth and shadow, her face hidden behind a smooth porcelain mask.

“You called, Mayor?” she whispered, her voice like wind slipping through cracks in stone.

Harlon didn’t look back at her.

“Keep your eyes on the lord. The manor, the butler, everything. I want reports daily. And if anyone approaches him who isn’t already under our thumb, I want to know before they say a word.”

The assassin gave a nod.

“Shall I act?”

“Not yet,” Harlon said firmly. “We don’t know what he knows… or what he’s capable of.”

He stepped toward the window, looking out at the dim skyline of his neglected town. The people wouldn’t rally behind him. Not if that damn green horned warrior gave them hope.

No, he had to keep things quiet. Delicate.

Because if the lord ever found out—

“…He must never know the truth,” Harlon said quietly. “At all costs.”

The assassin bowed once more, then vanished as suddenly as she had appeared.

The mayor turned away from the window, the shadows of the room seeming to press in around him.

He lit a fresh candle and sat down at his desk, heart still racing.

And for the first time in years… he felt afraid.

***

The heavy doors of the estate creaked shut behind him as he stepped once more into the streets of the broken town. His white fur-lined cape fluttered lightly behind him, catching the afternoon wind as it flowed between the fractured homes and crumbling stone.

His armor still hummed faintly with warmth—residual heat from the quiet fury that had yet to fully leave his chest.

Sebas trailed behind him as always, silent and composed, his footsteps measured.

“…Sebas,” the lord finally spoke without turning his head. “What did you think of the mayor?”

The butler did not answer immediately. It was a rare moment—when even Sebas seemed to weigh his words.

“His words were polished,” Sebas said, “but his body betrayed him.”

The MC arched an unseen brow beneath his helm.

“He acted with calm,” Sebas continued, “but there were too many signs. The shifting weight in his legs, the tensing of his shoulders when I stared at him. His breathing was shallow despite his false composure. Either he fears you, or he fears what you might find.”

There was no satisfaction in that answer.

The MC's gaze dropped to the dusty path before him. So he’s hiding something after all… but I’m not a politician. I wasn’t trained for this. I wasn’t even supposed to be— He stopped himself. No, I am now.

He clenched a fist at his side. This was his town. And whether he liked it or not, these people were his responsibility.

He was about to speak again when something tugged at his senses.

A distant noise.

A crowd.

He turned toward it.

“...What’s that?” he asked, narrowing his eyes behind the visor.

Sebas stepped to his side, eyes scanning ahead.

“It seems there’s a gathering… At the town’s center.”

The lord stepped closer to the crowd, the muffled voices growing louder—excitement, tension, and then… silence.

He looked past the thinning wooden fence and got a clearer view.

The dungeon mouth was jagged and wide, a gaping pit wrapped in black, pulsating vines that clung to the stone like parasitic roots. The vines twitched faintly, as if stirred by the crowd's murmurs, their barbed surfaces glistening like oil in the light.

Crude wooden fencing circled the hole, long since chipped and weather-worn. Some sections looked ready to collapse at the next strong gust of wind. A few wooden posts were even held together with frayed rope.

Still, it wasn’t completely abandoned.

A handful of guards stood around the perimeter, their armor unpolished and their posture lazy. Two leaned against spears, chatting idly. Another smoked a pipe near a post marked AUTHORIZED ONLY with faded paint. None of them paid much attention to the adventurers or the crowd, at best, they were here for show.

Sebas said nothing, but his glance at the guards was enough. Disapproval simmered behind his expression.

Then, the chains rattled.

The mechanical whirring of gears filled the air, and the crowd quieted. All eyes turned to the pit.

The elevator platform began to rise, groaning under the strain of its pulleys. Chains rattled as the metal contraption slowly ascended, emerging from the darkness of the dungeon's maw.

Whispers stirred the crowd.

But as the platform reached the surface… the excitement died.

A group of six adventurers stood on the platform, all of them battered and weary. Their armor was dented, scorched, or stained. One man held a bloody bandage against his arm. A mage leaned on her staff, her robes torn and eyes glazed. None of them looked triumphant. They looked defeated.

The crowd’s silence grew heavy.

Then someone scoffed. Another muttered something about "wasted time."

One by one, the townspeople turned and walked away. A woman pulled her curious son by the hand. A merchant sighed and closed his ledger. The hopeful tension that had filled the air moments ago dissolved into quiet disappointment.

The lord watched it all in silence.

Why… were they expecting something? he thought.

He turned to a man nearby... an older fellow, hunched slightly, with sunken eyes and soot-stained clothes. He looked like a blacksmith or perhaps a miner. The MC stepped closer.

“Excuse me,” he asked. “Why did the crowd expect something?”

The man looked up, surprised, then narrowed his eyes at the lord’s imposing armor and unnatural presence.

He looked him up and down—white fur cape, gleaming black armor, the faint blue glow from the seams in his neck. The man tensed slightly but answered with a shrug.

“People come ‘ere every time the lift comes up. Hope’s a hard thing to kill, I guess.”

The lord frowned. “Hope for what?”

The man sniffed. “Victory. Progress. Somethin’ worth sellin’.”

Then, with a bitter chuckle, he added, “Been years since any party cleared a level of the dungeon. First few years, we had heroes—guilds, knights, fortune-hunters. Every time they came up, they brought relics, artifacts, cores. Gold flowed through this town like a river.”

He gestured at the crowd as they slowly dispersed.

“But now? Now all we get are wounded men and empty hands. Some never come back at all. Word got out the place was cursed. Too dangerous. Not worth it. So fewer adventurers come. Fewer merchants follow. And with no treasure, this town’s lifeblood runs dry.”

The man glanced back at the adventurers, who were now being helped off the platform by their comrades.

“They risk their lives… and come back with nothing but scars.”

The lord stood there, silent. He didn’t know what to say.

But inside, he felt it.

The heat rising again in his armor.

The pressure of responsibility tightening like a fist in his chest.

This wasn’t just a broken town with bad roads and ruined markets.

This was a town on the verge of death—its people surviving off the bones of old glory, waiting for a miracle that never came.

And now, all eyes would slowly turn to him.

He glanced back at the pit, at the black vines coiling like living shadows, and the battered adventurers disappearing into the distance.

An idea sparked in his mind—something daring, something that could turn the tide.

A plan to breathe life back into the dying heart of this place.

He turned to Sebas with a slow, confident smile.

“It looks like we have a lead,” he said quietly.